The Absolute Worst Thing about Having a Baby

There are so many wonderful things about having a baby. Teaching your baby. Hanging out with your baby. Smiling at your baby. (As Bridget and I experienced for the first time this week, your baby smiles back sometimes, too.) Aside from the sleep deprivation and the occasional crying fits (hers not mine), it's pretty much the best thing in the world.

But there's one thing, one stupid orange and black thing, that stinks about having a baby: You're forced to like Halloween.

Look, I hate Halloween. Maybe it's because I think most costumes are ridiculous. Maybe it's because I dealt with the crowds in Salem when I lived there. Or maybe it's because I detest those chewy, synthetic, disgusting candy corns. More than likely, though, it's because Halloween is the dumbest thing ever. And now because I have an adorable daughter who will look cute in any costume in the store, I have to paste a fake, wide smile on my face this October 31.

My history with Halloween, from what I can remember, started when I was around 10. It was really my peak. I dressed up as Mac Tonight, the moon-faced guy from the McDonald's commercials of the 1980s. My mom outdid herself and sewed the costume, adding in cotton where my head wouldn't reach in the moon. I remember parading around our school and everyone laughing at me. It was a good laugh, though, because I won the contest. (I think I won movie tickets or something.)

Fast forward to my senior year of high school. My go-to outfit was a white T-shirt and warm-up pants, so clearly I wasn't going to put much effort into Halloween. And sure enough when the night of October 30 rolled around, my buddy and I grabbed a couple sheets, cut a few holes, made the word "Boo" out of tape, and went to school the next day as "We really couldn't care less" ghosts.

I still liked all the candy at this point, though.

College was more of the same. People were plotting weeks in advance about their ingenious, creative costumes. They made multiple trips to iParty to make sure they had the perfect shade of black or the exact amount of blood. I made sure my Hawaiian shirt was clean and my stupid bucket hat was still in one piece so I could go as "Fun island guy." Aside from the adult beverages, I don't recall much fun.

Since then, it's been one train wreck after another. Caramel apples falling off sticks. Lame parties. Navigating through tens of thousands of drunk college students in Salem. And like most adult males without children, my attempts to engage a costumed youngster in conversation as I handed him or her a treat have been forced and awkward. As I hit my late 20s, I decided to just turn off my lights on Halloween and avoid the whole thing. No tricks. No treats. Boo humbug.

But now, this year, with my little ladybug or pumpkin or bumblebee or walrus or whatever staring up at me, I need to make sure she has fun. Before I know it, she'll be 4 and it'll be princess time for a few years. Then it'll be fairies. Then ballerinas. And then, sometime in the distant future, she's going to come downstairs in a tight-fitting outfit that's supposed to be a nurse, a cop, or a devil. And I'll flip out.

But hey, at least then I'll have permission to hate Halloween again. Until that happens, I'll have a huge smile on my face. Happy freakin' Halloween.

The Photo Shoot I Never Wanted

I hate photo shoots. Wait, no. That’s not right. I loathe photo shoots. I despise them, abhor them, and detest them. I don’t really know why. I never had a traumatic experience or anything. I just think they are cheesy, forced, and well, silly.

So when Bridget presented the idea of having a newborn photo shoot for Annabelle, I reacted the way you’d expect: “Uh-uh. No way. They are so stupid and expensive. We have iPhones with cameras. Those work fine.”

By now, Bridget knows how to pick her spots and get what she wants. I won’t give in all the time (yet), but if she really wants something, she usually gets it. And she really wanted this newborn photo shoot. “Don’t you want these for your daughter? She’ll never be this small again,” Bridget said. “We’ll have these forever.”

“Ugh,” I said, with extra emphasis on the “g.” “Fine.”

And like always — like spending lots of money on vacations, getting a kitchen island, and living in the city — Bridget was absolutely, 100%, no-doubt-about-it right. Again.

I mean, seriously, look at these pictures:

I suppose you probably couldn’t get that same quality with an iPhone.

Fortunately for us, we had an absolutely wonderful photographer. Actually, she was better than that. Christine Maus, the sister of a friend from work, came to our apartment 10 days after Annabelle was born and spent two hours in our apartment. Now you might be saying, “She was related to someone you work with. You have to say she was good.” Wrong. If she wasn’t wonderful at what she does, I would just avoid eye contact with the co-worker for the next few months and we would hide the photos in a dark closet under some old Sports Illustrated magazines.

So why was Christine so good? Was it talent? No. Although she has plenty of that:

Was it the way she created light in our shaded apartment? No. Although she did a great job of that:

Was it the cool bean bag thing and cute wraps she brought for Annabelle? No. Although they were pretty awesome:

So what was it? What set Christine apart? It was her attitude and presence. It was her patience and her kindness. It was the moment she threw her body between Annabelle and Oscar, creating a human shield that saved a lot of tears, screaming, and barking. (In Oscar’s defense, the quickest way to the treat was through his baby sister.)

So, thanks, again, Christine. You created something we’ll cherish for the rest of our lives.

Does this mean I love photo shoots? Not so much. A couple clad in argyle sweaters staring into each other’s eyes in front of a stone wall on a brisk autumn day? Blech. A family in matching white outfits on a sandy beach at sunset? Not my thing. The studio at Sears? Good God. I’d rather drink a smoothie of Oscar treats.

Nope, no more photo shoots for me. At least not until Bridget brings it up again …

Dad's First Feeding

Yelling. Then crying. Then really loud yelling. Then spit up. Then more crying. Then more spit up, more yelling, and lots of tears, in that order. Then more yelling.

In short, chaos. Absolute chaos.

I fed Annabelle for the first time this week. It didn't, you know, go well. In fact, some would call it a disaster, a train wreck, or, in the parlance of our times, a dumpster fire. At least at the beginning.

It all started when I received a text from Bridget around lunchtime: "Guess what? I pumped today, so you can feed her tonight!" I was thrilled. No, elated. I'd read a lot about that first "Dad to baby feeding" and, now, it was my turn. I was going to get to feed my young. But I was also really nervous. I had never fed another human before. Sure, I'd given a date a bite of chocolate cake, but I'd never fed another person an entire meal.

I immediately turned to the most logical place to refresh my knowledge: Google. After getting sidetracked on a video about how to bathe a newborn (Belle hates baths, which is a story for another time), I finally found a decent site that talked about 45-degree angles and "not forcing it." Content with my superficial research (especially the angle thing, which seemed pretty scientific and impressive), I enjoyed the rest of my day at work and some early evening tennis. As I walked home in front of a setting sun at 6:30, I realized I was muttering to myself: You can do this, Mike. You can do this. 

I walked in, grabbed Belle, grabbed the bottle, took off my shirt in preparation for copious amounts of spit and vomit, and put on my game face. You can do this, Mike. I took a comfortable seat on my couch and held Belle at precisely 45.0 degrees. Here's the play-by-play:

Attempt 1: Waaaaaaaaaaaaah! (Baby translation: "Absolutely not. What the hell is this? There is no way I'm feeding this way.")

Okay, okay. She just needs to get adjusted to this, I think to myself. Compose yourself, Mike. You can do this.

Attempt 2: Waaaaaah. Bottle goes in for a second. Waaaaaaaaah! (Baby translation: "Did you not hear me 10 seconds ago? I said no!")

Attempt 3: Waaaaah. Waaaaah. Bottle goes in for a few seconds. Milk comes out! Hooray!  Waaaaaaaah! (Baby translation: "Look, man. You are not my Mom. You'll never be my Mom. Go write a blog post or something.")

"Honey," I say to Bridget. "I don't think this is going very well."

Attempts 4 - 8: A little milk goes in. Waaaaaaaaah! Waaaaaaah! Waaaaaaah! (Baby translation: "No! Give me the real thing!")

I decide to walk around and bounce Belle for a while because that always seems to help her relax. She calms down a bit. Bridget leaves the room because she'd read a baby won't feed when she can smell/sense that her mother is around. It doesn't make a difference. She can easily hear Attempt 9 from the other room.

Attempt 9: Waaaaaah! Waaaaah! Deep breath. WAAAAAAH!

I remove the bottle and look at it -- .25 ounces (maybe) of the 3 ounces are gone. Thirty minutes have gone by. Crap.

Attempt 10: Bridget holds the bottle while I bounce Belle. And ... success! She's sucking and gulping. "Honey," I yell. "You've got it. You're doing ..." Waaaah! Waaaah! Waaaah!

At this point, 40 minutes into the feeding, I'm close to calling it a failure. I'm ready for Bridget to come in with the big guns. (Pun intended. Whatever. I'm tired, so I'll use puns when I want.) And then, suddenly on attempt 11, something clicks. Her eyes soften, her breathing slows, and her lips curl. It's like the moment when a kid understands long division for the first time or a minor leaguer learns how to take an outside curve ball to right field. Success! Just like that, quietly, calmly, Belle grabs hold of my pinkie and guzzles 2.75 ounces of milk in about two minutes.

Bridget snaps the photo above and, out of nowhere, I have one my proudest (and most gratifying) moments thus far as a Dad. (Isn't she adorable?)

Then I realize it's almost time for Belle's weekly bath. Sigh. I think I need a nap ...