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.

Laura's Tenth Birthday: Satan, Ghosts, and Mass Hysteria

I was really into ghost stories as a child. Really into them.

Laura in third grade, probably thinking about ghost stories

Laura in fourth grade, sporting unfortunate bangs

As luck would have it, a dilapidated old house sat in the woods behind my family's home. My brother and I loved to play there, and one day we found a letter addressed to a James Erbank.

That was all it took: within minutes I had concocted a story about a fire that had destroyed James Erbank's house, killing him and his family. And the agonized ghost of James Erbank had followed us home to live in our attic. Obviously.

Anyways, for my tenth birthday I asked to throw a sleepover. My mom set one ground rule: my friends and I had to stay out of my parents' bedroom.

Mom and me when I was nine

In the days leading up to the sleepover, I plotted an elaborate prank: I would take my friends on a tour of the woods, showing them the dilapidated house. I would then lead them back home and tell the ghost story of James Erbank.

A few years back, my dad had rigged our living room lamps with timers. I asked my dad to set the timers to midnight. I planned to tell the ghost story at 11:30 and end with, "the ghost gets angry when we throw parties. He appears at midnight and turns off the lights."

The day of the party, I quizzed my dad one more time about the lamps. Dad reassured me that the lamps were set for "around midnight."

Young Laura with her James and the Giant Peach diorama: clearly a brilliant child

My friends arrived, and as planned, I showed them the house and dramatically regaled them with the ghost story. Midnight came and passed. The lamps remained lit.

Feeling disappointed, I continued telling stories about James Erbank, assuring my friends he would show up at any moment.

Because seriously. This was me as a kid.

I was an imaginative kid, and I had a bad habit of revving myself up to a completely terrorized state of mind. And so I did that night.

Never mind that I had made up the story entirely. Never mind that I was in my own house, with my big brother in the next room and my parents upstairs. I was so scared I couldn't move. I was so scared I couldn't breathe.

My friends and I grew more and more panicked, waiting for the imaginary ghost that I invented to show up. We packed close together, terrified.

I grew so frightened that I led my friends into the computer room where my brother was trying to ignore the presence of six little girls. 

"We're scared," I hissed.

We settled on the couch and turned on the TV. We promptly gasped: a man in a Satan costume was on TV.

Laura: "SATAN IS HERE. WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE."

I lost my head entirely. I looked deep into the eyes of Lucifer in a car commercial and saw true evil. There was only one solution.

Laura: "I'M GOING TO MOM AND DAD'S ROOM."

I thundered up the stairs to my parent's room, with a stampede of little girls following me, terrified of being left alone with Satan and my brother.

I ripped their bedroom door open and hurled myself into their bed. One or two others hurled themselves with me. The others collected at the doorway, peering into the room.

My mom was... not amused. I mean, you give your daughter one rule, and in a moment of ghost story hysteria, she breaks it. 

My mom, realizing I was mildly insane with fear, gathered us up and herded us downstairs. My dad stayed in bed, probably wondering what the hell was wrong with his kid.

My mom guided us to our sleeping bags and gently tucked us in for the night. She soothed and calmed us. We breathed a collective sigh of relief. My mom turned to head back upstairs, the crisis resolved.

And then it happened. The timer kicked in, one hour late. All the lamps turned off. We were plunged into darkness.

You could hear the screams for miles. 

There is a high-pitched scream that little girls can produce, in perfect unison, that breaks the sound barrier. We screamed together, high, loud, and strong. 

We were a symphony of cracked-out dolphins. We made Mariah Carey sound like Barry White, if his voice was a little deeper. The fat lady singing had been reduced to half a dozen fourth graders.

That was my last big sleepover. 

Eight Random Facts about the Winiferd Woman

Today I bought my own domain for the blog. We have reached a whole new level of classy here at Winiferd in the Burbs. The new domain is http://www.winiferdintheburbs.com/.

To celebrate, I crafted a list of eight fascinating facts about me and my life. I figure this is appropriate, since writing an entire blog about yourself is a tremendous exercise in narcissism, anyways.

1. I'm still sorta shocked that I'm married. When I was younger, I assumed I would grow into an old, cranky spinster maid. With no cats, of course, since I'm allergic to them.

2. The above is why I got a hypoallergenic dog. My boyfriend at the time had dumped me several months prior, and I prepared for my perpetually single existence by renting a small apartment and adopting a tiny dog.

The dog was to be my one true companion during my bitter, lonely, elderly existence... I was twenty-five years old.

3. I began dating Ian two months after adopting Winnie.

4. I experience wildly ridiculous delusions of grandeur whenever someone upsets me: "Oh yeah?! Well just wait until I'm famous."

I have no real dreams of fame. This phenomenon only occurs when I'm pissed off. And then suddenly I'm a very pissed off, very famous person.

You know.

In my head.

5. Ian is two years older than me. Ergo, he believes he is a generation older than me.

When he talks about our generational differences, I point out that one generation equals at least eighteen years. And that a twenty-six year old and a twenty-eight year old are, indeed, from the same generation.

He continues to comment on our generational gap.

Wow! Two generations in one photo! It's historic!

6. When I was single and living in the city, I went bar-hopping with friends one night.

This was during the Great Bedbug Scare of 2010, and I'd been reading way too many news articles about bedbugs.

As we left a bar, a homeless woman appeared, sobbing for money. I handed her a five-dollar bill and she immediately yanked me into a hug. Visions of bedbugs danced in my head.

I raced home, ripped off my clothes, and stuffed them into a plastic sack. I then showered and crawled into bed, where I pulled out my laptop to read more articles about bedbugs.

I never got bedbugs.

7. For a while, I enjoyed handing Winnie to Ian and commanding, "Hold her." Then I would step back and wait to see how long he'd hold the dog.

It would usually take a few minutes for him to realize he was holding the dog for no particular reason, other than my own amusement. I did this several times before he caught on to me.

Here, Ian! Hold this!

Wait. What?

8. Now that Ian and I are married, "New Daddy" doesn't sound right. Ian loved being New Daddy. He never wanted to give up the name.

But I took matters into my own hands and began calling him "Forever Daddy." He's decided he likes his new name.

Please address all fan mail for Ian to his married name, Forever Daddy. His maiden name, New Daddy, is now obsolete.

I love you, Forever Daddy!

Spottswood's Baby Pictures

Ian recently bought some computer hardware back-up... thing that I was completely disinterested in until he showed me that it could store all our photos, including his old photos from the past few years.

And those photos included baby Spottswood.

Ian adopted a tiny Spottswood after his family was killed by dogs. Baby Spottswood was a playful, independent, easy-going, and adventurous kitten.

I ask Ian often how such a rough and tumble kitten morphed into such a skittish and delicate cat.

Here's the world's most perfect cat when he was a kitten:

You guys, we can't help it. We both scream, "AWWWWW!" every time we see this photo.

Showing an early interest in shiny objects. He wants to wear jewelry, but Daddy thinks the other boys might tease him at school. Spottswood, darling, you were born this way.

A curious Spottswood inspects an indifferent CDR (may God rest his piggy soul) 

A walking Spottswood. HOW AMAZING.

Fixated on a glass. His favorite drink is a Mimosa served chilled in a champagne flute. But we only give him virgin Mimosas. He's still only three, after all.

Mr. Harvard and his young protégé, Spottswood.   

Playing Spiderman. Daddy was thrilled that Spottswood wanted to play super-heros... it's never happened since.

Baby Spottswood and fat Harvey 

Spottswood has always been expressive. He plans to audition for his school's Wizard of Oz play next week. He wants to be Dorothy.

He's had an eye for fashion from an early age, although he usually prefers pink argyle.

Sorry for another picture post. But, lo, I am hungry and tired. And everyone loves a fuzzy baby, right?

Ian's Baby Picture

Over Christmas break, Ian's dad made me a copy of one of Ian's baby pictures.

I cooed over it and declared Ian the perfect specimen of baby. That blonde hair! That olive complexion! Those blue eyes! Coo! Cooooooooo!

Ian: "Man, look at that face I'm making. I was trying to look sexy."

Laura: "Was that your sexy baby face?"

Ian: "Yes. I can still make that face. Look."

Ian: "Are you really going to post those? I look like a donkey."

In other news, one of my coworkers reported seeing a model in a J. Crew catalog who looked just like me.

I never saw proof of this, so I can only assume the modeling executives received my portfolio and were overtaken by my cutting-edge photos. Therefore, they must have published the pictures immediately.

I haven't received my royalties yet, but once I do, I plan to purchase a French villa and some pants.

Romance in the Burbs: Our One Year Anniversary

October 29, 2011 marks my one year anniversary with Ian. I had known him for a good two years before we started dating since we mix with the same circle.

He was already in a long-term relationship. I was already in a doomed relationship, but in a relationship, nonetheless.

I used to sneak looks at him and wonder if he was good to his mother. He noticed me because I was loud, wild, and devilish with this particular group, despite my normally reserved personality.

Anthropologists, man. They throw the best parties. 

Then the doomed relationship guy shattered my heart. Then Ian and his long-term girlfriend broke up.

Ian and I bumped into each other a few times during the summer of 2010, when we were both single. I went to his Fourth of July party. He was strikingly good-looking, and I was so self-conscious, I could barely look at him.

At a birthday party in September 2010, he and I briefly escaped to Papa John's and bought a pizza together.

He scoped things out. I babbled incoherently. I still couldn't bring myself to make eye-contact with him.

In October 2010, mutual friends pulled a few strings and performed some match-making.

Ian and I started hanging out. I started making eye-contact: One small step for man; one giant leap for mankind.

We hung out amongst other friends, but we zeroed in on each other pretty hard. By that time, we were both babbling incoherently.

"I like dinosaurs!"

"I like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!"

"I like Fievel Mousekewitz!"

"Oh my god, so do I!"

"I had the Fievel stuffed animal. I cut his hat off and tried to wear it."

"OH MY GOD, SO DID I!"

"It didn't work, so my mom sewed it back to his head."

"So did my mom!"

"I like Brontosauruses best!"

"I like Triceratops!"

"I LIKE CAKE!"

Clearly, our relationship was built on a firm foundation of communication, maturity and wisdom.

One night, I tagged along with Ian and his friends when they went roller skating. Throughout all of this, I would text my friends furiously:

Laura: "What does one wear when roller skating?"

Friend: "A pillow on your ass?"

Laura: "No, seriously."

Friend: "Honestly, you're going roller skating with your crush. It sounds like a deleted scene from Napoleon Dynamite."

The night after we roller skated, Ian sent me a Facebook message, asking me out to a movie. I promptly called my friends:

Laura: "SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAL!"

Friends: "SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEAL!"

On October 29, Ian picked me up at 6:00 pm and took me to a drive-in movie about a boy who falls in love with a vampire:

Ian: "That kid looks like Hilary Swank."

Laura: "Maybe it is. Hilary Swank's very versatile."

Ian: "IT IS HILARY SWANK!"

After the movie, we went back to Ian's house and played with Transformers and Ninja Turtle action figures.

Laura: "I loved Ninja Turtles as a child. My favorite was Michelangelo. My mom once came home with brand new Ninja Turtle action figures: Raphael for my brother and April O'Neil for me. I cried and cried. I never got a turtle."

Ian: "You can have my Michelangelo."

Laura: "Awww."

We sat next to each other on the couch, occasionally working up enough nerve to brush shoulders.

Pretty hot.

We sat politely on the couch until 5:30am, when Ian drove me back to my apartment. Our night ended at 6:00am, after a 12 hour date. We've been inseparable ever since.

All photos of Laura and Ian by Ren Buford