On Saturday, Winnie headed to the groomer while Ian went for his yearly hair-cut. Ian's haircuts present a small dilemma. For me, anyways. Ian doesn't actually care about his hair.
But I approach the occasion with some amount of trepidation because I don't want the hairdresser to (a.) bob his hair or (b.) make him look like a Republican.
His hair has to be shorter, but not too short, but not puffed up like a girl's. It's a tall order.
The hair-dresser lopped off six or so inches of hair, and Ian didn't look like a girl or a Republican so we're all very happy. Or I am. Ian profoundly doesn't care.
I also felt pleased that Ian and Winnie got haircuts on the same day because it makes for good photos. Except you really can't tell much of a difference in pictures, so whatever.
And then Ian let me do this to him because it's okay to look like a girl sometimes.
Ian always falls pretty hard for Winnie with a haircut since she looks like an alien-rat when shaved. He picked her up and petted her willingly all weekend which is a big deal in this house. And they danced.
And that's all the Forever Daddy attention she'll get for now, until she's re-shaved in another three months. It was beautiful while it lasted.
I was warned I'd encounter many a food obsession. Pregnancy cravings, if you will.
Hasn't happened yet.
Here are the bizarre things I have obsessed over in the past few months:
1. Dog toys.
Holy crap.
The day before I took the pregnancy test, way back in early September, I suddenly proclaimed that poor Winnie had zero nice toys to play with, which was obviously dog abuse, and we needed to run to Pet Smart and purchase new toys.
And not just any dog toys. We needed the knitted stuffed animals from the Martha Stewart Dog Toy line, and we needed them now. Because the dog is abused. Look at her. She's miserable.
A skeptical Ian gave me the side-eye: "You're pregnant."
I felt that such a statement detracted from the issue at hand, which was HOLY CRAP, WE NEED NEW DOG TOYS.
We headed to Pet Smart where I purchased a knitted squirrel and a pink rabbit. I cradled them in the car and lovingly handed the polyester pair to Winnie at home.
Winnie, of course, beat the ever-loving shit out of them.
After watching Winnie attempt to destroy both toys, I hopped online and surveyed the Pet Smart website to find when the latest batch of Martha Stewart dog toys would hit the shelves. Because, I don't know. I was really into dog toys.
This obsession has calmed slightly, mainly out of financial necessity.
We probably need to spend money on diapers and car seats rather then the holiday boutique of Martha Stewart dog toys. Although the penguin wearing the snow hat looks awfully tempting...
2. Animal Planet's "Too Cute" television series
We don't have cable nor do we watch much television. I stumbled upon this show while playing around on Youtube one evening waiting for Ian to arrive home from work.
I watched the whole series on sloths before moving on to kittens and then puppies.
Ian calls this show "pregnant woman porn."
There is really no educational value or story line or depth to this program. "Too Cute" consists of gratuitous footage of kittens and puppies eating, sleeping, and playing and, well, that's it.
You wouldn't expect "Frontline" levels of education from a show called "Too Cute," but even I'm amazed at how much of this show I can watch.
Ian: "After about two minutes, I'm kinda done with this thing."
Laura: "Man, I can watch six hours of it."
3. Paint Samples
For the nursery.
I went stark raving mad one Sunday and announced we needed to determine the color for the baby's room. Immediately. I hate baby colors, especially pink.
I decided we needed to paint the room turquoise, since it's been scientifically proven to be the best color in the universe. Ian agrees.
Our bedroom is dark turquoise, our kitchen floor is medium turquoise, and the baby's room will be vibrant turquoise. Check the color wheel; those classifications of turquoise exist.
We haven't done a damn thing towards actually making the nursery, but we have the paint sample and thus we have made that gigantic leap towards the responsibilities and maturity of parenthood.
I've remained fairly silent over the past few months on this blog, mainly out of sheer, bone-crushing exhaustion.
No one ever told me that during the first trimester of pregnancy you feel like you're either dying or coming down with the flu.
Ian watched in shock as I slept an ungodly number of hours each weekend.
While my bones ached with exhaustion, he manfully washed dishes, scrubbed the bathtub, and swept the floors. Meanwhile, I planted my ass firmly on the couch.
But there was no terrible morning sickness, no horrific vomiting, no awful mood swings, no strange food cravings. Only a strong heartbeat and assurance that this kid is developmentally on track and looks mighty happy bobbing around on its head, waving its tiny hand, and sucking contentedly on its thumb.
We are really lucky.
We spent a Sunday night at the first of September watching Rosemary's Baby, the sickest ode to pregnancy one can imagine. The very next morning, Labor Day morning, we got the positive pregnancy test.
Ian: "Are you going to put the positive pregnancy test in a baby book?"
Laura: "Gross. No. I put it in the trash."
Ian: "I think Satan might be the father."
Laura: "Oh, I'm sure of it."
I named the fetus Cool Evil, only minutes after we saw the kidney bean-shaped blob for the first time. Cool Evil is set to make his or her arrival in early May.
