The Five Best Sounds I’ve Ever Heard

Ah, hearing. It's such an underrated sense. Vision and taste are the all-stars of the five senses. Smell and hearing are the second-class citizens. Touch, obviously, is the red-headed stepchild.

Hearing, though, gets a big boost in the rankings when you have a baby. In fact, two of the best five sounds I’ve ever heard have been in the past 12 weeks. What were they? Well, let’s cover all five. And to do that, we’ll start at the top, PB, or, pre-baby:

Sound 1: The first time you hear the ocean. The waves crashing on the rocks. The tide rushing against the sand. The seagulls overhead. Since I was little, I’ve always loved the ocean and everything that comes with it. The first time you hear it is unforgettable. And now, decades later, the sound of it can still bring me back to my childhood.

Sound 2: The first real concert you ever attend. I actually didn’t experience a concert until I was in college and wasn’t sure what to expect the first time I stood wide-eyed in front of a live show. I loved the mood. I loved the crowd. I loved the anticipation. Then Bruce Springsteen made a sound on a New Jersey stage and I was captivated for life. Live music has been a huge part of my life – and our marriage.

Sound 3: The first time you hear “I do.” Speaking of marriage, those two words are pretty damn important. You spend a lot of your life looking for the right person to share everything with and, suddenly, two words stand in between you and forever. I remember nearly everything about our wedding day – the food, the people, the speeches, and the weather. Mostly, though, I remember that moment.

Sound 4: The first time you hear your child cry. After the first time, it gets really old … kidding, kidding. Kind of. But that first piercing yell, which I imagine is usually muffled by screams of maternal pain (it was in our case), lets you know you have a healthy (and loud) little bundle of joy.

Sound 5: The first time you hear your child laugh. This …

Three Cases of the Irrational Dad

No one has ever labeled me as laid-back. Efficient? Sure. Productive? You bet. Always on the go? Check. But never laid-back.

So, it may not surprise you that I'm occasionally a tad nervous, or, perhaps, irrational, when it comes to my daughter, Annabelle.

Now, in my defense, before the last 10 weeks, I knew as much about babies as you know about the mating habits of flamingos. I don't think that makes me a unique male. Most guys (dudes, bros, boys -- whichever you prefer) I know didn't do much babysitting in high school. Instead, we played sports, chased girls, and spit a lot.

Guys, then, are inherently at a disadvantage with this baby stuff. We're starting from square one and we're suddenly the head of a household. (Is there any phrase in the English language that can make you feel older? Excuse me, can I speak to the head of the household?) We're nervous, scared, and anxious because there's this perfect thing that we don't want to mess up in any way. We want our sons and daughters to be absolutely perfect for as long as possible. We want them to be happy, healthy, and quiet. Forever.

And because of that, we're irrational.

More specifically, I'm irrational. Thanks to my lack of baby knowledge and my, um, active personality, Bridget and I have already had a few interesting  (and unnecessary) moments with that screaming gal in the photo. In chronological order, here are the three cases of the irrational dad:

1. After a few weeks of life, Annabelle started to develop a rash on her face and her chest. "Oh, man," I said, when it got particularly bad. "What's wrong with her? Is she okay?"Bridget looked at the rash. "Yes, she's fine," she said. "It's probably just baby acne. Plus, babies get rashes all the time." I shook my head. "No, no, I don't think so," I said. "I think something's wrong. Can you call in the morning?" Bridget, to appease me, called in the morning. "They think she's fine." Two days later, the baby acne disappeared.

2. I was convinced Annabelle was blind. Two weeks ago, I was playing with Annabelle while Bridget made dinner. I was making faces at her and trying to get her to follow my finger. (Babies, I'd read, were supposed to be able to track things at eight weeks.) I moved my hand right. Annabelle stared straight ahead. I moved my hand left. She stared straight ahead. In fact, she was actually looking past me. "Bridget," I yelled. "I think Annabelle might be blind!" Bridget came running in. "What do you mean? Why would you think that?" I showed her Annabelle's poor tracking ability. "I mean, would we know? She had that hearing test, but we don't know anything about her eyes," I said. Bridget assured me everything was fine. A couple days later, we told our pediatrician about my irrational fear. She laughed. Annabelle's eyes are fine.

3. I woke up in a panic at 3 AM last Tuesday. I jumped out of bed, and went over to Annabelle, who was asleep in her Rock 'n Play. I stared at her in fear. She was so quiet, so still. There had to be something wrong. I leaned over and touched her hand. Nothing. I listened to hear breath, and slowly, softly, she exhaled. And then I exhaled. Bridget was awake by this point. Our conversation:
"Hun," she said.
"Yeah, I"m okay," I said. "I was just really nervous. She was just so still."
"Right," Bridget said, "she was sleeping."
"I know," I said. "I just got nervous because the blanket was there."
"Was the blanket near her face?"
"No, it was under her feet … I'm cool. I'll go back to bed now."

This parenting thing gets easier, right?

Why a Crying Baby Is Like a Bad Round of Golf

I’m not a very good golfer. I mean, I’m not awful. Even though I didn’t play a single round this year, I’m fairly certain I could still scramble through 18 holes in about 100 strokes, mixing in the occasional long, crooked drive with a plethora of chunks, mishits, and weak putts.

And every once in a while, something amazing happens on a golf course. Something remarkable and special happens. I hit a fantastic shot.

Have you ever hit a fantastic golf shot? It’s really something. For my money, it’s the best feeling in all of recreational sports. It’s nice to watch a three-pointer swish through a hoop, nice to watch a softball go over a fence, nice to notch a PR in a road race. But a smooth, high arching golf shot that lands like a gum drop on the green? Good Lord, it’s sweet. And it’s often unexpected.

Like most hackers, my swing is terrible. I’m just as likely to top the ball as I am to dig out a five-pound chunk of the Earth every time I use my club. (The result from these two very different actions, interestingly, is quite similar.) I leave my putts short, slice when I try to draw, and draw when I try to slice. I’ve never really learned how to hit a shot out of the sand and I consider it a successful hole when I don’t have to “get creative with that tree to get a bogey here.”

So when that fantastic shot leaves my club, it’s so damn sweet. Once every round or two, I’ll stare down the flagstick from 150 yards and get a feeling like something great is about to happen. The club feels like part of my body as I slowly draw it back and hit the ball squarely. My follow through is perfect, as the ball elevates and hangs in the air. It hangs and hangs, as I watch with a huge smile on my face. Seconds later, the ball drops 10 feet from the hole. I finally exhale, look around, replace my divot, and tip my cap to my playing partners like it’s just another day at the office. (Inside, I’m attempting to quiet the voice telling me to quit my job and try to qualify for the U.S. Open.)

Nice moment, right?

When you’re struggling on the golf course, though, it’s the exact opposite. When you’re having a bad round and hitting everything in the woods, the water, or the sand, life is awful. You feel helpless. You suddenly start thinking about the presentation that’s due on Monday and the argument you just had with your wife. You think about how you should have been a firefighter or a lawyer and you start to notice that your jaw clicks when you open it. In short, everything is lousy.

You might be wondering what all of this has to do with the cute baby at the top of the post. Where’s the connection?

That helpless, lousy feeling hit me the other day. I was in my living room instead of a golf course, and Bridget was in the kitchen making a pie. My arms were filled with my adorable daughter, who refused to stop crying. She wasn’t hungry, didn’t need a diaper change, and didn’t have gas. She wasn’t bored, sad, or hurt either. She just cried. And cried and cried and cried. I tried walking around with her, doing squats with her (she loves that), and bouncing on the ball with her (she loves that, too). Nothing worked. I just let the piercing cries wash over me like a relentless, driving rainstorm.

I felt like I was golfing and hitting ball after ball after ball into the middle of a pond. It was brutal.

Finally, mercifully, she settled down and fell asleep. And then, like that smooth, buttery 8-iron, something happened. The corners of her mouth started to turn, her eyes started to squint, and she smiled. And I smiled. And I realized I’d play 1,000 rounds of terrible golf to see her smile again.

Maternity Leave by the Numbers

Today marked a major maternity leave milestone. Did our darling daughter have some magical developmental breakthrough? Did she start walking or talking way ahead of schedule? No. (Though she is smiling and giggling which is pretty awesome.)

Today, friends, I watered my plants. “Watering the plants” has been on my to-do list since before Annabelle was born. Annabelle is 8 weeks old. I have not been able to get my act together and water these plants until just a few minutes ago. Now, this is not so much a victory for the plants (because, let’s be real, these plants are clearly dead at this point), but a sign that just maybe my life is regaining a bit of normalcy. Perhaps we are turning a corner and I’ll be able to do more things than just feed and change an infant.

You see, the thing I didn’t quite grasp about maternity leave, and about taking care of a tiny human in general, is that keeping said tiny human alive is incredibly time consuming. Yet, at the end of the day, you aren’t quite sure what you did. It isn’t like being at work, when you are constantly checking things off of your to-do list like some sort of corporate ninja.

This has been an adjustment for me. For the first month of Annabelle’s life I basically just fed and changed her and watched an obscene amount of TV. How much? Lets recap:

•  Seasons 2-5 of Fringe 
•  Seasons 1-4 of The Good Wife 
•  Seasons 6-7 of the West Wing 
•  More than a little Gossip Girl 

That is, by a conservative estimate, 214 episodes total. Which results in 160 HOURS of TV. All watched in one month. Before you call the mommy police on me, please know that newborns sleep like 36 hours a day. And Annabelle really preferred to do her sleeping on me. Turns out there are a limited amount of things you can accomplish with a sleeping infant on your chest. So TV watching became my pastime of choice.

Since we are already crunching numbers, let’s look at Annabelle’s life so far. Thanks to this app, we’ve been diligently tracking her every move. This tracking was necessary for the first week or two of life to make sure she was doing ok, but at this point it has just become a sick obsession. Of course, it allows me to look back at the past 8 weeks and realize how I’ve spent my time:

• 35 bottle attempts 
• 392 diaper changes 
• 7,245 minutes of nursing 

And, actually, when you add it all up like this it does seem rather impressive. So what if I didn’t sew her Halloween outfit together from scratch? Or finish decorating her nursery. Or make dinner. Or clean the apartment. Or even get really into knitting.  I kept a baby alive. And maybe, if today is any indication of things to come, moving forward I just might be able to keep a baby AND my plants alive. Fingers crossed.