Going from Miracles to 9 to 5

I stared incredulously for hours at this perfect, little person Bridget and I created. I learned how to hold her, how to change her, and how to soothe her. I took every opportunity to smell her and kiss her. My life was changed forever.

And then, in what felt like the blink of an eye, I was back at work.

I'd witnessed a miracle -- a damn miracle! -- only 12 days earlier and I was back in my office chair typing away at 8:30 on a Monday morning. Now, let me preface this post by saying that I'm very fortunate to have a job that offers paternity leave. And let me also preface this post by saying I wasn't the one who actually gave birth. (You know, just in case there was some confusion about that.) Still, going back to work that first Monday (and really, that first week) was really, really difficult.

September 16 was the day of reckoning for me. On September 15, I made my lunch, chose an outfit, and got ready for what felt like my first day of work. I'd returned to the office after vacations before, but this was different. Instead of thinking about that delicious bottle of wine we had with dinner or that cloudless day on the beach, I was going to be thinking (constantly, I surmised) about my new daugther.

Think about it: One moment, your outlook on life changes. The next moment, you're back in Outlook. How does anyone make that transition smoothly? There are emails waiting for you, calendar invites that need a response, and colleagues who are eager for some input. And in three specific ways, it's been just as bad as I expected:

1. I'm really tired. Well, duh. In fact, Annabelle has been a pretty darn good overnight sleeper so far, but it's still exhausting. One thing I've already learned about early parenthood is that breaks are few and far between. You're almost always "on." Mix a serious lack of shut-eye with a two-hour meeting in a warm room and, well, you can figure out the rest.
2. The right word is just out of reach. I'm not sure if other people have noticed yet (thanks for being polite if you have noticed, colleagues), but as I'm explaining a program or sharing an opinion, my mind has these moments of blank. I've said "conflict" when I meant "connect" and "hotel" when I meant "hospital." And I've done that thing where you unconsciously switch the first letter of one word with the first letter of the next word at least 400 times.
3. I miss my daughter a lot. I get text messages with photos and enjoy a lunchtime phone call here or there, but I miss her. It's tough.

In three other ways, though, going back to work after paternity leave has resulted in some positive changes:

1. I have a new perspective. I had a strong work-life balance before Annabelle arrived. Other than skipping most lunch breaks, I was pretty good at shutting down by 5:30 PM. (I was once miserable at a job that required constant email surveillance, so I've learned my lesson.) Now, though, I leave as soon as I can to get home to see my family. And I use my lunch break to make phone calls -- even if it's just to hear Annabelle squeak and sigh.
2. I've remembered how lucky I am to work with really supportive, flexible colleagues. Between giving thoughtful gifts and cards, checking in to make sure I'm not falling asleep, allowing me to miss meetings so I can be at doctor's appointments, and being patient on the days when I'm a bit slower, my co-workers (really, friends) have been great.
3. I get to come home every day to something amazing. Whoa, whoa, you might be thinking. Haven't you had a wonderful wife for a while now? Of course! But I often beat her home before Annabelle was born. These days, I walk in and see two beautiful faces every single night.

The re-entry to the salt mines has been tough, but these three changes have made things a whole lot easier. I feel strongly that paternity leave should be four weeks -- three weeks off, one week back at work to develop a schedule, one week off -- but even if that were the case, that first Monday at 8:30 would have been just as tough.

The Pull of the Push Present

The words of the greatest television character of our generation, George Costanza, reverberated in my head when I first heard about this thing called a push present:

"It never ends, this present stuff! Engagement present! Then they get married, you're gonna have to get something for that. Then the baby, there's another present. Then the baby starts getting their presents. I don't even like the Drake."

(Seinfeld fans will remember that no one likes the Drake in the end, especially after charity got all the gifts. Those of you who aren't Seinfeld fans should think long and hard about why you don't like hilarious things.)

Pregnancy comes with lots of opinions. Name your child this. Don't drink that. Eat this. Don't lift that. It's the push present, though, that may be the most polarizing issue. For those of you who don't know, a push present is a gift to a mother that celebrates the birth of a child. Essentially, it's a way to say, "Hey, you just had a really tough 10 months and went through an enormous amount of pain, so here's this token of my love."

The whole push present deal really comes down to two questions:
1. Should I get one for her?
2. What should it be?

(Of course, No. 2 is moot if the answer to No. 1 is "no.")

Let's tackle No. 1 first. Should I get a push present for Bridget? I decided to do some quick research about the push present business and found that it really only started in 1992 -- at least that's the first time the phrase was published. (So much for a long, meaningful tradition.) A 2007 BabyCenter.com survey found that 38% of 30,000 women received a push present. Fifty-five percent wanted one. Forty percent said the baby was enough of a gift.

Hmmm. Good information, but it certainly didn't make the decision for me.

I asked a few people at work and got varied opinions. Some women skipped my first question and just asked what I was getting Bridget. One of my male friends, on the other hand, had a priceless reaction when I asked him if he planned to get a push present for his wife: "A what now? Are you serious? No, I don't think so. No." Other male friends have opted for diamonds. (Thanks, jerks. Isn't there a homemade breakfast-in-bed you should be preparing in your Italian villa?)

I still couldn't decide.

And again, I couldn't help but think of George's wise (and angry) words. He's right about presents, as he was about most things. We're trained to buy gifts for everything. And in my experience, the gesture seems to mean more than the gift nowadays because most people just buy themselves what they want. Sigh.

Still, I decided yes. A first baby is a once-in-a-lifetime experience and my darling Bridget had sacrificed a lot in 2013. I also decided that I'd wait to see her push before I chose a gift.

That brings us to question No. 2: What should I get? I had decided I would get either a massage gift certificate or this Patagonia winter coat. Then, after seeing my tough-as-nails wife endure a great deal of pain and witnessing the amazing moment, I, of course, got both gifts. (Plus, I got her some sour gummy worms because she really likes those.)

Is it the most romantic gift ever? No. But the massage will make Bridget feel wonderful for an hour and the coat will keep her warm when she takes Belle on long walks this fall and winter. Plus, the gift resulted in a lot of happy tears, which is always a good thing.

Of course, now I have to think of a Christmas gift. And that's only if we decide not to exchange gifts on Columbus Day this year ...

Seven Things I've Already Learned about Fatherhood

I can now wear high, white socks. I can now use phrases like, "Money doesn't grow on trees" and "A little hard work never hurt anyone." I will now, without exception, eat all the end pieces and the leftovers no one wants.

I am officially a Dad.

I've had my shiny, new title for all of 11 days, but I've already learned a few things. I still have about 174,893 things to figure out, but after almost two weeks as Annabelle Grace Briddon's father, I am certain about these seven things:

1. Parenting is pretty natural. In other words, I'm not nearly as bad at this as I expected I would be. I know how to change a diaper, hold a baby, and turn crying into quiet. (Not every time on that last item, but I'm getting there.) Everyone said that you just kind of figure it out. Everyone was right.

2. My pinkie finger is very important. If you put your pinkie -- nail-side down -- into a baby's mouth, she sucks on it and, subsequently, stops crying. So far, anyway. For whatever reason, this little secret didn't appear in any of the baby books I read. When one of our nurses showed me how to do it, I felt like I was being invited into an exclusive club.

3. I would be screwed without my wife. This isn't a new fact, but it's become very apparent in the past couple weeks. Bridget, a seasoned babysitter, has cared for a lot of newborns in her life and appears to be really good at all this complicated stuff. Diaper change? Eight seconds. Breastfeeding? A natural. Explosive diarrhea? Handles it with a smile. She more than makes up for my 10-thumbed hands.

4. Poop smells. Several times, I read that breastfed babies don't have stinky diapers. That is, excuse the pun, a load of crap. It is not pleasant.

5. Your body can adjust to anything. I really enjoy sleep. The thought of a soft, delicately braided hammock gently rocking on a cool summer evening is downright sexy to me. I used to average about 7-8 hours of snoozing every night. Now? Well, if you're a parent, you know it's sometimes half of that. Or a quarter. Or some other tiny (and ungodly) fraction. But, so far, both Bridget and I are holding our own. I've even worked out a few times in the past week. (Or maybe I dreamt that ...)

6. Apps can be wonderful things. I love apps. I'm constantly looking for new ones and touting the value of my favorites to friends and family. Yes, they can be a giant waste of time, but the right ones, like Baby Connect, can really improve the quality of your life. Baby Connect tracks feedings, dirty diapers, doctor visits, and everything else related to our bundle of joy. It's a data lover's dream. In the last five days, I know Belle has gone through eight diapers, nine diapers, eight diapers, seven diapers, and 10 diapers, respectively. And now you know. Neat.

7. There's no word for how much you love your child. The English language just doesn't have one. Dozens of times every day, I'm experiencing emotions I've never even imagined. I know this is mushy and all that, but it's true. When she sleeps for an hour on my chest. When she opens one eye, but not the other. When she kicks me while I change her. It's, well, like I said, there's no word.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go buy some socks ...

The Story of Belle's Birth

I couldn't say "thank you" because I was trying too hard to swallow my tears. It didn't matter. They kept coming. And slowly, softly, between small sobs, I pushed out the words several seconds apart "thank" ... "you." Thank you to everyone in the room who was excited for us. Thank you to Annabelle for being healthy. Thank you to my wife for her amazing display of strength and courage.

It took 13 hours to get to that "thank you." And here's how it all happened:

At 9:30 PM on Tuesday, Bridget started feeling something in her stomach as she bounced on our exercise ball. (The induction was scheduled for Friday and she was doing everything she could think of to go into labor.) "I don't know," she said. "It's like bad cramps." In classic, clueless fashion, I jumped off my chair, "Is this it? Is it go time?" "We'll see," she said.

In the next 30 minutes, the cramps quickly turned into contractions. Six minutes apart. Then five minutes. We found our trusty Full Term app on our iPhones so we could be track the contractions to the second. "What about Oscar?" I asked. "I ... don't ... know," Bridget said, in between deep, pained breaths. "We should call my sister."

At 10:30 PM, Bridget's sister, Alanna and her boyfriend, Blake, came by to get Oscar. Alanna is a nurse. Blake rents cars. You can imagine who struggled more with Bridget's state. "Um, shouldn't you guys be in the hospital? I'd be in the hospital," Blake said. "Seriously. Now." (In Blake's defense, if Bridget wasn't my wife and I was in my mid 20s, I would have been scared out of my mind, too.) We waved goodbye to Oscar and placed our first call to the hospital to let them know labor was starting.

We sat down on the bed and thought about sleeping, but Bridget couldn't lay down for more than 30 seconds at a time. The contractions hit the magical 4-1-1 number -- four minutes apart, one-minute long, for one hour. Just before midnight, we called the hospital again. "I think we need to come in," I said to the midwife. She agreed, but only because Bridget hadn't felt the baby move in a while. We drove through a quiet Harvard Square and made our way to Mount Auburn Hospital in Cambridge. As we walked up to the door -- the wrong door, more on that later -- I had three overpacked bags in tow. (Just then, I realized I was probably jumping the gun with the bags, but it was too late.) We went into the triage room and the midwife examined Bridget. She confirmed we were in early labor and the baby was fine. "You can stay here, but I recommend going home to try and get some rest," the midwife said.

At 1:30 AM, now on Wednesday, we were back home. And to paraphrase Ron Burgundy in Anchorman, "things escalated quickly." Bridget's pain went from unbearable to searing. (I never realized how hard it would be to watch someone you love in excruciating pain.) We had seen a seemingly realistic labor video in our birthing class with a man gently comforting a moaning woman. That wasn't us. Every few minutes, Bridget would try to hold a wall, bend over a couch, or lean on a chair. Nothing worked. Another phone call to the hospital (they asked us to try a bath before coming in) and an hour later, the pain hadn't subsided. Then Bridget threw up blood several times. "Yeah," I said, seconds later, during my 3 AM call to the hospital, "we're going to come in now."

Exhausted, we made our way back to the hospital at 3:30 AM. Deserted roads made the ride easy, but not knowing the location of the emergency entrance made things difficult. Bridget used all her strength to get the front door, which was locked. I hit the intercom. "Hey, can you let us in?" I asked in a panicked voice. The response: "Who's us?" Right. Of course. I'm an idiot. "Me and my laboring wife." They came right up and we hustled into the hospital. This time, upon examination, the midwife knew we were serious. Without getting into too much detail, Bridget went from two centimeters to nine centimeters in two hours. That's intense.

Bridget gritted her teeth for another hour before she decided an epidural was the way to go. (The baby wasn't in perfect position, so it was either an epidural or approximately three more hours of blinding pain.) Mercifully, we slept (or tried to) from 5:30 to 7:30 AM. After two more quick exams and two more hours, it was showtime. With a midwife, a nurse, and a paramedic student (he needed to see a birth to get his certification) surrounding her, Bridget pushed for the first time at 10 AM. Along with the team, I cheered, coached, and urged. (For the record, I kept my eyes on the top half of the bed.) Thirty minutes of pushing. Forty-five minutes. One hour. Then, at 11:01 AM, after one big push, we held our breath and waited to hear that important first cry. There was some meconium in the womb, which gave us a moment of panic. (Apparently, it can get in the baby's lungs and cause problems.) Then, all of a sudden, "Waaaaaaaaaaah!" We breathed a sigh of relief and the nurse put Annabelle Grace Briddon on Bridget's chest.

A beautiful new baby. An exhausted, tough-as-nails new mom. And one teary-eyed dad. "Thank you."

Why Having a Baby is Like Fantasy Football

It's almost here.

By "it's," of course, I mostly mean Wednesday, the day Bridget will be induced. We are over-the-moon excited, nervous, and ready to "get that baby the hell out of Bridget's belly." (Her words, not mine.) But by "it's," I also mean the beginning of fantasy football, which officially kicks off on Thursday with the start of  the NFL season.

Now, at a quick glance, these two things -- babies and fantasy football -- are quite different. One is a pooping, drooling mess that changes your life forever. The other is a baby.

But seriously, they are quite different. One is an actual human. One is fake. One is doted on by parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and friends. The other is, in many people's opinions, a giant waste of time. One is the continuation of evolution. The other is grown men eating chicken wings, drinking beer, and throwing things at computer screens.

So, yes, these things are very, very different. But as Bridget and I get ready for a life-changing week and I start adjusting lineups in my two fantasy leagues, I'm realizing these two things can be quite similar. Here are five ways:

1. Research is critical. I've read a handful of baby books and spent several hours on ESPN.com. I've learned about colostrum, stork bites, and speedy wide receivers. I've learned a lot about kneecaps -- babies are born without them and an injured one can ruin a season. Will every bit of reading I've done pay off in either situation? Probably not. But I feel a lot more confident knowing that I've prepared as much as I can.
2. You have no control. At the end of the day, however, all of the research in the world isn't going to change reality. We will be frustrated with our baby at 3 AM and have no idea what to do, and someone on my team will get injured. (Thanks for already taking care of that, Le'Veon Bell.)
3. A name is important. I've already written about the process of naming our daughter. I'm quite certain it's the most important thing you do before your child is born. (Installing the carseat is probably a close second.) Our daughter will have her name forever, so we hope we've picked a winner. Naming your team -- in my case, Texas Forever -- can have a big influence on your season. Do you go with humor? Something like Little Lebowski's Urban Achievers? Do you highlight a star player? Maybe Tom Brady's Bunch? Either way, it's not a decision one should take lightly.
4. It's easy to get frustrated. One more touchdown. One more reception. One more yard. If you've ever played fantasy football, you know there's nothing quite like looking at your score on a Sunday evening and seeing that someone rushed for 99 yards or that a 80-yard touchdown catch got called back because of a phantom hold. Garbage! Similarly, I'm imagining, with constant crying and a lack of communication skills, the first few months of a baby's life will be challenging. The key to both situations, I believe, is taking it all in stride.
5. Winning is fun. As much as I try, I can't imagine the feeling I'll have when my daughter smiles at me for the first time. Or the joy that will infuse my body when she starts sleeping through the night. The first words, the first steps, the first goal she'll score in soccer. They'll all be huge wins. Beating a friend in an important fantasy football game is a great feeling, too. Even if it lasts for only a second, the jubilation of "my team is better than yours" is pretty damn cool.

Of course, I've never  actually won a league title. So here's hoping I'm better at fatherhood than I am at fantasy football ...