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?