Winiferd in the Burbs

To Eleanor On Her First Birthday

2017-02-17T07:11:00.000-06:00

Our second baby was a badly-timed baby. I was ready for our second child from the time Margot turned two.

“It’s time for a new baby.”

“But I just started this electrician thing. I make no money. We can’t afford a new baby. This is a dangerous job. I’ll probably zap myself, and you’ll have to raise two kids by yourself.”

“It’ll be all right. We have a little savings. We were feeling poor when we were expecting Margot. And then your income shot up and we were fine.”

I brushed off Ian’s worries, but it certainly was a bad time for a new baby. When I was ten weeks pregnant, Ian’s income shot up. And we were fine.

The pregnancy was healthy but I did not feel fine. I had slept through Margot’s pregnancy. Two year old Margot would not let me sleep through this one. I ached from exhaustion.

The fetus never had a name. It stressed me out.

“Everyone says we’re having a boy.”

“Well, when it’s a girl, what are we going to name her?”

We assumed from the beginning we would have two girls. Everyone else thought our second was a boy.

Ian always wanted girls. He wanted them so badly that during both pregnancies, he pretended we were having a boy in the early months as a defense against gender disappointment (or more accurately, sex disappointment. Yee haw).

“The pressure is off with this one since we already have a girl.”

That dude was polite but lying. He wanted another girl.

The confirmation of a second girl was a relief, confirming our deepest instincts. Ian felt so lucky he figured he should buy lottery tickets.

I assumed I would have a quick labor since I had experienced rapid active labor with Margot. I was correct.

Early labor began around 10:30pm. Three hours later, I checked into the hospital. Within minutes I began to feel the urge to push. The nurses were decidedly not ready for the baby to arrive. For one, there was no doctor. They called his cell phone frantically.

Suddenly my body involuntarily pushed so hard I lurched forward.

“Shit!” said one nurse.

“Don’t push!” said another.

I’ve read enough horrific stories to know that when you feel the urge to push, you push. I ignored the nurses and pushed the baby out in three or four pushes.

Eleanor Xanthe arrived a mere thirty minutes after checking into the hospital, a med-free and doctor-free birth. It was stunningly simple. That entry into the world defines Eleanor to her bones.

Eleanor, from the moment she arrived, was an easy baby. Having a newborn the first time around stressed me out, but the second one? She was enchanting. Captivating.

She started sleeping through the night early in her infancy. Where Margot had been perpetually fussy and over-stimulated, Eleanor was cool and calm.

Eleanor was born with eyes so enormous, she looked alien. Her birth weight was heavier than Margot’s: a big, fat, happy baby.

She arrived with thick brown hair on the back of her head, an oddity on my side of the family which tends to birth bald babies. Her hair has since lightened to blonde, but still sits thick on the back of her head. She appears to have inherited my dense hair.

She has always been a physically strong baby. She held her head up early and she rolled early. As a small baby, she took sinister glee in scratching Ian’s face and chest. Every time I handed Eleanor to Ian, he would howl in pain as she raked her sharp nails into his skin.

Newborn Eleanor also yanked my hair with surprising strength. Ian often had to pry a fistful of hair out of her tightened fist, and she’d still be clutching a strand or two that he had been unable to fully wrench from her grasp.

Her devilish hair-pulling has extended to her sister. When Margot blocks her from toys or attempts a painful hug, Eleanor jerks on Margot’s hair while Margot screams.

Eleanor has grown into an exuberant baby, throwing herself headlong into climbing and shimmying.

She has bashed up her head and lip several times at daycare climbing the toy shelves and using bouncy seats as make-shift trampolines.

While Margot was gentle and nurturing with the younger babies in her infant class, Eleanor regularly yanks toys from their hands and attempts to climb on the infants in their baby seats.

All the moms and dads in the infant room are besieged by Eleanor when they drop off or pick up their babies.

She crawls manically over to root through their bags, play with their car seats, jangle their keys, and attempt to steal the toys clipped to the bags or seats. She has been successful a few times, keeping a stolen toy all day until the parent returns.

“We all know Eleanor!” a mother told me with a smile.

Margot destroys me with sweetness towards her baby sister.

“Eleanor is my best friend. She’s the best baby ever. Someday she'll talk to me!”

At Thanksgiving, she gave all her thanks for Eleanor. Of course, when Eleanor is plowing through Margot’s carefully arranged dinosaurs, it’s difficult for Margot to feel the love.

I do think they are on the path towards a meaningful and loving relationship though: “Like Roseanne and Jackie!”

The first signs of toddlerhood are upon: the fits, her shaky first steps, her attempts at talking. Eleanor’s babble of choice is “gidden gidden.” (For the curious, Margot’s babble of choice was “deedle dee”).

Her first word is “kitty.” She calls both the cats and the dog “kitty.”

“She’s growing out of babyhood too fast,” I grumble.

I cling to her infancy so hard that I scheduled a haircut before her 1 year old pictures, a desperate attempt to keep her looking like a baby. The hair dresser cut off the tiniest start of a mullet, sheering off the bit of toddlerhood that had crept onto Eleanor’s head.

I want the baby months back, desperately.

I missed a lot of her infancy. I witnessed only 12 weeks in any real detail. I shuffled her off to daycare as soon as my 3 months of “maternity leave” were over.

If I think about it too hard, I grow despondent so I try not to think about it. The first several weeks away from my infant were viscerally harsh. No amount of repressing could take away that particular pain.

“You were mean,” Ian says.

I know I was. I remember picking fights just for the hell of it.

Repressing those feelings eventually worked, but I do worry about what repressing that level of rage does to one’s psyche.

Meanwhile Eleanor has thrived in every aspect of life. She forms strong bonds with the people in her life. Her daycare teachers adore her and tell me how much they dread Eleanor moving up to the toddler room.

“I don’t know what I’ll do. Eleanor is so attached to me, and I’m so attached to Eleanor,” one teacher tells us.

On the day Eleanor turned 11 months, she sadly pointed out, “Only one more month until Eleanor is old enough to move up.”

We’re 2 for 2 at having babies whose first word is “Mama” and who scream until they are plopped into said Mama’s arms.

It’s a nice feeling to be needed so badly, even when it has screeching overtones of American Psycho: The Baby Edition.

She has an obsessive need for me, particularly at the end of a long day at daycare in which she has only seen me two hours tops the entire day.

I really, really get it. I try to respect her instincts by letting her cling to me in the morning before daycare and in the evenings until bedtime.

Eleanor has been a total joy: a charmer, a basher, and cool little cucumber. She smiles easily and laughs quickly.

Ultimately, Eleanor has brought us a sense of peace and completeness. She was our missing puzzle piece, a person who made our family whole. As happy as I felt meeting Eleanor the baby, I'm even more excited about knowing Eleanor the person.

Happy first birthday, Eleanor. You’re exactly who we needed.

My Teddy Bear

2015-03-11T20:18:00.000-05:00

"This teddy bear song is horrible. It's awful."

"Margot loves it."

"Yeah."

"Margot also loves eating vaseline."

"Yeah. Heh."

And then Pop Culture Arrived

2014-09-04T18:25:00.003-05:00

I was, to be fair, aware of the toddler phenomenon that often sweeps, unabated, through people’s homes.

But then, these are usually homes where parents happily plant the seed, encouraging, urging, and cheering their tots to take such an interest, as unnerving and unsettling as it might be.

I’m talking, of course, about Elmo.

With apologies to Jane Austen, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a young tot in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a Sesame Street character obsession.

In modern speak, kid loves Elmo.

It certainly didn’t spring from us. We make Margot watch these super lame educational videos featuring zero licensed characters.

It was all Delmore the Dancing Donkey and other D-List children’s celebrities doing the entertaining at our house, mainly because those videos feature the only children’s songs Ian and I can tolerate.

I caught a whiff of what was to come one evening when Margot’s daycare report exclaimed that Margot “watched an Elmo video!” I felt an involuntary shiver run down my spine reading those words, but I shrugged it off.

Because some things you just can’t control. Drugs, alcohol, and Elmo are all going to be offered to your child at some point. You just have to have faith that you’re doing your best as a parent, and that your child will find her way through the winding road of youthful temptations.

A little D.A.R.E. and a little Delmore can go a long way to combating these temptations. Except, they didn’t.

Ian next caught wind of the dangerous rumblings. Every morning while he and Margot played, he swore he heard her say the name, “Elmo.”

Soon afterwards, Margot spotted a tiny plastic Elmo toy at my Mom’s house and flipped out. My mother ran upstairs and grabbed a larger stuffed Elmo.

Maybe it was the logic behind forcing a child to smoke an entire carton of cigarettes after catching him sneaking his first puff of the poison sticks. That’s all I can figure.

Because after Margot met stuffed Elmo, it was all over. Margot scurried down the rabbit hole of Elmo obsession and we’ve been lodged in it ever since. She now toddles around the house calling, “Elmo! Elmo!”

Stuffed Elmo has a prized spot next to Boo, although Boo still reigns supreme as top dog of the stuffed animals. We also allow her a little Elmo screen time now.

It’s the Elmo screen time that I find most unnerving because I look into his bulging eyes and can only see the demonic come –hither looks of Miley Cyrus or the Jonas Brothers or whoever will take hold of the prepubescent population in 2023.

When we’re not watching Elmo, I continue to live in my idealized world where Margot will never succumb to trendy muck, instead choosing to build forts, ride bikes, and read classic literature every day.

Now leave me alone and get out of my delusion; it’s safe and warm in here.

Margot Loves Boo

2014-08-19T19:11:00.002-05:00

The weekend Margot began walking coincided with the weekend Margot fell head-over-heels in deep, deep love with her stuffed Boo dog.

Boo is the miniature Pomeranian with the cropped puppy cut who currently earns about five billion dollars a year because he is so astronomically cute.

His shrewd owners created a website and licensed his sugary sweet face out to greedy toy execs to create the world’s most adorable stuffed animal. And so, capitalization and corporatization led to the creation of Margot’s first real love in life.

Boo is Romeo to Margot’s Juliet, the Milli to her Vanilli, the Sonny to her Cher, the wind beneath her wings.

One day, Margot took only a passing interest in Boo and two days later, she was sobbing into my neck while I hastily washed her hair. For you see, stuffed Boos aren’t water-proof.

It’s interesting to see Margot undergo that sacred right-of-passage when a young tot latches onto a toy or blanket. Ian and I had assumed she’d attach to a blanket due to the individual blankie lust of our youths.

Ian called his blankie “Wee” and carried a piece of Wee in his pocket from kindergarten to fourth grade. Wee was finally abandoned in sixth grade or so.

I, being an all-together more intelligent child, called my blankie “Blankie” and hung on to it for far longer than sixth grade. How long? Well, Ian has not clue where Wee is, but Blankie now resides in my sock drawer.

Because, what, am I supposed to throw away my tattered rag? The horror.

Margot’s attachment to a lovie is cute, but Ian and I also feel gripped with terror at the thought of losing Boo, or Boo taking an impromptu trip into the toilet.

On Sunday, Ian hopped on Amazon and ordered a second Boo to be rotated with first Boo.

Margot won’t know that we’re rotating an heir and spare from week to week, but we consider this to be as important a form of coverage as our health care plan or car insurance.

So in conclusion, if you’re ever pondering what to get Margot for a birthday or Christmas gift, SEND BOOS. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SEND BOOS.

The Daycare Diaries: The Election

2014-08-06T19:43:00.000-05:00

"There’s something crazy going down at Margot’s daycare."

"Really? What?"

"Margot’s running for class president in the one year old room. Her slogan is, 'Babies are People Too!'"

"I always think you’re being serious…"

"It’s a tough campaign. Margot appeared at her first rally and promised an extra five minutes of recess. The kids went nuts for that."

"Isn’t their entire day comprised of recess?"

"It’s starting to get ugly. Some of the babies have begun smear campaigns."

"I saw a commercial the other day. It showed Margot crying for crack. They edited it, though. She was really crying for crackers."

"Colin’s running a pretty successful campaign. He promises to legalize baby weed. Or at least decriminalize it."

"What’s baby weed? Does it have extracts of meth?"

"I don’t really know the ins and outs of it. But Margot said she’s never inhaled."

"Good."

"Madison and Jayden are the two republican candidates. I hear they're both backed by the Tea Party."

"They use actual tea cups."

With great power comes great responsibility

When We Nearly Got Consumption

2014-07-31T18:28:00.000-05:00

I’m not sure, but I think I may have referenced being sick at least a couple times on this blog. Clearly I was brain addled because I should have referenced it eighty-seven more times than that.

I have no idea what sort of hazmat industrial waste is being pumped into Margot’s daycare, but our entire family was/is constantly sick.

Starting in November, when Margot started full time daycare, we each caught a new viral infection at least every two weeks.

Considering a viral infection typically lasts one week, you can imagine why we thought we would have to check into Dr. Ulysses C. Sander-Hopper’s Sanatorium for Hopeless Cases, where we would be fed a steady diet of Flintstones’ Chewable Morphine™.

It was steady, never-ending cases of sore throats, stomach viruses, fevers, and strangely colored mucus.

The AAP claims that breastfeeding prevents ear infections and boost infant’s immunity. Someone really should have sent Margot the AAP literature because that kid wiped out more people with her daycare germs than the English did with smallpox.

We all had RSV at Christmas, a stomach virus on her birthday, and I caught the flu during my first week at my new job.

RSV at Christmas

Margot had about ninety-five ear infections and got tubes. Spring came. I dreamed of summer’s golden promise of no more snot bulbs.

We kept getting sick every two to three weeks. I got the worst upper respiratory infection of my life in June. It lasted over a month. I went from Zithromycin to Suprax to the stuff they prescribe to people who have been exposed to anthrax.

I had clearly lost the war against daycare but, by all means; send in the terrorists, for I can handle it. My body couldn’t handle simple germs, but damn it, I was temporarily impervious to the evil-doers’™ poison of choice.

Before we sent Margot to daycare, Ian and I generally believed we had good immune systems. Or at least functioning immune systems. Eight months of daycare has crippled us, frightened us, and profoundly altered us.

It’s a lot like when you’re a little kid and you suddenly realize you’re going to die someday. Except we suddenly realized we were going to die that winter.

Ian: “I don’t want to be dramatic, but we’re all going to die.”

Laura: “I know.”

Ian: “Probably next week.”

Laura: “I know.”

I made jokes about catching consumption. Jokes. And then we got word we had possibly been exposed to tuberculosis because of course we were.

It was like a goddamn episode of Dr Quinn. Hey, come to our house! For we bring tidings of great joy! And cholera!

For one week, we contemplated having to tell folks at work we hadn’t just exposed them to influenza and norovirus, but also Black Death.

For thy pox spreads rapidly and will taint all in thy good graces, a black lung that will surely smite thee. It was foretold by Edgar Allen Poe in yesteryear.

Ultimately, it looks like we were not exposed to tuberculosis, But, lo, what a grand tale it did make.

Now I'm off to the traveling medicine show to buy a bag of leeches and a tin can of rattle snake oil for the next bout of rheumatoid congestion that comes our way. 'Tis good for what ails ya.

To Margot, Age One

2014-04-27T11:37:00.001-05:00

You were born during the coldest Spring for more than 50 years. A record-breaking cold-front swept through the city the night you were born, but we had no clue. We were shut away in a hospital room, completely isolated from the outside world, only caring about ourselves: you, me, and your pops.

We had arrived at the hospital shortly after noon that day, after my contractions had amped up to the every-three-minutes my doctor had told me to watch for. They were dull contractions that had begun the night before, too uncomfortable for sleep but too weak for the hospital.

I managed three hours of sleep that night. The next morning Ian called in to work. We knew you were coming soon.

That morning I squirreled away graham crackers and gatorade to sneak into the hospital bathroom and anxiously watched the hours tick past.

We timed contractions and by 11am, I could feel them coming closer together, still dull. Shortly after noon, we motored off to the hospital.

"They don't hurt at all even though they're close together. We're going too early."

"You wanna get Bubble Tea? Or go to the thrift store?"

"Nah. We're almost there; just keep going."

Sometime after 1:00pm the nurse checked me for the first time: "Three centimeters."

After she walked away, I wailed, "Three centimeters!? We're going to be here for hours! We're going to be here all afternoon and all night and into the morning. They'll give me pitocin. This is horrible."

Five hours later, you came screeching into the world, pitocin-free.

Immediately after you came into the world, the nurse whisked you away to your baby station next to me. You were born with a fever. The nurses nudged your dad towards you, reminding him to take pictures.

He snapped some photos and then sheepishly walked back to me, where he clutched my hand and quietly watched the chaos. The nurses chuckled at him, but the doctor kindly remarked, "I stayed with my wife, too."

When we finally held you, we stared at you, a stranger. We were confidants, lovers, introverts, and now, parents, who were going to let you, a strange little interloper, into our lives to share our home and our secrets.

It felt vaguely terrifying.

Your infancy has flown by. I spent six glorious months at home with you on maternity leave, and I loved every moment of it despite your clinginess.

Daycare has been the hardest part of your babyhood because my heart breaks every time I leave you at your little school.

I talk wistfully about the days I stayed home and wonder aloud whether I could stay home again, even while you're shrieking angrily and your dad is pulling a face because my god, woman, the screaming. Are you nuts?

You always hated baby food. You demanded table food as soon as we started you on solids. You eat everything.

I snuck you some white cheddar Cheetos once and have paid for it dearly ever since because you screech when you see me eating them, begging for a bite. And, well, they're the organic Cheetos, so why not?

When you eat, you rub food onto your head for reasons we shall never understand. You drag grease and sauce through your hair until it's standing on end. After every meal I must scrub your head with a dishcloth, lest you attract ants.

I have hauled my breast pump to work everyday for the past six months and dutifully locked myself away, fielding awkward questions and ill-timed knocks so you can feast on breast milk rather than formula.

Studies have recently scandalized our Breast is Best world because they show that breast milk doesn't really make a difference in the long run, and, hell, I've been saying that since you were born.

And I'm so tired of pumping that I declare you are starting on formula tomorrow, first thing, bright and early. But then morning arrives and I doggedly pack my pump and bottles like always, lest one drop of evil formula passes your precious lips because I am clearly an insane hypocrite.

You are so adorable that your dad and I can hardly stand it, and we sappily declare you the cutest baby in the world. Your dad acknowledges that every parent thinks this but goes on to decide that maybe, just maybe, you really are the cutest baby in the world.

You say "Mama", "Dada", and "Kee Cat." You call every animal you see a "Kee Cat", including the horse who lives next door.

We were constantly sick from the daycare viruses this winter. You dad and I have never been so sick in all our adult lives. I briefly considered hanging a sign upon our front door that reads "Abandon all Hope, Ye Who Live Here."

But your dad gazes fondly at photos of you grocery shopping just before a winter storm hit and remarks, "This winter was the greatest. I usually feel down during the winter but having Margot in those little outfits made it happy."

Your hair is slowly growing in, blonde fuzz that sticks up wildly. You have your father's features but your mother's face shape. Your skins is as sensitive as your father's, and we have to rub you down with a trifecta of lotion, diaper cream, and lanolin every evening.

You love electronics: iPhones, iPads, remote controls, and electrical cords. You pay little attention to your toys and no attention to your stuffed animals. You'd rather have the wires from your dad's latest project.

You like to pet the dog but get annoyed when she licks you, screeching in frenzied protest. You adore beating on the cats like they're oddly-shaped drums, but only the fat one allows you close for any length of time.

You love the other babies in your daycare class. You crawl over to crying babies and pat their backs. Your teacher calls you "a big help."

You've been the oldest baby in the class since you were 8 months old, and you know it. Your other teacher calls you "Queen Bee" because you go from baby to baby, patting their arms and bouncing their seats.

"Margot's very motherly," she tells me.

The baby in you is slowly disappearing. We take you to some gardens to snap photos just before your first birthday, and I'm shocked by the sudden appearance of relatively spindly legs.

That same weekend, you suddenly explode into a non-stop babbler, earnestly trying to impart your wisdom using your bizarre alien language.

You love "reading". You flip through your books and babble about each page. When I ask you to read me a story, you fetch your books and earnestly chirp through each one. I can't wait for you to talk with real words.

I have snapped a million photos of you as a baby, desperate to remember everything, knowing how fast it's going, and knowing the days of you needing me so terribly will rapidly vanish. But I'm so excited to see you grow and change.

Happy birthday, Margot. I'm so glad you're ours.

Monday Night Musings (The Sunday Morning Edition)

2014-03-09T13:51:00.002-05:00

"She has your eyes. Hungover eyes. It's sexy."

"We have a sexy baby. I'll have to beat those boys off… Wait. Never mind."

The Triumphant Return of Spottswood Michael

2014-01-23T15:08:00.004-06:00

He's back. I am still shocked, but he is back.

Ian and I (and my dad) would catch glimpses of Spottswood from time to time for about a month. We'd see him crouched under our neighbor's barn, or nestled in her backyard, or even in our carport.

Unfortunately, Spottswood would flee if we came within 4,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 miles of him. So if he was on Mars and we were on Saturn and we made even the slightest move towards him, he'd streak away as fast as his skinny legs would carry him.

By the end of his escape, when he was making appearances in our car port, I would catch alarming glimpses of his emaciated frame. He was on the verge of starvation and outside in the record-breaking cold, with wind-chills of -3.

After the coldest night of the year, Ian drove Margot to school and returned to find Spottswood sitting in the carport again. He crept up the driveway, swatted a growling Harvey away, and snatched up our prodigal son.

Spottswood, by that point, was likely too weak and too cold to flee. Spottswood was all bones, a gaunt little skeleton.

Once in the house, he ate furiously. He ate and ate and ate. All his food ran through him for two days, but he eventually leveled out. From the moment he returned, he was cuddly, sweet, and clingy.

I've held off writing about his return because we weren't entirely certain he would stay alive. Fortunately, he's beginning to fill out nicely.

He does, however, skulk by the screen door whenever it's left open for a second, eying up the small tear where he escaped two months ago. Both my mom and I have had to yank him away when he's made moves towards it.

Ian suspects Spottswood simply wants to maintain his slim figure.

Laura: "You know what Spottswood says: 'Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels'."

So Spottswood Michael is home. Our family is complete again.

Monday Night Musings

2014-01-21T20:40:00.000-06:00

Ian and Laura: <Watch Winnie run in circles, barking manically>

Ian: "How long is she supposed to live?"

Laura: "Thirteen to fourteen years."

Ian: "And how old is she?"

Laura: "Three."

Ian: <Sighs>

Spottswood

2013-11-22T12:34:00.000-06:00

I mentioned recently that Spottswood had slipped out the house at some point last week. We suspect that he ran out when Ian was moving his plants indoors due to the freezing weather.

Ian spotted Spottswood in the barn the next day, but Spottswood hid before Ian catch him. Spottswood appears to have left the barn and...and that's it.

He's missing and we have no idea where he is. Spottswood is such a skittish cat that he transformed into something almost feral when he escaped outside.

We plan to check the neighborhood animal shelter tomorrow, but it's looking pretty grim. I doubt we will ever see him again.

I can't believe I'm typing this, and I've been holding out hope for days, but it looks like this is Spottswood's memorial post.

He was a fabulous, funny, wide-eyed little cat who clung to Ian and played happily with the dog. He slept above Ian's head every night and was constantly at our feet.

We loved him and we wish he was still with us.

So long, little buddy.

The Evils of Western Medicine as Told by Ian

2013-11-18T11:33:00.000-06:00

Laura: I need more allergy medicine. My nose is running.

Ian: I don't believe in pharmaceutical medicine.

Laura: Why not?

Ian: With allergies, you just need to be exposed to the allergen and let it run through you. Sure, you'll have a runny nose for a few weeks. But then you'll adjust and your allergy will go away.

Laura: I don't think so.

Ian: Why not?

Laura: I got sick with sinus infections at least twice a month for years until I started prescription allergy medication. Plus I got headaches every day. Medicine stopped all of that.

Ian: You should have just put up with the allergies. Medicine doesn't really do much of anything. People need to stop relying on that stuff. I think it makes their allergies worse.

Laura: Uh huh.

Ian: It's almost time to go.

Laura: Yeah.

Ian: My head's starting to hurt.

Laura: You better take your sinus medicine.

Ian: Yep, I will.

Laura: ….

Ian: I should probably stop railing against the evils of medication right before I take my pills.

Two Cats One Barn

2013-11-15T11:29:00.004-06:00

I briefly mentioned once that Harvey lives outside now due to his inability to use the damn liter box. The liter box he had used just fine for five damn years.

And so, he was tossed out into the wild outdoors, returning home twice a day for food, water, and back rubs. It worked out well. Really, really well.

Ian: "Since Harvey moved outside, he's become our best pet."

Laura: "Yeah, he has."

Ian: "Because we never see him."

Laura: "It's awesome. I love not seeing him. The pets are gross and annoying. Why did we get them?"

Ian: "I don't know. We should give them all away. Except Harvey."

We love you, Harvey.

It was all going swimmingly until Harvey suddenly went missing. Ian lamented that Harvey was dead and done for, but my parents have had outdoor cats forever, and I knew that they always go missing at some point. And they always return.

I said such things with confidence, but on the inside I worried that Harvey was dead and done for.

Two days passed. I found the Apple TV remote we had been searching for.

Laura: "Guess what I found?"

Ian: "Harvey?!?!?!!!!"

Laura: "No. The remote."

Ian: "Oh."

And so I stomped on the last shreds faith and hope in Ian's soul.

Until he wandered into the barn and heard a distinct "meow." An ornery, curmudgeonly, crank of a meow. Harvey had climbed into the barn loft and had no idea how to get back down.

Ian climbed into the loft and hauled him down the ladder. He then found me in the house and jubilantly lifted a filthy Harvey into the air, cobwebs clinging to his sides, the same cranky look in his eyes. Our Harvey was home.

And we all lived happily after.

Except two days ago, Spottswood went missing. It seemed inconceivable because Spottswood is terrified of the outside world.

But, alas, we suspect he streaked out the door two nights ago when Ian was bringing in his plants due to the freezing weather.

And this time, I bald-faced lied to Ian.

Laura's Voice: "Don't worry. Spottswood will come back."

Laura's Brain: "Shit. Spottswood's dead."

Spottswood's so skittish that we both decided something horrible had happened to him. But yesterday morning Ian was again in the barn and, amazingly, spotted Spottswood.

Spottswood, being the brave cat he is, raced for cover.

I am Spottswood and I am brave.

And so here we are: Spottswood continues to streak away whenever Ian calls for him.

Ian alternates between anxious worry and exasperated disgust that Spottswood's stuck in barn prison.

Forever?

Hopefully, at some point, I will have a positive update.

In the meantime, Ian still stalks the barn liked a crazed blood hunter hoping to catch his prey, and Spottswood is trying to call Merry Maids because his new home is gross. I'll toss some Lysol and blankets in there later tonight.

When Ian Made Out with Winnie

2013-10-28T10:58:00.000-05:00

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

2013-10-22T19:02:00.000-05:00

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

2013-10-03T19:07:00.001-05:00

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

2013-09-17T10:36:00.000-05:00

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

2013-09-04T18:05:00.002-05:00

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

2013-08-09T14:05:00.002-05:00

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)

2013-06-22T11:46:00.002-05:00

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!

2013-06-13T13:56:00.001-05:00

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.

Margot Iris

2013-05-30T13:30:00.000-05:00

Whew.

We have a baby.

A baby who is almost a month old and just now getting a shout-out on the blog but let me tell you about that sleep deprivation thing.

You will never sleep again.

I couldn't string more than three sentences together until now.

Ian and I were so sleep-deprived during the first week, we thought we heard the breast pump talking to us:

Ian: "Listen, it's saying 'Brantley' over and over."

Laura: "I thought it was saying 'Brinkley'."

Ian: "I hear 'red-blue'."

Do you understand what I'm saying? We were so sleep-deprived we had conversations with the breast pump. Dear God, people.

And then, the baby insists on being one of those super attached babies.

I watched my dreams of a baby who preferred crib sleeping, Enfamil, and reading the New York Times over tea fly out the window as Mommy's little tyrant demanded co-sleeping, breast milk, and non-stop snuggly togetherness.

Alas. So much for detachment parenting.

Laura: "She demands our attention because she's smart. It's a sign of intelligence."

Ian: "But I wanted a stupid baby."

Laura: "Babies could only survive if they were attached to their parents at all times. These are her survival instincts. It's the only way she would have survived attacks by wolves, bears, or republicans."

Ian: "Those republican attacks are the worst."

And that's our baby: Margot Iris, born May 1, 2013 at 6:23 pm weighing 7 pounds, 2 ounces and measuring 20 inches long. She's beautiful and wonderful and I will perhaps have more to say later, when I sleep more.

In the meantime, here are baby pictures which is probably the only reason anyone clicked over here anyways.

37 Weeks

2013-04-17T18:57:00.002-05:00

Nothing to see here, folks. Everything's still exactly as it was, save for a slightly larger belly which only serves to make my legs look skinnier.

Me in jogging shorts is an absurd sight. It amuses Ian greatly.

"You should see yourself, " he said. "It looks like you stuffed a basketball under your shirt so you could make fun of pregnant women." And so he snapped these photos.

Two slight variations of the exact same photo is seriously all I have to offer.

I hear the human brain shrinks temporarily during pregnancy, which might be why I have trouble stringing more than a few sentences together for each new post.

Me write words. Me have baby.

I don't suppose the baby's kicking habits in the womb indicate much about personality, but if they did, I'd call our baby "placid."

She spends most of her time squirming or sleeping and only occasionally kicking. I've heard many a woman describe insomnia in the third trimester due to fervent baby kicks. I don't have that problem.

I'd call her rather sloth-like which we can probably attribute to genetics. She's a child after my own heart.

36 Weeks

2013-04-08T19:10:00.002-05:00

It's all been very quiet over here at the Winiferd house, which is exactly how I like it. There are only a couple things worth mentioning.

1. Living with Ian is like living with the paparazzi. He records every nap, so I now snatch up his phone after each nap to view the latest snaps. Mostly they appear double-chin-like and gape-mouthed.

I've posted the more attractive (and I'm really stretching it with that word) examples of these in the past, and frankly, that was enough. I mean, Ian thinks these photos are cute and darling and adorable but he also married me.

He also documents my movements when I'm awake. And completely oblivious.

I am now fifty percent baby.

2. Winnie and Ian love each other now. Or something.

It took Winnie three or so years but she has finally warmed to Forever Daddy. Either that, or she needs the extra emotional support during this trying time of new life and the next generation and all that horrible stuff.

Hold me, Daddy. For I cannot handle this baby shit. I can not.

33 Weeks

2013-03-21T18:22:00.002-05:00

I would have updated sooner but...you know.

Ian takes great delight in snapping photos of me looking like Jabba the Hut while passed out on the couch, with the dog firmly wedged into the crook of my knee.

Which happens every evening.

Look at the baby grow.

It's all very exciting.

Winnie finds pregnancy beautiful.

Occasionally, I do leave the couch and venture into the real world. It's shocking, I know.

At my latest appointment, last week, my doc determined the baby is in the 48th percentile for weight. Neither Ian or I can remember the exact weight he gave, but I think it was 4 pounds, 4 ounces. Or something.

Based on that, she's projected to weigh around 7 pounds, 6 ounces at term.

My doc also announced I had lost two pounds.

I have no idea how such a thing is possible since I consume about 10 enormous meals a day. Breakfast is definitely my favorite meal of the morning.

By my calculations, I have gained about 22 pounds total so far.

Baby is also head-down, like the nice, obedient child we know she will be.

Pictured: delusional future parents

And with that, it's nearly time for my pre-bedtime nap. Good night, everyone. For lo, it is almost 6:30.