Marguini and Meatballs

While in the womb, Margot always measured on the smallish side of normal. She was born a lithe 7.2 pounds. And then she started eating. And eating.

I assume my milk must be extra thick and creamy because Margot is so thick and creamy, a big butterball of a baby.

I'm not sure if photos depict her size well, but I'm going to assume they do based on the, "Your baby is so juicy" and "Your baby could eat my baby" comments I get.

Her ham-hock legs inspired the nurse who gave her her shots to exclaim, "You're a thick little girl, aren't you!?"

Later that night:

Laura: "The nurse called Margot a "thick little girl."

Ian: "Poor little thickness."

Her cheeks have ballooned into pudgy round apples; she has developed Churchill jowls. Her two chins are rapidly growing into three.

Laura: "Were my legs this fat when I was Margot's age?"

Laura's mom: "No. You were longer and skinnier."

Laura: "So Margot's short and fat?"

Laura's mom: "No! She's perfect! Well, yeah, she's kinda fat."

When I slip Margot into a pair of pants, Ian coos, "Awww, look at her little muffin-top."

A pictorial representation of how I felt at every middle school dance

At 4 months, she wears a size 24 months in Gerber onesies. I tell myself it's because Gerber runs so small and because Gerber always shrinks in the dryer.

I mean, everyone else tells that self-comforting lie about dryer shrinkage. But with Margot, it's actually true. Right? Right? 

I do intend to update more often. I occasionally have little internal wars over whether this blog is too public and whether I want Margot to achieve fame so young. Then I remind myself that ten readers does not a celebrity make.

At any rate, I will work out what I want to do with this blog in time. For now, my chubby wubsy is awake from her nap and I must go bury my face in her neck rolls. I'll try not to eat her up. 'Tis hard.

When Margot Noticed Winnie

Ian and I were always concerned over how Winnie would adjust to a new baby. From the moment we knew a baby existed, Ian foretold horror stories:

"Winnie's going to bark and wake up the baby. I just know it."

"Winnie's going to be jealous of the baby. We might have to get rid of her."

"Winnie's annoying. Really annoying.  No, that had nothing to do with the baby. But she's so annoying."

I was so stressed out over Winnie and Margot mixing that I banished the poor dog to my parents' house for the first two weeks of the baby's life. For horror stories had been foretold.

A scary mixture, this

Then the dog returned home and, well, nothing happened. Winnie ignored Margot and Margot cried a lot. Neither of those things were related.

And then Margot dominated the blog to such an extent that you'd think, "Hell, why don't you just rename this thing? Margiferd in the Burbs?"

But Margot's here to tell you that that's nonsense. This thing is called Winiferd in the Burbs and you all need to bow down and worship the star of this nonsense.

Because a couple of weeks ago, Margot realized Winnie existed and concluded that Winnie must be the  ultimate supreme goddess of the universe, or at least this house. 

Margot loves Winnie. 

Ian and I practically do handstands trying to coax smiles out of Margot, but a side-eye by Winnie mesmerizes her. The dog causes grins, giggles, or just a generally pleasant disposition so we're all about the doggy now. It's like 2012 up in here.

A previously neglected Winnie has suddenly found herself the center of attention.

God help us all if my mom collects Winnie for the afternoon because Winnie is the only thing that can save us if a wailing Margot is having a there's-nothing-actually-wrong-with-me meltdown.

We ignored the dog for four months but now constantly shriek at her to come over and make eye-contact with the baby.

Winnie is still fairly indifferent to Margot and appears wary of Ian and me constantly prodding her towards the baby.

I expect the relationship to grow more mutual when Margot starts solids and flings mashed food all over the floor. It's gonna be awesome.