Three Stories of Great Customer Service

Generosity, my wife often says, is one of the most important things in a marriage. Doing the little things -- putting extra ice in a drink, taking the dog out when it's below freezing, giving a massage when you actually need one -- makes a huge difference.

That mantra holds true for relationships outside of marriage, too. And this past week -- our anniversary week -- we've benefitted from three wonderful examples of customer service:

1. On Tuesday, I thought of the perfect anniversary gift for Bridget. (We hadn't planned on doing anything big because we're saving for Baby Briddon.) My idea was simple: I wanted a graphic keepsake that incorporated my wedding vows. I turned to my friend, Alex, who turned to his friend, Danny, who has a fantastic new business. Danny takes classic books and creates amazing pieces of art. Called Litographs, he prints the entire book within the image on a poster or a book. Decorating a nursery? How about The Wizard of Oz?  Need a gift for a book-lover? Try The Great Gatsby. Check out the whole collection. Danny took my idea, made it into the memorable piece of art above, and refused any kind of compensation for the rush order. The gift made Bridget cry and and made me realize just how kind some people really are.

2. We went stroller shopping a couple weeks ago at a place called Magic Beans in Cambridge. We weren't going to buy, but just felt like we needed to start rolling them around a little bit. One of the staff members, Michelle, spent what felt like 30 minutes with us answering every question we could imagine. She was patient, friendly, and incredibly knowledgable. Nice, right? Well, the reason I'm writing about it is because we received a hand-written "thank-you" card and a $20 gift card from Michelle a few days ago just for stopping in the store. Think we'll buy there? Yeah, me too.

3. We celebrated our anniversary in Chatham and didn't have the best luck with food. To make a long story short, I ordered something that turned out to be a lamb stew. I hate stews. A lot. So, with hopes of turning things around, we went to this little hole-in-the-wall place called the Hangar B Eatery at the municipal airport. The food was spectacular -- probably the best breakfast we've ever had. But what really made the difference was the three, free delicious blueberry muffins we got for having to wait an extra 15 minutes because of the crowd.

Generosity, it seems, is still alive and well. And its made the last week our lives -- which included our first anniversary as a married couple -- that much better.

Where is the Baby Going to Fit?

We live in a 768-square-foot apartment in Cambridge. And, truth be told, we like it an awful lot. It’s located in between Harvard Square and Porter Square, and, for all intents and purposes, is surrounded by everything we need. We have lots of culture, great neighbors, and convenience around every corner. You want restaurants? A stone's throw away. Grocery shopping? Just down the street. Boston? Hop on the subway and I’ll see you in 10 minutes.

Despite everything our apartment has, it’s missing one important thing: space.

Now, babies, I hear, are small, which is good. But babies, I hear, need a ton of stuff, which is bad.

Why is this hitting me all of a sudden? We're just coming back from a trip to New Hampshire where we visited our friends, Dan and Steph, and their four-month-old bundle of joy, Landon. They live in 4,000-square-foot pad with guest rooms that are the size of our apartment. Their back deck may be bigger than our street. (I exaggerate, of course, but you see where I'm going with this.)

Now, we’re not materialistic people by any stretch of the imagination, but for the past couple years, we've been able to buy ourselves nice clothes and nice things. The trouble is we’re already out of room. Both our bureaus are bursting at the seams (literally, thanks to Ikea) and our closets are stuffed like a big ol' Thanksgiving turkey. Our spare bedroom? Think more Shawshank Redemption and less Downton Abbey. 

So where will baby Briddon's stuff go?

Last weekend, we went stroller shopping, which was actually pretty fun. Then we got to the part about having to fold it up and actually keep it in our apartment.

"And this just folds neatly like that," said the incredibly helpful saleswoman at Magic Beans.

"Right," I thought, "and then how do you fold that up because that thing will dominate our linen closet."

So what's the answer? Do we have to throw away a bunch of our things? Do we have to rearrange our apartment to make way for baby? Do we have to move? We’ve decided the answer to question No. 3, for now, is no. We like the city and we plan to stay here for at least one kid and maybe two -- assuming there is a two.

But I can’t imagine what life will be like a year from now. I look around the apartment and see adult things. We have candles and DVD players and speakers and picture frames and iPads. Will those be replaced by bottles and toys and dirty diapers and onesies? The answer, I’m realizing, is yes.

This, of course, will be a huge adjustment. The more I think about it, though, the less worried I get. Stuff is overrated anyway. Just please don't make fun of me if I wear the same outfit every day after August. The rest of my clothes will be in storage.

Cravings and a Cliche Walk

Do you remember what you were doing exactly at 8 PM on Saturday, February 9? I do. I was walking, no, trudging, through thigh-deep snow on the way to the grocery store around the corner.

Bridget, my newly pregnant wife, had a headache and she needed Tylenol. And only Tylenol.

To be honest, up to that point, through two months of pregnancy, I had expected more from her late-night needs and cravings. Like most newbies, I expected my wife to want pickles dipped in peanut butter dipped in mayonnaise dipped in chocolate every night. But for some odd reason, that wasn't appetizing to her. Up until Saturday, February 9, the list had been:

• P.F. Chang’s 
• Popsicles 
• Frozen orange juice
• Big, chunky pretzels. (“Hunny, do you know we have pretzels at home?” “Well, yes,” she replied. “But not big, chunky ones.” Argument over.) 
• Orange juice and seltzer water 
• Gummies -- from vitamins to fruit snacks 
• SO many popsicles  

(Now, I agree that Tylenol doesn't count as a craving, but it was a need. Advil, I found out that night, wasn't good for pregnant women.) 

You all probably remember the blizzard -- assuming you live on the East Coast. We got about 26 inches of snow in something like 14 hours. Boatloads of fresh powder, aggressive wind, power outages (not for us, thankfully), and abandoned roads. In other words, it was your typical winter nightmare. And as luck would have it, Bridget developed a splitting headache right in the middle of it.

So, I strapped on my boots, threw on several layers, made sure my exposed skin was at a minimum, and ventured out into the wild. Fortunately, the walk to the store wasn’t very long. But the whipping wind and driving snow made each step count twice.

Crouched down, barreling against the elements … must … go … on. I finally made it to our local Star Market -- and by that time it was 8:45. I assumed it would be closed when I left, but I knew I had to try. I had a glimmer of hope when I saw several lights on, but as I got closer, my hope faded. Sure enough, when I made my way to the front door, I was greeted by a sign: “We closed at 3 p.m. today because of the state of emergency. We will re-open tomorrow.” Damn. Only six hours late.

I trudged back, beaten and defeated. But I knew there had to be a Plan B. Thank God for neighbors. After 10 seconds of weighing my options, I decided to knock on the door of a downstairs neighbor with a young child, thinking they might have some Tylenol. I was greeted by two barking dogs and a crying child who had just been put to bed. Perfect. Such a jerk.

"So sorry, guys. Do you have any Tylenol?"

"We have Advil," they said, because, well, everyone uses Advil.

"It kind of needs to be Tylenol."

"Ummm, okay," they said. "Why don’t you come in?"

I crossed the threshold. “Yeah, Bridget’s pregnant, so we specifically need Tylenol. We don’t have any and she has a terrible headache.” Congratulations and smiles followed. And, fortunately, so did a bottle of extra strength Tylenol. I headed back upstairs (fully feeling like a knight in some sort of armor) and delivered the goods. The headache was gone within about a half hour and I had a happy, pregnant wife. (Thanks again, Marc and Brandee.)

I can't wait for those mayonnaise-covered pickles pop into her mind. Maybe I should just get some now in case.

Lying to Everyone for Three Months

I fibbed a bunch of times in December. So did Bridget. We fudged the truth even more in January and February. Basically, it was just one big, fat lie after another for three months.

"Want to go out tonight and grab a beer tonight?"

"No," we said. "We're not feeling very well."

"You going to that party?"

"Maybe," we said. "But we're pretty hung over from last night."

Lies. Lies. And more lies.

The hardest part of pregnancy so far -- and please note that this is written from the perspective of a male who hasn't undergone an enormous body alteration -- was not telling anyone we were expecting a little one. We told our families at Christmas and then took a tight-lipped oath for the next 11 weeks. The reason, of course, is that if something bad happened with the baby, we didn't want to have to tell everyone about it.

And man, was it hard to keep my mouth shut. After all, it is the biggest news of our lives.

You have, I believe, eight positive "big news" moments in your life. Think about it:

1. You get into college -- perhaps the one of your dreams. 
2. You get your first job. 
3. You get your dream job. 
4. You get married. 
5. You have your first baby.
6. You have additional babies. (I realize this can happen several times, but the first is likely to draw the biggest response from the world.) 
7. You buy your first home. 
8. You retire.

And unless strange circumstances prevent it, you can share non-baby news as soon as it happens. No one buys a home and starts telling people two months after they've moved in. No one wears an engagement ring for four or five weeks before spreading the news. (This is especially true in the Facebook era when eating brunch on Sunday is cause for tagging, photos, and three status updates.)

But baby news is under wraps until that glorious 12-week mark hits and you're a little further out of the woods. So, I'd just like to take this opportunity to say I'm sorry for lying those 40-50 times from December 16  until a few weeks ago. More specifically:

• Colleagues, I never had those dentist appointments. 
• Bridget held the same half bottle of beer for three straight hours at the company holiday party. (For the record, I drank the first half.)
• Friends who threw that lovely apartment warming party in January, Bridget was home in bed two miles away -- not visiting friends in whatever city I said. 
• Everyone who asked if we were trying to have kids yet, yes, yes we were. And it appears we were successful. 

Phew! It feels great to get this off my chest. I promise I'll never lie again. At least until we start trying for baby No. 2.

The Day We Aced a Pregnancy Test

"Honey," yelled Bridget with a strange, high-pitched shake in her voice that I'd never heard. "Come here! Quick!"

Let me pause for a moment here. As a student of writing, I’ve been told several times that it's a cardinal sin to start an article (or even a blog post) with a quote. There’s no context and it leaves the reader guessing -- a big no-no. One former sports editor put it this way: "Unless Jesus Christ played centerfield, I don’t want to see a quote at the top of your story." One of my favorite professors in grad school: "You can start a piece of writing with a quote only three times in your life, so make them count."

I think he'd be fine with this being one of those times.

I ran toward the bathroom where Bridget waited with a white stick in her hand. Her other hand was over her mouth. It was shaking visibly. "Honey," she said, now in a hushed tone. "Look."  Sure enough, there were two tiny pink lines. Pregnant. Boom. We hugged, she cried (fine, we both did), and we looked at the two pink lines a dozen more times in the next two minutes.

We then started a game of asking "Are you okay? How do you feel?" back and forth. We really couldn’t think of anything else to do. What else do you do when you're that happy?

"Well," I said, "we should still go grocery shopping. We’ll need food."

We walked the short distance from our house and found ourselves at the Star Market around the corner. Together, we wandered aimlessly for several minutes. I picked up some cottage cheese and I hate cottage cheese. She stared at different brands of pretzels for 15 minutes. I got physically lost in the frozen food aisle. It was so real, so scary, and so exciting. Our lives had changed forever within 15 minutes.

Truth be told, we hadn’t been trying for very long. (And we realize how lucky this makes us.) As our friends and family know, we decided to live without much care for six months. We went to Ireland, France, San Francisco, and Mexico. We drank good wine and spent more than a few Saturday afternoons bellying up to our favorite bar (Cambridge, 1) in Harvard Square. We talked about having kids during those six months (we both knew we really wanted them), but like most things that don’t happen tomorrow, the reality seemed far away. We decided winter would be a good time to start.

November came and went, though. We had a glimmer of hope for a moment, but it wasn’t meant to be.

And then halfway through December, the 16th to be exact, those two fateful lines appeared. After the grocery store, we were off to run a 5K in Somerville, a holiday race we’d registered for months before. I don’t remember anything about the actual running of the race, but know that I felt no pain and ran faster than I had in a decade. I'm not sure my feet ever touched the pavement because I was running on air. I crossed the line in 21:31, a 6:56 pace, which, for me, is pretty damn good.

We followed that with brunch with friends. Between bites, we looked incredulously at each other. The look continued for the rest of the day, as we made our way to the New England Patriots game with our friend, Walter. We sat for hours in a misting rain, as we watched what was almost one of the greatest comebacks in regular season history. I cheered loudly, but it was mostly for our news and not the players. When we finally got home that day -- a very, very long day -- and went to bed at 2 in the morning.

"Is it real?" I asked.

"I think so," she said. "I really hope so."

"Me, too."