When Ian Made Out with Winnie

Ian: Have you seen my phone?

Laura: Yes.

Ian: Where is it?

Laura: It looks like I have the power in this relationship right now.

Ian: What do I have to do to get it back?

Laura: Buy me fancy yogurt. No. Wait. Kiss the dog on the lips.

Ian: I don't even kiss the baby on the lips.

Laura: I do, but she licks back.

Ian: Yeah, it seems like things would get spitty.

Laura: She always wants to French kiss.

Ian: This is silly. I'm not scared of germs. I would kiss anybody on the lips. Even the dog.

Laura: So do it.

Ian: ......

Laura: ......

Ian: .......

Laura: .......

Ian: Why don't I just buy you the yogurt? I can pick up a pumpkin, too.

Laura: No. The dog. On the lips.

Ian: This is gross. She's scared. This is gross.

Laura: On the lips.

Ian: How about on the nose?

Laura: On the lips.

Ian: ......

Laura: You don't have to. Never mind.

Ian: [Grabs Winnie; plants a smooch on her lips] See. It was easy.

Laura: Except the dog's cowering now. And bi-curious.

Margot the Misanthrope

The older I grow, the more antisocial I become. While I have always been shy, I remember being a friendly little girl, wild about play dates and all the imaginative games that came with them.

I remember loving parties in college and grad school, at which I transformed into something wild, something that talked too fast, something that used too many swear words. 

So, you see, I wasn't always a recluse. I think it all happened when I got with Ian and felt a switch go off in my head: "Praise Jesus, this dating shit's over. I'm going to go sit on my couch now. Forever." 

Maybe it was the shift from age 24 to 25. Maybe it was joining the working world after years upon years of being a student.

Ian: "Why did you go to grad school?"

Laura: "I could say it was because I wanted to better myself, but I respect you too much to lie to your face. I went to grad school because I didn't feel like growing up yet. It was like camp for adult adolescents."

And so I'm a real adult now and I am just about the most unsociable person on the planet. These days, society is kind and calls people like me "introverts" and creates all kinds of articles and Ted Talks about the awesomeness of introverts. 

Spare me your euphemisms; I'm okay with my pathological level of reclusiveness. But I do generally hope that Margot is more outgoing than me.

However, it appears Margot might have inherited some of my antisocial traits.

Margot began daycare last week. She's going for half-days until I go back to work full-time in November. She has adjusted rapidly and is growing attached to her teachers. 

And I thought she was playing nicely with the other kids. But today her teacher informed me that Margot doesn't like the other babies.

Laura: "She... she doesn't like the babies?"

Teacher: "Not at all! She cries when they touch her and rolls away as fast as she can. She sure can roll! She rolled halfway across the room when James got too close to her."

Laura: "Margot, you don't like your friends?"

Teacher: "Honey, these babies aren't her friends."

Laura: "Margot hates the other babies?"

Teacher: "Sure does."

And there you have it: my baby hates babies. I have been assured that Margot will adjust to the other babies soon. 

Of course, Margot screams and cries at all unfamiliar faces, so it's safe to say her disdain extends to all people.

Margot, what do you think of people?

Margot, come on. I have a readership to think of. I want to keep my fans. All four of them.

Much better.

One and Twos

Laura: Enters the living room and finds Margot sitting on Ian's lap

Ian: Oh good, you're back. We were waiting for you.

Laura: Yeah?

Ian: Margot likes to be held by you more, just like I like to snuggle with you more. We both know you're number one. And Margot and me are each other's number twos.

Laura: Laughs

Ian: When you leave the room, there's this awkward silence. And I try to make small talk while we both stare at the doorway and wait for you to come back.

The Number Twos rally together; wait desperately for Mommy 

I've been soaking up the power that comes with being Number One. And there is a lot of power that comes with being the favored person in the family. I'm pretty much dictator of the Winiferd house now.

First there was the Kaiser

And then there was Lenin

And, like, a whole lot of other people I'm leaving out.

Now, there is only Laura. 

Bow before me. 

Lol, yeah right. Fetch me my bottle, servant.

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.

Breast Milk Versus Formula for the Adult Palate: Ian Takes One for the Team

We have a three month old baby now. Margot can lift herself up and we're seeing hints of her first efforts at crawling.

I'm shocked at how excited Ian and I get at such things. Kid lifts her head up a good three inches and thinks about rolling over, and we explode in such a way that you'd think we just won the Publisher's Clearing House grand prize.

The newborn phase is over, replaced by a vocal character who coos, babbles, and simultaneously looks just like me and just like Ian.

She looks like someone mashed my face with Ian's face and pushed her out into the world... wait, I think that's what happened.

Baby Ian

Baby Laura

Baby Margot

Apart from that, the only other interesting thing going on is that I have a oversupply of milk. I could easily feed three babies, and our freezer is loaded up with breast milk. 

Since I have an oversupply, so much that it's spilling out the freezer, I beseeched Ian to drink the excess. 

Too much. Too much.

He reluctantly drank a bottle of breast milk. 

And we still had formula samples from the hospital we were never going to use, so...

Laura: "Now drink a bottle of formula and compare them. Tell me which tastes better."

Ian: "Gross. This sounds awful."

Laura: "But it's for science. Do it for science."

Ian reluctantly downed the formula. 

This brand, in case you were wondering. For science.

He concluded that breast milk tastes like one percent milk left sitting in bowl of frosted flakes. Essentially, it tastes like skim milk with a hint of sugar. He declared breast milk "gross." 

Formula, on the other hand, "tastes like soy milk. It's richer." Ian loves soy milk. In the battle of breast vs bottle for adults, the bottle of formula wins. Ian proclaimed formula to be "something I could drink."

Stay tuned for the next post, when things get even sicker. Ian plans to make cheese out of a few bags of breast milk. 

So long, dear readers. For this will be the post that officially sinks Winiferd in the Burbs. It was nice having your readership. I regret nothing.

The Baby, The Dog, and The Cats (And The Poor Dead Chickens)

So Margot's sleeping a little better.

Of course, "a little better" with a seven week old merely means you sometimes sleep four, five, or even six hours in a row. The six hours in a row is rare, while four hours in a row is happening more and more. 

After seven weeks straight with no full night of sleep, you veer into strange territory at night. 

One early morning, Ian sprang awake and flipped out:

Ian: "The baby's at the end of the bed! She's lost in the covers!"

Laura: "No, she's in her bassinet."

Ian frantically pawed through the covers at the end of the bed. And then he stopped, a dawning realization washing over him.

Ian: "I thought the dog was the baby. I saw Winnie's dark eyes staring at me and thought they were Margot's eyes."

Laura: "Why would the baby be at the foot of the bed?"

Ian: "They have the same dark eyes..."

Winnie and Margot do share a striking resemblance



Especially when sleeping

Last night, a practically comatose Ian tried in vain to rock the baby but kept falling asleep, mid-rock. He demanded, "Why won't you just sit up?" to our seven week old infant. 

Then he babbled, "Our opponent takes better care of the baby then me." 

Who's our opponent? Hannibal Lecter? The Joker? Leatherface? Mitt Romney? We shall never know. Ian has no recollection of saying it.

The worst is when Margot fights sleep and then gets mad at us about it.

I'm just a poor, sleepy baby. Why won't you let me sleep?

Surely this rocking, swaying, singing, and patting aren't meant for me? 

You give me no choice. I must weep now.

In other Winiferd news, we have zero chickens. We have zero chickens. 

I am glad to know we kept the wildlife population out here well-fed for over a year.

Bantam chickens taste best served hot, basted in the juices of their own hysterical fear. I'm sure all ten terrified chicken dinners were scrumptious.

Harvey now lives outside. We tossed him out in mid-April after he crapped on kitchen floor for a solid week. He sleeps in the barn with his buddies, the rats.

He loves it out there. He runs more, eats less, looks happier, and is a whole new cat. Well done, Harvard.

Spottswood and Winnie also had to make a huge adjustment.

They cling to each other a little more, as they deal with no longer being the cutest creatures in the house.

But they have done well, although Winnie licks the baby's head a little more than I'd like.

And that's all I got. Peace out.

Mobiles! Holy Crap! MOBILES!

Margot is 6 weeks old now, meaning she's good and fussy most evenings and into the night.

Ian: "What's wrong with her?"

Laura: "She's 6 weeks old. That's the peak age of baby fussiness. We should be on the downhill slope towards sanity soon."

Ian: "You said 5 weeks was the peak of fussiness. And the week before that, you said 4 weeks was the peak of fussiness."

Laura: "Yeah, you know... I was hoping those weeks would be the peaks of HER fussiness. I had assumed she was a superior baby. I guess she's not."

Luckily, Margot has developed a habit that counteracts the effects of insane noisy baby fussing: smiling.

We've noticed baby smiles for a while, but I've finally caught them on camera, facilitated by the most amazing things on the whole entire planet.

Baby mobiles. Margot coos and beams and giggles and shakes excitedly when she sees them.

This is the most amazing thing I've ever seen in my life. All six weeks of it.

Margot thinks mobiles are mass-produced in heaven by God himself. I've refrained from telling her they're churned out in Chinese work factories by people even more sleep-deprived than her parents.

I don't want to spoil the magic, you know?

Magic! These are magic!

So someone hangs cheap plastic toys on a cheap plastic hanger...

HOLY CRAP. AMAZING.

This face would almost make you believe she doesn't wail with the sheer agony of being out of the womb every night between the hours of 8 and midnight. 

She keeps asking when she'll get her umbilical cord back.

Next post: Margot stops fighting sleep! Margot sleeps through the night! Hurrah!

Yeah, right.