The Winiferd Family Leaps into the '80s: The Dishwasher

I'm generally pleased with the house Ian bought before I ever came into his life. It's sturdy and cozy and isn't a McMansion, so it's my type of house.

The only real problem I had with the house was the lack of a dishwasher. It's 2012, man. Where's the dishwasher? 

I first suggested the idea of a dishwasher last Christmas, when my parents offered to give us one as a joint Christmas present. However, I hemmed and hawed over the expense and logistics of it.

Ian remarked, "It doesn't take that long to wash dishes by hand."

Thus, we declined the offer. And of course, dirty dishes were always there, never-ending piles of dishes, a rancid, festering landfill of perpetual trash and garbage.

Our kitchen counters

No matter how much you wash the dishes (and I hated washing dishes), when you lack a dishwasher, that crap is always there. Fast forward one more year:

Laura: "My parents want to know what we want for Christmas."

Ian: "I don't know. I can't think of anything."

Laura: "That's good. Because we're getting a dishwasher."

Ian: "It really doesn't take that long to wash dishes by hand..."

Laura: "We're getting a dishwasher. My dad's going to rip out the cabinets and put in a dishwasher. That's what we're getting." 

Ian: "Sounds good."

My dad did indeed rip out the cabinets and install a brand-new dishwasher. I looked into his kind face afterwards and truly saw Santa Claus. Or maybe God. A dishwasher god.

Don't tell anyone but the dishwasher is currently my favorite family member.

What true love looks like

Twenty Weeks

I'm now twenty weeks pregnant and have gained 7 pounds total. I keep forgetting to take pictures of the baby bump because I prefer sleeping.

Luckily, my boss demanded Christmas photos of everyone right before the holiday break and I got these:

Check out that baby bump! 

Co-workers patting the baby bump

Comparison of Laura at work:

versus Laura at home:

Here's Ian so he won't feel left out. This was just before my company Christmas party. The dress code was "fancy" but Ian insists khakis make him look like a douche. Which they sorta do. Those pleats, man...

So when he emerged wearing a 5 dollar thrift store suit, vest, and fedora, I met the ensemble with applause. 

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A good while ago, I went online and used a morphing website to show how our child would look. The result was so horrifying, I promptly dumped the photo even as Ian howled with laughter. 

We are hoping the Baby Morph predicts the future as accurately as the Mayans.

Here are baby photos of both of us. I was a fat, bald baby and often warn Ian that his baby might suffer the same fate.

The baby who never met a doughnut she didn't like

Ian, on the other hand, was a sexy baby and we hope his genes inject a healthy dose of magnetic good lucks into our child:

Don't hate me 'cause I'm beautiful.

You could try putting those two images into the Baby Morph machine, but don't blame me when the results give you nightmares.

The Big Reveal

Folks, it's what you've all been waiting for. Or at least what four of you have been waiting for. And you four already know.

So here's the news no one's been waiting for and now feel only mildly interested in learning.

It's a...

No. Wait. That's wrong.

It's a...

Shoot. Hold on.

Wait. Wait.

It's a girl!

Eighteen Weeks

In baby news... there's not a lot of news. Which I'm taking as a good thing. Still no cravings; just a normal appetite.

I've gained all of five or six pounds so far. Ian thinks I'm carrying high. Or perhaps he thinks I'm carrying low. I can't remember. At this point, I still think I look like I'm carrying one too many cookies rather than a baby. 

So far we've scored every baby item for free, or at extremely reduced prices at thrift stores. Get used to all the secondhand stuff, kid. Your mom and dad are cheap.  

The baby room is shaping up quickly although it's still a horrific brown color. I'm sure we'll see plenty of brown once the kid arrives so we'll need a change of color soon.

And apart from that, I still sleep all the time. All the time. I feel energetic at work, but the minute I arrive home and eat dinner, I become comatose. I'm averaging eleven to twelve hours of sleep per night.

Ian passes the time by snapping photos of me:

Here's Laura sawing logs.

Here's Laura after a visit from the Sandman.

And here's Laura all tuckered out.

It goes on like that.

We are scheduled to find out the baby's sex on December 10th.

I've promised the fetus a play kitchen even if its a boy. Ian felt slightly horrified at this at first, but has reconciled his need for a manly infant and his own throbbing testosterone with my wish that the kid play with a variety of toys.

I felt surprised that a man who loves flowers and hates sports would react so vehemently to a toddler boy playing with little boxes of fake spaghetti noodles and tiny cartons of milk.

Luckily, Ian quickly saw the humor in everything and snickered at the thought of forcing his son to play football when neither of us can stand the game. And thus, the first great gender argument was resolved.