5 Reasons Why I Really Like Disney World ... Now

When Annabelle was born last September, three thoughts raced through my mind:

• "This is one of the best moments of my life."
• "I wonder when I'll sleep for eight straight hours again."
• "This means I have to go to Disney World."

Oddly, the third item created more anxiety than the second. 

I've never liked Disney World. It's too crowded and too happy. Plus, I went when I was 8 and cried most of the trip because I don't like rides. (I was a super fun kid.) So the crippling thought of going again that crept into my mind that beautiful September morning filled me with terror. If you told me our family would be there 15 months later, I would have laughed. Then cried. For at least 15 minutes. But sure enough, this December, last week in fact, Bridget, Belle, and I walked through the gates of the Magic Kingdom. 

I just explained how much I dislike all of this Disney hoopla, so why did we go? Well, most importantly, we thought Belle would like it. Will she remember it? Probably not. But we knew she'd be captivated by the sights and sounds. Secondly, my organization hosts a huge conference down in Orlando every December and we realized it was an opportunity for an affordable vacation. My airfare was covered and we had a discounted hotel room at a nice resort. Why not, right?  

And here's the thing, the turn in my story: I really, really liked Disney. Here are the five reasons why:

1. Belle was mesmerized. Obviously, this is reason No. 1. We spent almost seven hours at the Magic Kingdom and Belle's eyes were pretty darn wide the whole time. (In full disclosure, she slept for an hour.) We went on seven or eight rides (and I survived), participated in plays, saw lots of characters, and some delicious food. This video of a determined Belle on the carousel is pretty adorable.

2. Disney is a good value. I was totally surprised by this. With parking, it cost $227 for two adults and one (free) toddler. That's a nice chunk of change, but we had almost seven hours of memorable fun! And if you get a multi-day pass, the price per day is much cheaper. Yes, it's crowded and yes, you have to wait in lines sometimes, but there's so much to do. One minute, you're on a boat ride and the next you're eating a turkey leg. For comparison, I went to a Patriots game a couple months ago and with (good) seats, parking, food, and booze, my ticket was $250. Both were day-long adventures. Both were fun. But Disney always seems to get unfairly labeled as a ridiculously expensive adventure. 

3. Disney is a well-oiled entertainment machine. Disney knows what it's doing. Everywhere you look, there are great processes in action. The great communication on the tram. The clearly marked wait times for the rides. The spotless streets. The Fast Pass and the intuitive app. The friendly, helpful staff/cast members. Just seeing the dynamic operation in action was worth the price of admission. Nerd rant over.

4. People freakin' love Disney. I'll never wear a Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt or a Donald Duck hat. Adults that go nuts over this Disney stuff frankly scare the bejeezus out of me. But it's fun to watch people be incredibly happy. It's like going to a sporting event or a church just to see what it's all about. It's being a part of things that are bigger than yourself. 

5. The feeling you get when you leave Disney. Your legs are tired, your eyes are tired, and your brain is tired. But when you look down at your exhausted kid(s), you know you just made them really, really happy. And I'm not sure there's a better feeling in the world. 

In conclusion, here are eight words I never expected to write: I can't wait to go back to Disney. 

Another Thanksgiving Ailment

Belle has been pretty darn healthy for the first 14+ months of her life. Sure, she's had the typical smattering of daycare colds, a small fever here and there, and a bout of Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease.  Runny noses one week, small coughs a few weeks later. But, knock on wood, she's been a very healthy little gal.

Except on Thanksgiving.

Belle has lived through two Turkey Days -- and has been a drooling, rash-covered, cranky munchkin for both of them. This year, as you can probably see in the photo, she's suffering from Roseola, a viral illness that comes packaged with a widespread rash and a high fever. (Belle got up to 104.7 on Thursday evening.) Last year,  as you can see in the photo at the bottom of the post, her eye was crusty, sore, red, and closed. The culprit? A blocked tear duct. 

And as we sat on our couch Thursday morning deciding whether to make the trip to see family in West Newbury for Thanksgiving 2014 (we ultimately decided to go), it was a good opportunity to reflect on how far we've come as parents in 12 months.

Last year, with a not quite 3-month-old Belle, Bridget and I were a panicked mess. As soon as her eye started to get slightly discolored, we assumed the worst. Pink eye, red eye, purple eye? Blindness? Scurvy? We were Googling everything that came to our mind. It was Thanksgiving eve and we called the doctor, knowing that a trip to office on a holiday would be a colossal inconvenience. "This is the first time we've called and we're really nervous that she has pink eye or something worse," we said. "Her eye is really red. Should we bring her in?" Obviously, we were total amateurs. 

"It's likely just a blocked tear duct. It's very common," the on-call provider said cooly. "Massage her eye and just monitor it to make sure it doesn't get any worse."

It didn't. And we had a nice Thanksgiving, albeit with a family photo that isn't going to win any beauty awards. 

Fast forward to two days ago. Belle was fussy, uninterested in food, crying, and warm to the touch. "Should we call the doctor?" I asked Bridget. 

"What are they going to say? They'll just tell us to keep an eye on her," she said. "I'm sure she'll be fine." 

We considered staying home, but decided we really like stuffing and that Belle would be fine for a few hours. She mostly just laid on us and didn't eat a thing, but we were able to spend a few nice hours celebrating the Pilgrims' landing on Plymouth Rock. Belle is feeling a bit better today and we're eating leftovers. 

We're still amateurs, of course, but we're getting better. And we'll know what to expect next Thanksgiving. 

Under the Spell of Serial

This week, I realized that Thursdays are great. Thursdays mean the work week is winding down. Thursdays -- well every other Thursday -- mean a paycheck. Thursdays turn into Fridays.

But there's something else about Thursdays, something new, something exciting: Thursday means a new episode of Serial. 

What's Serial? Well, I imagine most people know by now. But if you don't: Serial is a new podcast from the creators of This American Life. Serial is different from most other podcasts, though, because it focuses on a single story -- a true-life murder mystery -- released in 40-minute segments every week. It is, in a word, engaging. No, that's not quite enough. Serial is engrossing, gripping, and captivating. Serial is awesome.

The story follows Adnan Syed, an imprisoned man in his 30s who may or may not have killed his ex-girlfriend in Baltimore 15 years ago. Each week, host Sarah Koenig introduces us to a new character (like Asia, Nisha, and Don) and a new plot twist (like how long it takes to get from the high school to Best Buy or the location of a certain cell phone call). We listeners, of which there are millions, try to solve the crime along with Koenig, an expert storyteller, who weaves the twists and turns into a highway of aural delight. (<-- Worst line of my writing career.)

Anyway, Serial, now nine weeks old, has become a phenomenon. It's typically listed No. 1 on the iTunes podcast chart and has created more water cooler chatter at the office than anything I can remember in the past decade. (Game of Thrones is a somewhat close second.) Every Thursday or Friday, depending on when people finish the episode, several colleagues on my team at work trade ideas, theories, and favorite characters. Some of us think Adnan is guilty and the story won't lead anywhere. Some of us think Adnan is innocent and will be a free man when the podcast reaches its dramatic conclusion.

And it's not just my office. Serial has captured the attention of millions around the world. There's a Reddit page dedicated to Serial. There's a Twitter account. There's even an entire Slate podcast about the podcast. Yes, a podcast about a podcast. Crazy. The New Yorker called it the podcast we've been waiting for. 

Whether it's the dawn of a new Golden Age of radio is up for debate, but it has certainly started the trend of binge listening. I kept trying to convince sometimes stubborn Bridget to give Serial a listen and, finally, after five weeks, she gave in. She was caught up on all the episodes 48 hours later. Another colleague at work had the same experience. Once you start, it's pretty damn hard to put the earbuds down. 

As a former journalist, I'm thrilled about the attention Serial is getting. It's like we've gone back 100 years and people are crowding around their clunky living room radio to hear a boxing match. It's fantastic storytelling and serious reporting, and people are hooked.

If you aren't, what are you waiting for? Here's episode 1. I promise you won't be disappointed.

A Change of Scenery

Without question, my iPhone is my most important possession. I look at it somewhere between 100 - 150 times every day, and, without it, I'd be lost. It contains my virtual social network, my financial information, and my photos and memories. Put another way, I'd rather lose my wallet 10 times than lose my iPhone once.

So, first, way to go, Apple. You pretty much own me.

Secondly, because the iPhone captures so much of my attention every morning, afternoon, and night, I've become pretty obsessed with changing the wallpaper on a weekly basis. Novelty, after all, unfolds time. If I had the same background image on my phone all the time, I'd get bored.

Because I look at my iPhone so damn much, it's important to keep it fresh and interesting. It's sad, but it's the thing I see more than anything in the world -- more than my wife, more than my daughter, more than my reflection. (It would be really, really odd if I looked at my reflection 150 times every day.)

And this simple change, this photo swap, makes me feel different. Like a new toy or a new discovery, it makes me smile when I'm losing energy on a Tuesday afternoon or I'm walking home from work on a rainy Thursday. It brightens my day. It brings me joy. (And yes, it typically includes the two beautiful gals at the top of the post.)

Facebook photos work the same way. When we change our profile picture or our cover photo, we're presenting ourselves to the world in a different way. We're tweaking our image. It says a lot about who we are. If I post a picture of myself after a race, it means running is a big part of my life. If I post a picture of me with my wife, it's because I want to show her that I love her or maybe that it's an anniversary of some kind. A picture of myself? I may be a family man, but I'm independent and I do whatever I want on Saturday afternoons. (Not true. Ever.)

This week, as I changed my photo to the one you see above, it made me realize just how powerful these images really are. A simple change of scenery can change how the world views you and, more importantly, how you view your life.

How often do you change the background image on your phone? Or on your Facebook page? Have you thought what that says about you? Maybe it doesn't mean anything. Or maybe it makes you smile on a rainy Thursday afternoon.

Goodnight, Goodnight Moon

Our sweet little Annabelle changes every day. (She's changed an awful lot since August 30, the last time we posted to this blog. I blame the hiatus on house hunting, which is exhausting. More on that in an upcoming post.) Anyway, Annabelle. Sweet, sweet, sunshine and light Annabelle. Now 14 months old, she's close to taking her first step, close to saying her first few words, and, yes, our gummy darling is (finally!) even growing teeth.

One change, though, has been a little surprising: She's, well, how to say it delicately … opinionated. She's very, very opinionated.

Now, if you know me, this probably isn't surprising. I have strong thoughts on everything from fantasy football and the decline of journalism, to the taste of mayonnaise (awful) and Breaking Bad. Annabelle, along with being the lucky recipient of my eyebrows, seems to have acquired my opinionated gene. (Bridget, on the other hand, is pretty cool with whatever.)

This whole "Annabelle is super opinionated" reality hit me the other night. We were reading together, as we always do before bed. Lately, we've started to pick the books together. She'll shake her head to say no (which is the cutest damn thing ever) if she's not in the mood for The Very Hungry Caterpillar or Oh, the Thinks You Can Think. We usually read four or five of these literary gems before I put Annabelle in her crib. And the final book is always Goodnight Moon.  

Until one night last week.

Annabelle had started to rub her eyes, so I knew it was almost time. We closed a book about shapes and I reached for Goodnight Moon. She shook her head. "But this one is your favorite, Annabelle." She shook her head again. "Let's just give it a try."

I opened the book, turned the first page, and then Annabelle closed it. Aggressively. I opened it again. She closed it again. Because I love routine and tradition, I gave it one more try. She slammed it shut, then slapped the front of the book several times and yelled. "Okay," I said. "Let's not read this tonight." I put her down and she slept, as the saying goes, like a baby.

The next night, I tried again. The same thing happened. And then again. And again. And again. For some reason, Annabelle has decided that Goodnight Moon will no longer be part of her reading rotation. Not tonight, not tomorrow night, not ever. Why? I'll probably never know.

But I do know that Goodnight Moon is just a sign of things to come. Sweet little Annabelle will soon be telling us what she thinks of this book, that food, and everything else she comes across.

And while I'm really sorry about the eyebrow thing, I couldn't be happier about this.

Podcast Fever

Now that I've been a Dad for almost a year, I have a little bit of perspective. I realize how lucky I am to be married to someone I love. I realize how fortunate I am to have a happy, healthy, growing baby girl. I realize how wonderful it is to read to my daughter, hang out with my dog, and spend some quiet time with my wife.

And I realize how rare and precious alone time really is.

The reality of the situation is that, after you start a small family (a wonderful, beautiful small family), you don't get much time to yourself. At least not as much as you're used to getting. Maybe a quick hour here and a 15-minute block there. And it's usually later at night or early (like, really early) in the morning.

That, of course, means that you want to make the most of these rare minutes to yourself. And for me, in the past year, that has meant podcasts.

I've never really liked talk radio. I'm not sure why, but it never really appealed to me. Then, about a year ago, as I was walking to work listening to some song I'd heard 800 times, I realized how incredibly stupid I was being. What value did it have? Now, don't get me wrong; music is amazing and has this unique power to bring back memories, relax you, or get you going -- depending on your mood. But the same songs over and over and over? It's like watching the same episode of a TV show or the same movie day after day after day. The same lines. Nothing new. No surprises. No, thanks.

Enter podcasts and, for me, podcast fever. Free, funny, interesting, engaging, educational, entertaining -- what's not to love? I started listening to them every day on my commute to work and now find myself sneaking them in whenever I have a spare chunk of time away from Belle and Bridget. (Overcast is my favorite podcast app, in case you're curious.) And since I've been listening religiously for about a year, I thought I'd quickly share my five favorite podcasts:

1. This American Life. No surprise here. If you listen to podcasts, you know this is pretty much the gold standard. Ira Glass's storytelling is as good as it gets.
2. Freakonomics Radio. These two authors -- Dubner and Levitt -- are smart, funny, and thought-provoking. I hadn't thought of it until just now, but I can't think of any two famous people with whom I'd rather have a beer. Is that depressing? This episode is my favorite. 
3. Planet Money. This one is from NPR, which really sets the quality bar for podcasts. Fascinating stories, a great mix of talent, and short shows that are perfect for a quick break at lunch or a quick commute. NPR's Ted Radio Hour and Wait Wait … Don't Tell Me (even without Carl Kasell) are fantastic, too.
4. Slate's The Gist. I was really skeptical about this at first -- it seemed like one dude's typically angry rants -- but this daily show is incredibly entertaining. Mike Pesca, known for NPR sports, is damn funny. One line from a recent show, which was also featured on This American Life: "I should answer Donald Trump's take on science as soon as Donald Trump is asked to comment on my opinion that he is a pompous, overbearing, ignorant windbag who lusts for attention the way a meth-addicted prostitute lusts for his next fix." Great stuff.
5. ESPN: Fantasy Focus: Football. It's that time of the year and, as much as I hate to admit it, I can't get enough of hearing Matthew Berry explain what he's buying or selling this season. It's like a weird drug.  Oh, and speaking of fantasy football, here's a podcast about the only league I'm in this season. It is, by about five galaxies, the worst podcast on this list. But whatever. At least we're putting ourselves out there.

One bonus podcast: The Memory Palace with Nate DiMeo. These are incredibly short, but incredibly engaging. I just wish there were more of them.

The Best 10 Minutes of Every Day

Like most people, I look forward to a few things every day. An invigorating morning workout. A refreshing drink at Starbucks. A kiss from Bridget before she and Belle head out for the day. These things are part of my daily routine, but I do a pretty good job of not taking them for granted. I try my best to stop and realize how lucky I am to experience these fantastic moments and minutes.

This week, I added something to the list, something that, with apologies to Bridget about the scintillating kiss, may darn well be the best part of every day. What, you might wonder, could possibly be better than those tender, rosy lips? Reading to my daughter.

We've read to Belle since the day she was born. In fact, like most parents who do too much research, we read to her when she was still in the womb. (I'm sure we'll point to those moments when she gets an "A" on her first book report.) But Belle, mostly, hasn't really been so into it. In the first six months of her life, she would either cry, fall asleep, or look off in other directions when we tried to share a book with her. And as she's entered the crawling phase in the last couple months, trying to get her to sit still for five minutes is like asking a hungry Oscar to savor each bite of his kibble.

But this week, something changed. All of a sudden, Belle, just before bed, has decided she loves to sit on my lap while I read her two or three books. It's become a habit, a ritual, and it makes me feel like the luckiest guy in the world. More than that, the whole experience, which lasts from about 6:30-6:40 every night, makes me feel like I'm in a Norman Rockwell painting.

We sit in an old rocking chair in the corner of her room. The soft glow of the lamp in the corner gives off just enough light. A cool evening breeze blows in from the street where older kids are yelling and playing. We open one of her favorites, On the Night You Were Born:

On the night you were born, the moon shone with such wonder that the stars peeked in to see you and the night wind whispered, "Life will never be the same ..." 

Belle, sucking away at her pacifier, looks down at the pages and reaches out with her hands. She touches the pictures. I continue and she starts to rub her eyes. Then, we change up the pace and open something a bit lighter, like the literary masterpiece, Yummy, Yucky:

Blueberries are yummy. Blue crayons are yucky. Soup is yummy. Soap is yucky. Ice cream is yummy. Too much ice cream is yucky.

Belle helps turn the pages and occasionally looks up at me while I change my voice depending on whether something is indeed yummy or yucky. Then she yawns and I know it's about that time. We open the final book, Goodnight Moon:

In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red balloon ...

Belle starts to cry a bit and I know my 10 minutes are nearly over. We get as far as we can and then I kiss her for the last time and put her down in her crib. With any luck, she's fast asleep five minutes later. Meanwhile, I leave the room and think about what she and I will read the next night.

And I wonder, as I get on with my evening by cooking dinner and getting ready for another day at work, if she likes the experience even half as much as I do ...

A Dog in Slow Motion

Lots of people told us things would change for Oscar when Annabelle came along. They said we wouldn't spend as much time with him. They said he'd get in the way. They said he'd be the second, forgotten child.

Alas, 10 months later, these people were right.

It's hard to admit when people are right. (Especially when those people are your parents.) Faced with a new situation, it's human nature to say, "No, not me. Sure, that might have happened to you, but I'm different." And sometimes we are different. Mostly, though, we aren't.

Think about all the examples, all the things people (and movies) have said to you that have turned out to be true even though they seemed crazy at the time:

• "I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was 12. Jesus, does anyone?" Sure, Stand By Me, whatever. You don't know what you're talking about. 

• "The popular kids in high school are not as cool as you think they are." But, Mom, you don't understand. I need sit to sit at that lunch table. 

• "It's important to stretch before you work out. You'll feel it as you start to get older." Older? Who's going to get older?

• "Going to bars will get old." Whatever, 25-year-old friend. It's just because you don't know how to enjoy yourself. 

• "You'll miss college when you're gone." Um, no, I won't. I'm totally over this place. 

• "You'll be annoyed with your new job in a month." Uh-uh. No way. Not this job. This job is always going to be new, exciting, and awesome.

• "You might not want that last beer …" Psssh. I'm fine. This is the greatest night of my life!

• "That meeting with all the important people at work isn't as cool as you think it is." Yeah, right. You're just saying that. I need to climb this corporate ladder and make all the decisions! 

The list could go on and on. You'll probably think of two or three more by the time you finish reading this sentence. And sadly, "You'll forget about your dog after you have a baby" is on that list for us. 

I had a crystallizing moment on Friday when this truth became terribly apparent. It was the end of the day and I was juggling a bag of trash, a bag of laundry, and a 10-month old. Oscar followed us downstairs (as he always does) and watched as I put the trash outside. I went back inside to put the laundry in the washing machine and then came back upstairs with Annabelle in my arms and a smile on my face. I felt productive and efficient. And I thought to myself as I checked my work email one last time, Man, I'm pretty good at multi-tasking. And I'm getting pretty good at this Dad stuff. I mean --

Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!

What the heck? Where in the world is --

Barrrrrk! Barrrrrk! Barrrrrk! 

Oscar was still outside. I had forgotten about him. What a terrible Dog Dad.

To make up for it, this morning, I spent some extra time with him. We walked slowly to the dog park. I threw tennis ball after tennis ball until he looked like he was done, not the other way around. He drank lots of water, smiled, and fell asleep under a shady maple tree. He was happy. 

So yes, people are often going to be right when they say things from experience. We're all similar creatures. But it doesn't mean you can't prove them wrong every once in a while. Sometimes you make even better friends later in life. Sometimes it's still cool to go to bars. Sometimes a new job stays exciting for years. And sometimes you just need to slow down and watch your dog run in the park:

The Lab of Horrors

It'll all be over soon, I said to myself through gritted teeth. Just look away. Look away. Look away. Look away. It was like a mantra. I stared out the window down onto the late afternoon traffic in Davis Square in Somerville. The smell of rubbing alcohol hung in the air. I tensed my body from head to toe. I clenched my fists, curled my toes, and took in a deep breath. Look away!

Then slowly, calmly, the blood drained from Annabelle's left arm.

This past week, we had Annabelle's nine-month check-up. I'm happy to report she's gaining weight (17 pounds, 11 ounces), growing tall (28.5 inches), and developing normally. Overall, she's pretty darn healthy. And best of all, this time, after shots, shots, and more shots at her last few appointments, we were in the clear at this nine-month check-up.

Or so the nurse led us to believe.

We absolutely love Annabelle's pediatrician. She's smart, funny, and, as you might expect, wonderful with kids. But when she said, "Oh, and just some quick lab work before you go to test her iron," she was suddenly family enemy #1. Lab work? You mean today? Are you sure?

The relief and happiness from a great appointment already a distant memory, we clutched our post-appointment summary and somberly rode the elevator down to the second floor. A high school girl and Annabelle exchanged big smiles on the way down. Bridget and I stared ahead, wondering what the next 10 minutes of our lives would be like.

"Oh, a baby! She's so cute." The receptionists at the lab were all smiles, too. "Just sign that sheet and have a seat with the little one."

Look, no one likes lab work. No one likes giving blood. No one likes needles. As we sat patiently in the waiting room, I could feel the prick in my arm and the obligatory butterflies in my stomach. Poor Annabelle, I thought. She's going to be a puddle of tears. 

They called us to come in. Bridget and I had been handing Annabelle back and forth (she always likes the person who isn't holding her a little bit better), but I ended up with the hot potato. Together, we walked slowly down the hall toward a small room.

"Just go have a seat in the corner by the window," the cheery technician said.

"So, yeah, I'll hold her?" I asked Bridget, remembering that she had taken the lead with all the shots up until now.

"Sure, I mean, if you want to."

With Annabelle in my lap, I sat in the small, unforgiving grade-school desk, complete with the bar that came over the top of us. Annabelle banged on the desk as if it was her high chair, expecting another handful of Cheerios. The poor thing. She has no idea what's coming. This is awful. 

A collection of tiny needles and tubes sat to our left. The technician, a brunette girl in her late 20s named Becky, tied a tiny rubber band around Annabelle's left arm and searched for a vein. No luck. She tried the right arm. No luck. Back to the left. The chunky, 42-week-old arms were not cooperating. Finally, Becky found something.

"Hold on one second now," she said. "I just need to get my co-worker to help hold her down."

What's that now? Hold her down? Are we sawing off her leg after a Civil War battle? Hold her down?!

Another woman came in and immediately started bouncing around the room and smiling at Annabelle. She tried her best to distract us from the tiny needle that Becky held in her hand.

"Dad, make sure you have a really tight bear hug," she said. "Whatever you do, don't let go of that right arm."

Wait, what? This is serious. Are her arms going to flail? Is this a reflex? Is she about to lose it?

I hugged Annabelle as tightly as I could and stared out the window. It was over before I even knew it started. And Annabelle? Not a peep. She let out a quick yell when they withdrew the needle, but she'd already missed the action. They tied a neon green bandage around her arm, gave her a "Terrific Patient" sticker, and she was all smiles the rest of the afternoon.

Me? I'm still tense and nervous as I sit here writing this. It was a traumatic experience. And, well, I'm darn lucky to have a little daughter who will toughen me up a bit.

The Baby Boy Bias

Last week, during our family vacation in Seattle, a man approached me and Annabelle at the Chihuly Garden and Glass Exhibition.

"Hey," he said. "I saw you yesterday. I recognize your (San Francisco) Giants hat."

"Oh, yeah, right," I said.

"Yeah, you were reading to your son in the library. I wanted to yell, 'Go Giants,' but it was a library and all."

"Oh, it couldn't have been me then," I said. "I don't have a son. This is my daughter, Annabelle."

"Oh, right, whatever. Well, yeah, go Giants!"

Then he walked away. I chuckled at first, but then I thought, wait, no. No, dude. Not whatever. There's a big difference in what you just said. What if I walked up to you and said, "Excuse me, miss"? So, no. Not whatever.

Baby boy bias, that is, the belief that every father wants only sons and that every small baby who doesn't have super long hair and earrings is a male, is very real. I started experiencing it long before Annabelle was born and now, a full 9 1/2 months later, it's still popping up almost weekly.

It started about halfway through Bridget's pregnancy, when we found out the little bump in her belly was made of sugar and spice. I said I didn't care if it was a boy or a girl, and I meant it. But some of my friends didn't believe me. Come on, they said, you tell everyone you don't care because that's what you're supposed to say. But you want a boy, right? Everyone wants a boy.

But why? Why does everyone want a boy?

So I can teach him how to play sports? (Girls play sports.) So I can relate to him? (Dads relate to daughters.) So we can become best friends? (I fully intend to be best friends with Annabelle.) Because I rule over the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros and need a male heir to sit on the Iron Throne? (That's silly, but what a great season finale, right?)

Since Annabelle was born, things have gotten even worse with the baby boy bias. When he walk down the street, people ask about the "little guy's" name. In elevators, they ask us how old "he" is. And when Annabelle wears a blue shirt (like the one in the photo above)? Forget about it. The shirt might as well read: "100% Stud. Proceed with Caution."

Now, sure, I'll admit that Annabelle's gender isn't immediately clear. She's mostly just a squishy lump with a wispy head of hair and no teeth. But why does everyone always think boy first and girl second? Does she need to wear all pink all the time? Tiny, little pig tails? Or should we just get her high heels and a mini skirt, and teach her how to wear mascara?

We hope to have another child someday. And yes, part of me wants it to be a boy. I'd say just about 50 percent of me. The other 50 percent is hoping for another girl. Either way, if they are anything like Annabelle, they'll be absolutely perfect.

In the meantime, I'll just keep correcting people and hope the ripple effect will make people think twice before immediately fist-bumping my little slugger. (And by the way, girls hit home runs, too.)

The Importance of Grandmothers

My grandmother, Annabelle's great grandmother, died last week. As you can probably imagine, it's been sad. Nanny, as we called her, had lived a good life (she was 86) and had dementia for the last decade (so this was also a relief), but it was still sad to say "goodbye" to someone who meant so much to our family.

Annabelle, unfortunately, never got to meet her great grandmother. The closest they ever came was a glance into the open casket on Wednesday and the obituary that appeared in the local newspaper. (That their walks (or crawls) through life didn't overlap is really a shame because they would have enjoyed each other an awful lot.) And as I sat in the church on Wednesday, reflecting on the missed connection, I realized just how important my grandmother was to my life -- and just how important Annabelle's grandmothers already are to her life.

Grandmothers, as the cliche goes, spoil grandkids. They buy them unnecessary and extravagant gifts, let them eat chocolate for breakfast, and let them stay up way past their bedtimes. My grandmother did all that for me. Annabelle's grandmothers are already doing that for her.

But it's the other stuff -- the meaningful stuff -- that really sticks with you after a person dies. And as I gave the eulogy in front of family and friends on Wednesday, I couldn't help but remember my past and imagine Annabelle's future. In one section, I read:

I learned my right from my left, thanks to a really corny rhyme that I will most certainly remember until I’m old and gray. I learned that “driving, Michael, isn’t hard. It’s just the other people you need to look out for.” I learned that you should always care for your things, especially if it’s an imaginary (and priceless) glass factory that you own and operate with your grandson. I learned that there’s nothing quite like swimming in the ocean in the darkness on a warm night in York Beach, Maine. I learned that sometimes, if you’re Nanny, it’s okay to cheat at Scrabble. 

And it made me think of my mother, Annabelle's Nana. She's going to teach Annabelle corny rhymes, introduce her to the ocean, and, more than likely, run an imaginary seashell factory with her. She may even cheat at Scrabble, but she'd never admit to it. And the thought of all that made me smile.

In another section, I read:

I could go on with the stories and the memories. I haven’t even mentioned toy fire trucks, Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel, orange frappes, tea parties, or the best apple pie I’ve ever tasted. I’m sure that every person in this room has some memories, too. You weren’t as lucky as I was to be her grandson, but I bet she helped you become friendlier or braver or more adventurous. That’s what she did.

And it made me think of Bridget's mother, Annabelle's Grammy. She's already taken Annabelle to tea a handful of times and made sure Annabelle had the perfect outfit every time. She spoils her with adorable coats and hats, and probably sneaks her a taste of something sweet when she and Grandpa take Annabelle out to dinner. And the thought of all that made me smile.

Sure, for now, Annabelle probably won't remember most of this because she's still so young. These days, she splits her time evenly between eating, sleeping, and honking my nose. But she's growing fast. And the importance of her grandmothers will keep growing, too.

Together, they will help us teach her how to be kind, patient, and thoughtful. They'll teach her to be a good person. And they'll teach her how to enjoy life -- just like her great grandmother did.

Folding a Onesie

I've been at my new job for almost nine months now. (The pay isn't great, but my colleagues are pretty awesome.) And as I've learned this "Dad" gig, I think I've done pretty well. I can identify different types of wailing, act mature during a smelly diaper change, and sit on a rocking chair with the best of them. I even sing sometimes.

But I am awful, just awful, at folding onesies.

The thing is, I never used to do the laundry. During "the great chore dividing conversation" after we got married, Bridget gladly took the reins on cleaning and folding our clothes. She was faster than me, had better fine motor skills, and actually found the task relaxing. I, on the other hand, took the more traditional options like taking out the trash, emptying the dishwasher, and cleaning up after Oscar.

Then Annabelle was born and I started doing some of Bridget's chores, including the hated laundry. (I quickly learned that there's absolutely no comeback to "Okay, you grow boobs and feed the baby next time." Whenever that trump card comes out, I put my head down and reach for the detergent.)

To be honest, I don't mind most of the laundry process. I love productivity, so the idea of completing a task appeals to me. I like separating the whites from the darks, lugging the IKEA bag down the stairs to the washer, and smelling the fluffy clothes when they come out of the dryer.

But then I realize it's time to fold -- and I cringe.

I start with boxer shorts and towels because they are the easiest. Then I move on to pants, which I can handle. But then things start deteriorating pretty quickly. Shirts and blouses never come out quite right. Socks never match. And then, for the love of God, it's time for the onesies.

Here, in alphabetical order, is everything in the world that's more difficult than folding onesies: Nothing. And here, in alphabetical order, is everything in the world that's easier than folding onesies: Everything, including applied physics and learning Mandarin Chinese.

Just look at the picture at the top of the post. What the hell is that? Why are the arms wrapped around the back? Why does the bottom look like a pair of pants? What am I supposed to do with the snaps? Now, you might think, Mike, you probably just folded a bad one for the sake of this blog. Wrong. I tried. Really hard. In fact, as I try to fold these absurdly small pieces of fabric, one of college basketball coaching legend John Wooden's famous quotes always rings in my head: If you don't have time to do it right, when will you have time to do it over? Now, I guess, John. Now I'll have to do it over!

Phew. Deep breaths. Count to 10.

I'll most certainly keep trying to improve, but in the meantime, please do me a favor: If you see Annabelle and she's wearing a onesie with odd wrinkles or uneven sleeves, don't say anything. Just know that it's not her fault.

Three Things I've Learned from Girls' Weekend

I'm a bachelor this weekend. For 48 full hours, it's only me and my furry son, Oscar. I can watch as many sporting events as I want, go for a run whenever the feeling strikes me, and burp as loudly and as often as I'd like. Pretty cool, right? Especially the burping.

It is, as you might be able to tell from the excitement about bodily noises, my first bachelor weekend since little Annabelle joined our lives last September. Bridget and that cute redhead in the photo above are off with the Moynihan crew having a girls' weekend in New York City. Shopping, shows, shoes. Blech. No, thanks.

It's about 30 hours into this bachelor weekend and I've already learned three things about these rare events. In no particular order:

1. I really, really miss my wife and my daughter. I skipped home from work on Friday evening with the excitement of an empty calendar in front of me. I didn't have to worry about feeding Annabelle a pouch for her dinner. I could watch whatever I wanted before bed. And I could stay up doing whatever I damn well pleased until whenever I damn well felt like it.

I was tired from the long week, but started with an invigorating trip to the gym. Then, at 6:30, I was ready to really dive in, to live the care-free life I once knew and loved. And then I realized I wished Annabelle was around so I could feed her a pouch. (I ate a pair of Lean Pockets by myself instead. Sad, right? At least they had a pretzel crust!) And when I turned on the TV, I wished Bridget was there to tell me she was in more of a Mindy Project mood. (I watched a newer episode of The Simpsons, which is still a pretty funny show.) And then, about that do-whatever-I-want bedtime? 9:45!

2. I am incapable of "sleeping in." I'm tired. Even though Annabelle has been a pretty good sleeper in her first eight months, being a new Dad is the most exhausting experience of my life. Lately, she's started a new habit of waking up at either 1 AM, 2 AM, or 3 AM on most nights. (She's creative, so she varies the time from one night to the next.) So, as you can imagine, the prospect of actually sleeping in without a crying baby or an alarm to wake me was thrilling.

And as I noticed the light peeking in through the curtains and heard the sound of Oscar stretching from the bottom of the bed, I was about to pat myself on the back. Well done, Mike. You caught up on some shut-eye. You slept until … 5:41.

3. It's really important to have these experiences. So far, I realize I've made this bachelor weekend seem awful and lame. I assure you it's not. Friday night was incredibly relaxing, Saturday is a combination of a visit with the newly named Nana Briddon and a guys' night out, and Sunday will be filled with Oscar time and some prep for Bridget's first Mother's Day. It's exactly what I needed.

But that's not why it's important. Not the main reason, anyway. It's really important because it makes me realize how lucky I am the other 51 weekends of the year.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go watch a baseball game and burp at the TV.

The Not-So-Great Oscar Escape

It's funny when life throws you a curve ball. Actually, that's not always true. Sometimes the curve ball is scary.

This was one of those times.

I was walking home from work this afternoon and all I could think about was our bathroom. For the past two weeks, we've been waiting patiently for plumbers, tilers, and painters to rip apart our bathroom and then, hopefully, put it back together. As you can probably guess, it's been slow. In fact, we didn't have a toilet for most of Sunday. And today, Tuesday, they were supposed to be done. Hurrah!

So I had a little bounce in my step on the warm walk home. Thoughts raced through my head. Bridget, who gets home before me, hadn't called and I couldn't figure out if that was good or bad. Maybe everything was done and she was smiling peacefully on the couch? Maybe nothing was done and she was shaking her head in disbelief? I couldn't decide. I knew it was one or the other.

(This may sound a little dramatic, but we're exhausted. Getting work done on your apartment is frustrating. Getting work done on your apartment, and dealing with a baby and a dog is frustrating times seven.)

I turned onto my street and picked up the pace. It's done. It's not done. It's done. It's not done. Then I saw one of our neighbors walking down the street with her adorable daughter. I stopped to say "hi," mostly planning on just flying past to get home to find out if I could use the toilet.

"Hi," she said. "We found Oscar today."

"Hi … what?! Did you say you found Oscar? What do you mean?"

"He's okay," she continued. "He's home. But we found him at the top of the street."

I had no idea what she was talking about. My mind couldn't make the transition from the bathroom. "Oscar?" I asked. "Wait, our dog?!"

"Yeah, but he's okay. He was at the top of the street and he seemed scared. I recognized him and thought he was yours, so we started calling to him and he eventually came."

"Oh my god," I said. "Thank you so much. I don't even know how to start thanking you. Do you know how he got out?"

"I think went out the door when the plumber was there," she said.

"Oh, no. Again, thank you so much. I'm so relieved."

I ran upstairs, saw Bridget with a smile on her face (the bathroom was done) and told her the story. Like me, her heart sank. We hugged Oscar and realized how lucky we were. He tilted his head, wondering when I was going to feed him.

The whole episode, we realized, was our fault. Oscar had met the plumber before and the plumber said he'd watch him, but we took a risk. We took the risk because Oscar had been to South Boston, Vermont, and at a neighbor's place within the past two weeks because of the work on our apartment. We didn't want to send him away again. But we should have. And we're really lucky nothing happened.

Life, as John Lennon so famously said, is what happens when you're busy making other plans. If something had happened to Oscar, we wouldn't care about a bathroom, an apartment, or really much of anything. We'd be devastated. So, thank you, again, kind neighbor. And thank you to our wonderful neighbors downstairs who helped find Oscar.

Hug your pets. You never know when life might throw a scary curve ball.

A Post That Isn't About Annabelle

If you read this blog, you know I've written a lot about my daughter, Annabelle, in the last year. If you look at the photos on my iPhone, you'll find hundreds of Annabelle. Annabelle smiling. Annabelle crying. Annabelle eating. If you could somehow read my mind, almost all of the time, Annabelle would be there.

This, I'd argue, is understandable for a new Dad. And maybe even expected. I have a seven-month-old daughter who I strongly believe is the greatest thing that has ever happened.

But this post isn't about Annabelle; it's about her beautiful mother.

Two weeks ago, in the middle of possible first words, trying to discover new foods, and our first household sickness, Bridget and I celebrated our second wedding anniversary. Two years ago, on March 31, 2012, on a suddenly sunny day in Chatham, MA, I married my best friend and the most wonderful person I've ever known. We celebrated the anniversary with some small gifts and a nice dinner, but the day itself folded quietly into another exciting, stressful week.

And, well, that isn't quite fair.

A year of marriage is a big deal. Whether you've been married one year, two years, 10 years, or 30 years, each one presents its share of joy and sadness. New babies. Bad fights. Promotions at work. Expensive bills. Tropical vacations. Car accidents. They're all part of life and in just two years of marriage, I've realized just how important it is to have the right person by your side.

In a nutshell, I love spending time with Bridget. And as I listened to an old Freakonomics podcast about marriage this week, I was struck by just how important that sentence is. Here's an excerpt from the podcast:

We’ve moved to what economists would call consumption complementarities. We have more time, more money, and so you want to spend it with someone that you’ll enjoy. So, similar interests and passions. We call this the model of hedonic marriage. But really it’s a lot more familiar than that. This is just economists giving a jargon name to love. So you want someone who’s actually remarkably similar to you or has similar passions that you do. 

Our passions don't always align, but they often do. We love music, reading, traveling, Annabelle, and each other. More than that, Bridget makes me feel better when I'm having a tough day and keeps my ego in check when I think I've done something pretty special. She takes care of me, challenges me, cheers for me, and puts me in my place. And she does it all with a delicate touch. I admire and love her more today than I did two years ago. I can't wait to see what the next 60 years bring.

Happy second anniversary, Bridget. I love you so damn much. And, just because it will make you smile, here's a picture of our daughter inside a cardboard box:

Motivated by Milestones

We encourage Annabelle to do new things all the time. Roll over, Annabelle. Say da-da, Annabelle. Say ma-ma. Grab your toy. Feed yourself. Solve this Rubik's Cube. We encourage her because it's natural. That's what parents do.

We obviously want her to be the best at everything. We want her to meet every milestone. Wait, no. We want her to crush every milestone.
Annabelle just hit the seven-month mark, so we want her to talk now, walk in two months, and do algebra by 18 months. We want progress, progress, and more progress.

But maybe we shouldn't.

As Annabelle fell asleep in my arms earlier this week (she wasn't feeling her best), I thought to myself: Why in the world would I ever want this to change? Why would I ever rush this? And yet, here I was encouraging her in this video of her first sounds that also happen to be a word:
 -

"Da-Da," of course, will become "I love you, Daddy." (Awww.) But that will turn into "Why can't I have that, Daddy?" That will evolve into, "You don't understand, Dad." That, in turn, will be, "Because everyone is piercing their eyelids, old man!" And, finally, "I just can't relate to you, gray-haired gentleman who happens to live in my house."

So why would I rush to get there? Why would I be so excited about Annabelle hitting these predetermined milestones? And how realistic are these milestones anyway? Let's take a look at some general guidelines:

• Rolling over: 2 to 3 months
• Crawling: 6 to 10 months
• Sitting up: 8 months
• Walking: 10 to 18 months
• Talking: About 12 months
• Potty training: As early as 18 to 24 months

(While I was digging up those stats from parenting.com and WebMD, I also found this: "Some eager parents interpret a string of "dada" babbles as their baby's first words -- "daddy!" But babbling at this age is usually still made up of random syllables without real meaning or comprehension." Whatever, WebMD. You don't know what the hell you're talking about. Annabelle isn't usual. Stupid Internet doctor.)

Annabelle can't crawl yet, so should we be worried? Should I grab a whistle, get on all fours, and set up an obstacle course with barbed wire to encourage her? I didn't walk until I was 16 months old and I turned out just fine. (I'll prove it if you want to race.) And I wasn't potty trained until I was about 3-years-old. (I developed just fine in that area, too.)

But still, there's this constant pressure from society for our children to be the earliest, the first, and the best. Friends and family, even with the best intentions, add to the stress. To make friendly conversation, they say, "Six months! Wow. Is she doing anything new?" Those five words immediately put me on the defensive. I want to have an impressive answer, like, "Yes! Origami!" or, "She sure is! She just filed our taxes!" Instead, I say something boring, like, "Still working on that tummy-to-back roll!"(Also, are YOU doing anything new? Oh, your job? Boring.)

The moral to all of this is simple: I need to slow down. Slow way down. Annabelle will walk when she walks, talk when she talks, and pee in a toilet when she pees in a toilet. Sometimes, she'll be ahead of the crowd and other times, she'll be near the back of the pack.

For now, I'm going to stop urging her to achieve all the time. Instead, I'll just hold her when she sleeps. And I'll smile.

Diabolical Puffs

My nemesis stands 1/8th of an inch tall. It's shaped like a star. It tastes like apples and cinnamon, and doesn't have much nutritional value.

It is the puff. Or, more correctly, puffs, because there are so damn many of them.

For those of you who aren't elbow-deep in the baby world, puffs are little, fluffy cereal bites for babies. Think Apple Cinnamon Cheerios, only lighter. Annabelle loves them.

I don't.

This isn't to say there's anything wrong with puffs themselves. Gerber makes a nice product that is a great supplement to meals. They're tiny, they're delicious, and they melt in your mouth.

But I hate them. So much.

It all started a couple weeks ago when Bridget suggested we get some puffs so Annabelle could "work on her pincer grasp." (I think there was a crack of thunder when Bridget made this suggestion, but I can't be sure.) Working on her pincer grasp is a fancy way of saying working on picking up small things.

The next morning, as I was feeding Annabelle some breakfast, we tried the puffs. She was confused at first (that happens a lot with a six-month old), but figured it out quickly. She picked them up, played with them, and really enjoyed eating them. She didn't actually feed herself, but we were pleased.

The morning after that, she ate even more puffs. In fact, she preferred the puffs to her oatmeal. By a lot. And that's when things went downhill.

Puffs became an obsession. Other foods Annabelle loved, like apples, pears, and oatmeal, were cast aside like a photo of an old girlfriend. Day after day, it was puffs, puffs, puffs. Here, see for yourself:

Cute? Sure. Frustrating? Definitely. I even tried that bait-and-switch technique where I'd show the puff, get her to open her mouth, and then go in with the oatmeal. This made me feel shady and dishonest, though.

Annabelle had made up her mind. It was puffs or nothing. For days on end.

This may sound somewhat adorable, but I feed Annabelle breakfast every morning. I want her to have variety and high-caloric foods like avocados and bananas so we can make her nice and chubby. But she has other ideas and, I've quickly learned, she means "no" when she says it. I beg. I plead. I do the whole airplane loop thing. Nope. Give me 10 more puffs, Dad. And make it snappy.

So now what? What do we do with her beloved puffs? Well, they aren't welcome at breakfast (or any meal) anymore. They're buried deep in the pantry. To me, they're dead.

Sure, I feel a little bad. It's not like puffs did this on purpose. Really, it's Annabelle's fault. But, as you might guess, my daughter is perfect, so puffs get the blame and become the nemesis.

We have an extra container of puffs if anyone is interested. We won't be needing them.

From the Fan of Death to Annabelle Grace

You probably don't remember what you were doing on June 3, 2012. For the most part, I don't remember what I was doing either. But I do know that I sat down for an hour that day to write the first blog post for A Joint Account. 

This blog post is number 100.

Who cares? That would have been my first reaction when I was in high school or college. (It may still be your reaction now.) I used to think round numbers were overblown. I just couldn't understand what made the 5th, 10th, 25th, or 50th of something such a big deal. Why not have a big party for someone's 29th birthday or 11th anniversary? It seemed stupid.

Now that I'm getting older, though, I get it. First, instead of just saying something was "stupid," I do a little research. It turns out there's this thing called round number bias. Essentially, people prefer round numbers when setting goals and buying things. (This piece, "The psychology of numbers: Why is 100 better than 101?," is pretty darn interesting.) And second, I reflect more now than I did when I was an invincible teenager or 20-something. I use milestones to look back at the process, celebrate successes, and learn from mistakes.

Here, then, are two sets of reflections. First, a look at the blog itself:

• Most popular post: "The Greatest Idea Ever: Baby@Gmail.com" with 513 views. We published it on Saturday, August 10, 2013.
• Least popular post: "Oscar the Incorrigible" with 63 views. We published this on Wednesday, July 25, 2012. (We stopped publishing on weekdays soon after this one.)
• Total page views: 24,780.
• Most posts in a month: 15, which happened in June of 2012. We obviously haven't kept up the pace. No one saw that coming.
• Fewest posts in a month: 1, which happened in October of 2012. We were traveling a lot then, he gave as an excuse for laziness. 
• Bridget's favorite post: "The Story of Belle's Birth" from September 9, 2013. 
• Mike's favorite post: A tie between "The 18 Reasons 2012 Was the Best Year Ever" and "A Letter to My Daughter Before She's Born." 

Second, some reflections on why we've kept this blog going for almost two years of our lives. (It shows an interesting life trajectory, from summer concerts and half marathons, to maternity leave and being boring new parents.) So, why have we been blogging for 21 months? There are three main reasons:

1. The blog gives us both a chance to work on our writing. We both love to do it, and the blog gives us the structure and motivation we need. Is there anything more exciting than a blank piece of paper ready to be filled with words, sentences, paragraphs, and stories? 
2. It's a great way to keep a record of our family's life. (It's so easy to forget things when you don't write them down, isn't it?) We can look back at the days when the "Fan of Death" and magazine clutter were our biggest concerns. And now, since we have Belle, we're hoping she'll really enjoy reading through these stories when she gets older. (To make the memories even more tangible, my sister gave us a book of our blogs (that's the photo at the top) for our first wedding anniversary. It was very sweet.) In short, the blog helps us keep memories fresh and alive. 
3. The blog helps us connect with other people. In essence, it's a conversation starter. Hundreds of times in the past two years, someone has made a comment to either me or Bridget about the blog. (Most of the comments are complimentary, which is very nice. A few comments, mostly from male friends, are insults, but it's important to stay grounded.) Simply put, the blog makes our life more interesting. 

Some people tell us they love our blog (which is humbling) and other people might find it obnoxious (which is cool, too). Like it or hate it, we've had a lot of fun with it. When will we stop? Who knows? But, for now, on to the next 100 ...

Baby Must-Haves for Surviving the First 6 Months

As has been previously documented in this blog, I like to buy things. But what you may not know is that I'm also incredibly cheap. So if I'm going to spend money, I like to know that what I'm buying is the best quality, most highly rated, and also that it is a good deal. This drive is so strong that Mike has accused me of being "a little obsessed" with my internet research. He's even suggested that I quit my job and become a researcher full time. So if anyone knows of a job opening in researching things to buy for Annabelle, let me know. I'm very well qualified and I have great references.

Because of all the hours I put into our baby registry, I feel the need to share with the world the things that we bought that absolutely made our lives easier over the last 6 months. I understand this post will only appeal to about 3 people who are actively gestating, and for that I apologize. But let's get real. All the baby stuff we've posted recently really only appeals to about 3 people anyway, so why not embrace it? So without further ado, here is my list for baby registry must-haves:

1. Fisher Price Rock 'n Play: This was a lifesaver during those first sleepless weeks. Annabelle loved sleeping in it, napping in it, and just hanging out in it. If you are having a baby, just get this. Trust me. Then when they get bored, buy this and clip it to the top. 
2. Aden and Anais Bibs: We got a lot of bibs at our shower. And for the first couple of months I really didn't get what these things were for because clearly I had given birth to a baby that was too advanced to drool. Then at about four months the waterworks started and I have a total drool monster on my hands. We have probably 50 bibs, but these insanely expensive ones are our favorite. They have a snap which is key because all the others with velcro somehow always get stuck to my bras in the laundry.  I'm not sure why it is always my bras and nothing else, but there you go. They also absorb approximately 30 gallons of drool. Register for these puppies because they are exactly the type of thing that you aren't going to want to buy for yourself. 
3. Swaddlers!: They are going to teach you how to swaddle your baby with a regular blanket at the hospital, but no matter how hard I tried Annabelle was always going to break free from my lame swaddle attempts. You are going to want to buy a bunch of these because your baby will sleep so much better when they are not punching themselves in the face. Silly babies. There are many different varieties, of which this straight-jacket one is the most effective, so buy a couple and experiment. Bonus: your baby will look like an adorable burrito when you put them in one of these. 
4. Merlin Magic Sleep Suit: Mike devoted a whole blog post to this thing, so you know it is good. After your baby is done with the swaddle you are going to want this. 
5. Exercise Ball: This is a weird one, but it is actually great for calming down a fussing baby or getting your baby to fall asleep. It was our last line of defense when Annabelle just wouldn't be soothed. 
6. Infant carseat with Snap and Go base: This is probably our most used item over the past 6 months and one that I really didn't understand the need for before Annabelle arrived. I spent loads of time researching the perfect stroller. But what I didn't realize is that your baby isn't really going to use the diesel stroller for the first few months of their life because they are too tiny and can't hold up that heavy head on their own. Plus, if your baby falls asleep in the car, you are NOT going to want to wake that baby up. Sure, you can buy an infant carseat adaptor for your diesel stroller, but those things cost like $60 and I'm way too cheap for that.  Hence, this little system is a must. We have a Graco Click Connect 35 carseat which gets good marks, but the Chicco Keyfit 30 seems to be another favorite. While you are at, get a cover for it. 
7. City Mini GT: This is the aforementioned diesel stroller. We actually do use it quite a bit now that Annabelle is big enough and it is a far superior experience than the snap and go. The snap and go is light and super convenient, but it doesn't exactly corner well or handle the cobbled sidewalks of Cambridge. This stroller is one of the few that is well made, light and easy to fold, and relatively inexpensive (some strollers cost over a grand. Seriously). I also see a lot of people with this UppaBaby stroller which I secretly covet because you can have the baby facing you and you can also add a second seat to it. It is way more expensive and I have no experience with it, but I do have stroller envy when I see it. People also really seem to like the BOB jogging stroller, not so much for jogging but for everyday strolling. It's like an even more diesel version of what we have. It's a little too heavy for what we wanted, but it seems much loved amongst other mommies. 
8. Bottles: Dr Brown's with the level one nipple is the best for newborns. Annabelle acted like she was being waterboarded with the other bottles so this was a real breakthrough for us. 
9. Wubbanub: Annabelle has a deep and profound love of pacifiers but could not keep them in her mouth. These helped. Plus they are cute. 
10. Baby Carriers: At some point you are going to want to use your hands again, but your baby isn't going to be too keen on the idea of being put down. We have the Baby K'Tan for around the house. Then we bought the Ergobaby for when Annabelle started to get heavier and we wanted to take some longer walks outside. They are both awesome and can save your sanity. Babies generally love sleeping in these things and we've been using the Ergo instead of the stroller when Cambridge sidewalks are just too snow-covered. 
11. Baby Seats: For those times when you actually do have to put your baby down, here are a few good options. Annabelle loved the Rock and Play, but we also used the Boppy Lounger. I love that this is called a "lounger." The mental picture I have when I think of Belle lounging is just awesome. Basically, this is a nice little nest where you can put down baby when you need them close, but not in your arms. There is the Bumbo, which Annabelle enjoys quite a bit. It allows baby to sit before they can actually do it on their own. Sort of like sitting training wheels. She started using this at about 3 months. We also have hand-me-down bouncer similar to this from Fisher Price that was good when she was a wee one. 
12. Breastfeeding paraphernalia: If you plan to breastfeed, this cover helps when you are in public or just don't want your boob out in front of friends and family. You are also going to want some sort of pillow when your baby is just a little nugget and super sleepy. I used the unfortunately named My Brest Friend. There is also the popular Boppy, which I think is actually a inferior breastfeeding pillow, but has a lot of value as a pillow for tummy time and for support when your baby starts to sit. One thing you should NOT register for is a pump. Thanks to Obama, your health insurance should cover this. They made it really easy for me at the hospital. You basically just need a "prescription" for one from your healthcare provider. My insurance would have completely covered the Medela Pump in Style (which is a misnomer if I ever heard one), but I upgraded to the FreeStyle. It is great. You'll also need this and this. Sorry. Breastfeeding can be tough at first. And these are my favorite for storage because they lay flat. 
13. Toys: At some point your baby is going to want to start playing with things. Annabelle likes her stacking cups, the Oball Rattle, these links, the Winkle, Freddie the Firefly, her rainforest crib mobile, the Jumparoo, this playmat, the wonder wheel for the highchair, and this mirror because babies are super vain. 

OR, you can skip this list and just buy Baby Bargains. It is amazing and rates everything. 

Improving the Quality of Our Mornings

I hit the "answer" button on my iPhone in a panic. My shaky "hello," I imagine, sounded more like a nervous shout than a greeting. At first, all I heard was crying. Then, I heard a sentence that hit me with a heavy thud: "I can't do this."

It's interesting when we look back on the moments that make us change -- an unexpected job offer, a brutal hangover, a surprising number on a scale.

Bridget's trembling, overwhelmed voice at 8:30 one weekday morning created a feeling of helplessness I had never experienced. She was crying, Annabelle was wailing, and I was standing in my bedroom in a collared shirt and a pair of boxer briefs. It turned out, as Bridget has already written, to be just a tough moment in time. But it was the tipping point for us to make a change.

That phrase "make a change" has been an abstract idea for most of my life. Maybe you feel the same way. Other than willpower, how do you actually change something? How do you improve something? Thanks to the job I've had for three years, I've discovered a valuable method. It's called the science of improvement and, during the last six weeks, it's helped change our little family's life. More specifically, mornings have never been the same.

Our mornings come down to one simple truth: If Bridget and Annabelle leave by 7:20, everyone is okay. Everyone gets to work on time, traffic is bearable, and stress is under control. If the dawdling duo leaves at 7:25, 7:30, or heaven forbid, even later, panicked phone calls are a distinct possibility. So how could we make sure they left by 7:20 every weekday? The science of improvement! (If you work at IHI and you're reading this, feel free to stop now and make fun of me relentlessly tomorrow.)

First, we needed a goal or, as improvement folks call it, an aim. (Otherwise, how will you know where you're going?) That seemed easy enough for us. We needed to get Bridget and Annabelle out the door by 7:20.

Then we needed some data and some things to measure. What time did they usually leave? What usually made them late? We spent a few weeks tracking the time we all walked out the front door. (I don't leave for work then, but I always carry Annabelle to the car.) Those data points were helpful, but we needed more detail. If we left at 7:20 one day and 7:30 the next, it wasn't clear why there was a 10-minute difference. So we brainstormed and came up with six other things we needed to measure (these are called process measures) to help us understand why we were meeting (or, more correctly, not meeting) our goal:

• Time out of bed
• Time spent pumping
• Time spent in shower
• Time spent feeding Annabelle
• Time spent preparing breakfast
• Time spent getting dressed

We predicted that if we understood how long it took Bridget to do each of these things, we'd have more knowledge about our morning. 

And guess what happened? We've started to see some improvement. Each week, we calculate, the average time out of the house and compare that to our goal of 7:20. During the first week, it was 7:29, then it jumped up to 7:34 (not a good week), and last week, we hit our goal for the first time. (Hooray!) Here's a chart that shows our progress so far:

We still have a lot of work to do. We've hit our goal only once and now we'll have to find a way to sustain the improvement, which is quite difficult. But simply becoming conscious of the process and understanding that we control it has made our mornings much smoother.

And now with this new-found knowledge, we can run some tests -- getting up earlier, showering the night before, setting a time-limit for pumping -- that can help us get out the door by 7:20. (We'll test all these things with a tool called the P-D-S-A  (which stands for plan-do-study-act) cycle, which is as simple as it sounds.) 

Oh, and for those of you who might be picturing me chasing my wife around the apartment with a notebook, yes, that's exactly what happens. But she doesn't mind because she knows we're measuring for improvement and not for judgment. (There's a huge difference!) 

If you want to learn more about this improvement thing, here's a link to a free online course that will take you about an hour. If you don't want to learn more and think I'm a huge nerd for liking this stuff, that's cool, too. 

How Much is Your Commute Worth?

I don't have a good commute to work. No, I'd characterize it as great. Or maybe even wonderful.

While Bridget and most of the Northeast struggle through the last few weeks of driving in the snow and ice of another brutal winter, I can't help but think of how lucky I am. Most people drive at least 25 minutes to work (the average in the US in 25.4) on crowded highways. I stroll through Harvard Yard while I listen to NPR. Most people drive among a mix of reckless idiots and angry jerks. I sometimes pass people in front of me because I tend to be a fast walker. Most people drive to a gas station at least once a week to fill up. I occasionally stop at one of the three Starbucks I pass on my way into the office.

I'm not saying any of this to be annoying; believe me, I realize how incredibly lucky I am. I'm saying all of this because I wonder what it's all worth. What's the value of a commute?

Let's try to find out. And let's use me as an example because, well, I'm writing this. (Who else would we use?)

How much money do I save every year because I get to walk 1.1 miles from my apartment in Cambridge to my office in Harvard Square (still Cambridge)? We'll start with the easy car-related stuff:

• Car payment: If we estimate this at $300 per month, that means it's $3,600 per year. 
• Car insurance: When I had a car, I paid about $80 per month. That's $960 for the year.
• Parking: There are lots of great perks that come with working in Harvard Square. Parking is not one of them. Let's estimate this at about $15 per day. Multiply that by 220 working days in a year and that's another $3,300.
• Gas: With a standard commute, we'll put this at $40 per week. Multiply that by 52 weeks and there's another $2,080.
• General upkeep: Oil changes, wipers, random stuff that goes wrong with the car. Let's just say $1,000 here to be conservative.

So, all tallied, we're at $10,940.

Now it gets tricky. Now we have to assign a monetary value to exercise, stress, and time. Here goes:

• Exercise: Rain or snow, whether it's 77 degrees or 7 degrees, I walk both ways every day. (There are a few exceptions, of course, but let's say every day.) That's 2.2 miles per day and, assuming 220 work days per year, 484 miles per year. For the sake of argument, let's say every mile walked is equal to five dollars of good health. That's obviously not scientific in any way, but it's a round number and it seems reasonable if you think about it. That's $2,420 per year.
• Time: My commute ranges from 15 minutes to 20 minutes. I'm a pretty fast walker and there aren't a whole lot of trouble spots. I do have to wait at 2-3 crosswalks (depending on which way I go), but it mostly comes down to the speed of the heel-toe express. Let's say I average 20 minutes to keep it simple. That's five minutes less than the national average, which equals 1,100 minutes or 18.3 hours per year. If we say a person's time, on average, is worth $25 per hour, then we land at $458 in savings. (That was a lot of work for a little savings.) 
• Stress: I never have to deal with traffic jams, slippery roads, or construction. And I don't really have to pay attention while I walk. I can use that 20 minutes at the end of the day to decompress after a stressful meeting or think about what I should make for dinner. To me, that savings is huge, at least $20 per commute. That equals $40 per day, so I'm going to add $8,800 to the tally. And then if I leave work around 5 PM, which I try my best to do every day, I get home to spend two hours with my family before Annabelle goes to bed. Basically, I'm home at 5:20 instead of 5:50, which seems like a reasonable estimate for the average commuter with traffic, travel time, and parking. That extra half hour of family time is worth far more than our $25 per hour rate. I could obviously argue that the time is invaluable and impossible to measure, but then we wouldn't have a number at the end. Let's say those hours are worth $100. So, $50 per day equals $11,000 per year.  

That section adds up to $22,678, which gives us a grand total of $33,618. That's pretty damn significant. I realize, of course, that I won't be this lucky for the rest of my life. I've had annoying commutes in the past and I'll have annoying commutes in the future. 

But it's nice to have this in perspective. And, more importantly, it makes me realize I better start enjoying every penny.