Dogs are Dumb; Oh My God, So Dumb

ER Vet: "Hello, this is the Animal Emergency Center. How may I help you?"

Laura: "My dog just chewed up a roach motel. I'm not sure how much poison she ate. Will she be okay?"

ER Vet: "What brand is the roach motel?"

Laura: "Hey, what brand is the roach motel?"

Ian: "I think it's Combat."

Laura: "I think it's Combat."

ER Vet: "Combat should be okay. Let me look it up, just in case."

Laura: "Okay."

ER Vet: "All right, she should be fine if she ingested a little poison. The plastic is the dangerous part. Did she eat any plastic?"

Laura: "No. She just chewed on it."

ER Vet: "She should be fine." <Giggles>

Laura: "Thank you. I just wanted to make sure. Bye bye."

Ian: "So she's fine, right?"

Laura: "Yeah. I was Googling while she talked. Apparently a dog would have to eat like eighteen roach motels to really run the risk of anything toxic to the mammalian system."

Ian: <Giggles> 

Laura: "What if she had told us to induce vomiting?"

Ian: "I'd have told you to have fun."

Laura: "Do you think she'll get sick?"

Ian: "Nah. She's really hyper right now. We should feed her another roach motel."

Laura: "Winnie, you ate poison. You're the laughing stock of the Emergency Vet.  And you might get sick to your stomach. How do you feel?"

Winnie: "Awesome."

The Third Trimester

Holy crap, I'm pregnant.

Holy crap, I'm in the third trimester.

Here's an awkward photo of my third trimester belly. Also pictured: my work shirt paired with my fat pants. 

Look fast; I'm liable to delete this soon.

And here's a third trimester photo of Winnie, whose world will be rocked in three months. That's the face of a dog mentally preparing for emotional trauma.

Here's an obligatory prom style belly photo:

Hang on to the memories; hang on to the moments. 

The Snowflake Formal

Winiferd High School

 February 2013

Here's a creepy photo, as Ian clings to life and leers at the camera while Winnie examines Ian's butt. 

I sent Ian off on a daycare tour this morning at my top daycare choice since he had the day off. As he looked through the infant room window at six babies, he was greeted by six gummy smiles.

He sent me a text: "Place looks fine."

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.

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.

Ian and Winnie Get Haircuts and Dance

On Saturday, Winnie headed to the groomer while Ian went for his yearly hair-cut. Ian's haircuts present a small dilemma. For me, anyways. Ian doesn't actually care about his hair.

But I approach the occasion with some amount of trepidation because I don't want the hairdresser to (a.) bob his hair or (b.) make him look like a Republican.

His hair has to be shorter, but not too short, but not puffed up like a girl's. It's a tall order.

Luckily, the city Fantastic Sam's does a much better job than the suburban Fantastic Sam's, which shouldn't surprise anyone.

The hair-dresser lopped off six or so inches of hair, and Ian didn't look like a girl or a Republican so we're all very happy. Or I am. Ian profoundly doesn't care.

I also felt pleased that Ian and Winnie got haircuts on the same day because it makes for good photos. Except you really can't tell much of a difference in pictures, so whatever.

And then Ian let me do this to him because it's okay to look like a girl sometimes. 

Ian always falls pretty hard for Winnie with a haircut since she looks like an alien-rat when shaved. He picked her up and petted her willingly all weekend which is a big deal in this house. And they danced.

And that's all the Forever Daddy attention she'll get for now, until she's re-shaved in another three months. It was beautiful while it lasted.