Lots and Lots of Updates

Howdy. I took a little break from the blog. This was an "I'm tired and have way too many things to think about right now" type thing. No biggie.

But someone did ask what happened to Winiferd so here's a slew of updates:

1. Spottswood's a late bloomer. 

The cat we considered physically perfect came down with a raging case of zits a few weeks ago.

Ian thought it was flea dirt but I'm a champ at detecting fleas and flea dirt (God almighty, Winnie, stop traumatizing your poor mother), and I knew it couldn't be fleas.

After 1.5 seconds of Googling, I realized it was feline acne. Our little boy has become a man.

And that's the story of why "Spottswood's acne medication" now sits on our grocery list.

Harvey has been calling Spottswood "Pizza Face." But Harvey has no room to talk because...

2. Harvey is gross.

And Harvey keeps urinating and defecating on things. And I don't know. I guess it takes too much energy to walk 15 feet to the litter box room. And life is tough.  And walking makes my feet hurt.

Update: Yesterday, Harvey had an accident-free day. He was rewarded with a smiley face sticker. We also crowned him king of the potty.

3. Winnie has declared herself my faithful watchdog. 

It's wildly annoying. Ian started a new job ages ago that keeps him out of the house later in the evenings.

So Winnie protects my life and limb by barking loudly at the wind blowing and cars driving and butterflies elegantly gliding by in perfect harmony with the universe.

Because, damn it, these things might disturb my human, and I will bark so hard the world will fear all eight pounds of my poofy ass.

Face of a killer

In return, Winnie gets a lot of time-outs when Ian's away from home. It does help to quell the barking. Yay for gentle, life-affirming doggy discipline or whatever you want to call that hippie crap.

4. I'm one week shy of the third trimester. 

Yesterday was the first day that strangers realized I was pregnant. The mail-lady, who sees me everyday, was shocked.

Mail-lady: "Oh my goodness! You're pregnant!"

Laura: "Yeah!"

Mail-lady : "How many months are you?"

Laura: "A little over 6."

Mail-lady- "Six months!?"

According to my doctor, I've gained 14 pounds so far.

The baby kicks and squirms with vigor. So vigorously that Ian once got nauseous and had to stop feeling the miracle of life since it made him feel like barfing.

I felt the first fetal movements at 18 weeks, at 5 in the morning, the sensation of a butterfly flapping around in my left side.

Now, at 27 weeks, the child does some sort of intense gymnastics routine in the early mornings, as I can feel bizarre ripples against my stomach again and again and again and you get the picture. 

I'm sorry but I have no pictures of me lately because I never think to take any. We're working on it.

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.

Obsessions So Far

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.

Say Hello to Cool Evil

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.

Baby Ian

So. Long time, no see. It's only been... what? Twenty-three days since my last post? I don't know. I've been busy at work and, eh, tired. Very tired.

I feel like I must apologize to my ardent readers who send bags of fan-mail and request Winiferd in the Burb t-shirts (please start sending bags of fan-mail and requesting Winiferd in the Burb t-shirts. God knows, no one else does). 

To make it up to you, here are some scrumptious scans of Ian as a baby. We spent several days with Ian's mom recently and took the opportunity to scan eight billion childhood photos of Ian:

Oh man, I can't even handle this photo. He's like the Gerber Baby meets Buddha, completely calm, serene, and blissed the hell out.

Baby in a bow-tie

Baby hypnosis?

The forehead wrinkles slay me. He's like a puppy.

Baby Beef-Cake on the beach

Looking a bit Hugh Hefner 

Learning to walk. And work his angles. Both very important life skills.

Ian told me, "That car seat was so hot." I, on the other hand, can't remember a darn thing about my toddler car seats.

Forget all the baby-cute stuff for a minute. I think we can all agree this picture is terrifying.

I mean, you would suspect he was a beautiful child, but damn if his parents couldn't have sold this kid off to the advertising world.

"And here we have four-year-old Ian modeling K-Mart's latest in overalls. Only $8.95 at any participating K-Mart."

Ian's most smoldering preschool look

SMILE WITH YOUR EYES

This was a common theme throughout the photo albums. Beats the hell out of me if he actually used the real swings. I saw no photographic evidence.

He wore lots of costumes: bunny, Indian, Pilgrim, Indian...

Eh. That bow tie and hat aren't really big enough to look authentic.

Real Native American men wear pink.

I have tons more, but Spottswood's feeling jealous that everyone's cooing over Ian instead of him. So this will have to do.

The Chicks and Their Destiny

I've already been asked which chick we plan to eat. We have no idea whether we have boys or girls. We're hoping we have girls, as we merely want their eggs and fertilizer for now.

If we have a gaggle of boys, things will get complicated. What on earth does one do with five roosters? Break up cock fights all day?

I suppose we could make a pretty penny showing chicken fights. We live in the dirty South, after all.

Fortunately, the internet assures me that feed stores only sell female chicks, although there's a possibility of getting one or two males.

Ian wants to cook any roosters we may have received. It's the practical thing to do, I suppose.

However, every time I so much as look at the chicks, I involuntarily squeal, "My babies!"

It must be some sort of maternal instinct. You know, the instinct that prevents mothers from eating their young.

Please don't eat me, mommy.

Ian and I are stunned at how fast they're growing. Every day, we see a remarkable difference in size. They're starting to lose their baby down and to sprout feathers.

Which produces more squealing:

Laura:  "My babies! They're growing up so fast. Soon they'll be off to college..."

Ian: "Uh huh. They're getting big enough to eat."

Laura: "They're bigger than chicken nuggets now. They're more like chicken strips."

Here are our babies. Or rather, my babies!

They enjoy dance parties. They were forming a conga line here.

When We Adopted Six Babies

Guess what we got?

We got adorable, down-covered, freshly-hatched chicks. Last Saturday, Ian and I drove out to a tractor supply store to buy the tiny babies.

We had planned on buying four, but store policy insisted we buy six. So we watched a store employee grab up six squawking chicks and stick them in a box.

The shape of the box spelled out a clear message regarding the chicks' purpose in life:

It's the original Chicken McNugget Happy Meal. It comes with Happy Meal toys: chicken poop for the girls and salmonella for the boys.

As we drove back home, I cradled the box on my lap and opened the top to gaze inside. I watched in horror as one of the chicks snapped onto another's leg and yanked with all his might.

I lowered my head into the box and yelled, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

The chicks erupted into intense, resounding peeps.

The chicks: "PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP PEEP."

Ian: "Close the box! They're scared! They're loud! Oh my God, so loud."

Laura: "I'm sorry. I just can't believe the little devil tried to murder his sister. What a bastard."

Ian: "So you think the evil one's a boy?"

Laura: "Oh, I'm sure of it. That one's gotta be a rooster. Which means we get to use our boy name!"

I've spent the past couple of months preparing for the arrival of our chicks by analyzing chicken names. What, did you think I was going to prepare by buying chicken feed and light bulbs? Please.

Here are their names (and the inspiration thereof):

Bernadette

Marjorine

Sal (short for Salmonella)

Hester Prynne

Gertrude (Gertie)

And our bastard boy who likes to chomp legs and peck faces: John Proctor.

Unfortunately, Gertie looked sickly from the beginning. She passed away after her first night.

That leaves us with five.

(Of course, I have no idea whether we have boys or girls. John Proctor may morph into Jane Proctor at some point).