Does My Daughter Look Like Me?

My oldest friend and the best man at my wedding, Andrew, has always had a way with words. Even when we were in middle school and high school, he'd drop witty one-liners that have managed to stay with me for years. Stuff like, "The beaten path is beaten for a reason" and "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." It's not so much that they were original lines; it was really his timing, his ability to choose the perfect phrase at the right moment.  

So when I asked him over the holidays if he thought Annabelle looked like me, I was anticipating another memorable line. He didn't disappoint.

"Well," he said, "I can tell she isn't the milkman's."

Classic. In other words, not really, but I know you want me to say "yes." 

Andrew isn't the only one to hedge when the topic of resemblance arises. Most people, with good reason, say Belle looks a lot like Bridget. Grandparents, extended family, colleagues, friends, Facebook friends. Most everyone can't believe how much Belle resembles her mom. (This is a good thing, I always say, because girls are much prettier than boys.) But I'll be honest: I want my child to look like me. And no, it's not because I'm vain. Or because I think I'd be particularly attractive as a female. I want Annabelle to look like me because she's my daughter. (Not, as my dear old friend pointed out, the milkman's.) 

So, does she? Does Annabelle look like me? I figure the best way to find out is to compare photos of us at about six months old. Here goes:

Let's break it down a bit further by examining the physical features:

Hair: Belle's is fiery red and I had a mop of brown. Verdict: No.

Skin tone: Belle is like porcelain (thanks to Bridget) and will be year-round. I'm pasty in the winter and somewhat tan in the summer. Did you know I'm actually 1/16th or 1/32nd (I forget which) Native American? No? Did you care? Also no? Cool, let's move on. Verdict: No.

Face shape: Belle's appears to be round; mine appears to be narrow. Verdict: No. Again.

Eyes: Belle, so far, has blue eyes. Mine are brown. My eyes also seem fairly close together (which I'm noticing just now and hope people haven't been talking about for years) and Annabelle's seem perfectly symmetrical. Our eyes do have the same shape, though. Verdict: A little.

Nose: Belle has a cute little button for a nose. My nose is long and, well, long. Verdict: No. (This isn't going well.)

Mouth: Hmm, a little bit? Belle seems to lack a strong upper lip, just like me. Lucky girl! Verdict: A little.

Smile: I think so. We both seem pretty damn happy in the picture on the right. Verdict: A lot.

Eyebrows: Uh oh. Yep, these are pretty much the same. Breaking news: My eyebrows are big and thick. Hopefully, this particular likeness will fade over time or Belle will spend a lot of money on wax and thread. Verdict: A lot.

In summation, I guess we do look a bit alike -- at least in some ways. This makes me feel better. Well, except for that brutal blue sweater. I look like a fluffy cloud. Seriously, Ma, what were you thinking?

I'm Feeling Overwhelmed

This week, I found myself sitting in my car on the way to work, on Route 2, in stopped traffic, crying to my husband on the phone, with a wailing Annabelle in the back seat. It was, by all accounts, not one of my best moments.

You see, my commute to work, from Cambridge to Waltham, is 11.9 miles. Google Maps helpfully tells me this should take me 20 minutes. However, in reality, in winter, in Massachusetts, with a foot of badly plowed snow on the ground and hundreds of Masshole drivers, this commute takes me 3 times that.

On this morning, I sit, white knuckled, as I miss stoplight after stoplight. And bleary-eyed, I try to concentrate on the radio news as Belle drops her binky for the 87th time and starts to fuss. The fussing slowly builds to a low wail. Then, while nearing the end of my commute and trying to merge onto 128 while at the same time aggressively trying to prevent cars from jumping the long line of traffic and merging INTO me, Belle starts to scream. Binky is no longer in reach. I am already late for work and I know I still have 30 minutes of traffic ahead of me. Belle is inconsolable. NPR is giving me the rundown of the most depressing things that have happened in the world today.

It is at this point that I do the only thing I can think to do. I call my husband.

Mike answers with fear in his voice, because clearly if I am calling him at this hour something is gravely wrong.

“What it is it?” he asks.

“I can’t do it. I can’t do this. This commute. She’s crying. I can’t listen to this anymore. This isn’t going to work.”

And as her shrieks pick up from the back seat, I find myself starting to cry. My daughter and I are having a meltdown. Together, in this small car, in traffic, we are collectively losing it. And my poor husband, on his own commute to work, is listening to two blubbering ladies blubber on.

He asks what he can do to help (nothing). He sympathizes. He assures us things will be ok.

And he is right. Things will be ok. And by the time I make it to work, they are. But these moments, these meltdowns, they seem to happen a lot. So often, in fact, that Mike and I have put a word to them. When they happen, we just look at each other and say, “I’m feeling overwhelmed.” And immediately, we know what this means.

Because at the time I was sitting on Route 2, I was feeling overwhelmed by Belle’s crying and the day-to-day minutia of keeping another human alive. By the frequent feedings and diaper changes and too-short naps and the complicated outfits and the endless pumping sessions. By daycare drop-offs, and developmental milestones, and sleep training. Overwhelmed with the stuff, with the toys and tiny clothes and Rock and Plays and Jumparoos and millions of other things exploding out of our 700 square foot apartment, which is now, never, ever, even for a split second, clean. I’m overwhelmed by the heavy diaper bags and smelly bottle bags and dowdy breast pump bags that I try to juggle while also carrying Belle in her bulky car seat up and down stairs and through doors. By pacifiers constantly falling out of smiling mouths. By tiny bibs soaked in an endless stream of baby drool.

I am overwhelmed by my job, and with the daily commutes and deadlines and details and the challenging and rewarding work I get to do each day. I am overwhelmed by the generosity of my colleagues who picked up the slack when I took 16 weeks off from work to fall in love with my daughter and who still pick up the slack when my overtaxed brain starts to sputter.

I am overwhelmed with the idea that I am tasked with trying to keep another person – my husband – happy when I can barely scrape myself off the couch after Belle goes to bed. And I am overwhelmed with joy when I see Mike and Annabelle together and I realize what an incredible father he is to Annabelle, and partner he is to me. And I am just plain overwhelmed when I think of how lucky we are to have gotten pregnant and have delivered a healthy baby girl. That Mike and I get to wake up each morning with more happiness in our lives than we could have ever imagined.

That morning, and every morning, I was feeling completely and utterly overwhelmed by love for Annabelle, my perfect, amazing daughter who was crying her face off in the back seat of my car.

This new life of mine, this life of working mother and wife, is overwhelming. And 99% of the time I feel happier than I have in my entire life. But that 1%. Man, those times are tough. At those times, I really do feel like it is all too much. But in reality, I should be thankful for those moments. Because they are just an indication of how full my life has become. And I wouldn't change a thing.

Are New Parents Boring?

A few weeks ago, we hung out with some friends we hadn't seen in a while. After the obligatory hugs and handshakes, we got down to talking about what we had been doing for the past few months and what was ahead for the spring. As you might expect, this newly married couple talked about traveling, bachelorette parties, and their favorite types of beer. They talked about Vermont, New York City, and New Orleans. They talked about good food, good movies, and good fun. 

And then they asked about us.

"Well, we had a baby."

(Silence.)

(Awkward silence.)

(Where did those damn crickets come from?)

We all laughed about it, of course, because they're nice people and our sudden change in lifestyle is kind of funny. But "Well, we had a baby" is a pretty good summation of our last five months on this Earth. It'll be a pretty good summation of the next five, too. And as the conversation moved in a different direction, it struck me: Are we boring? And, on a larger scale, are all new parents boring? 

At face value, I suppose the answer is yes. I mean, we must seem very boring to newly married couples and, undoubtedly, to single people we know. Let's face it: Falling asleep before 10 PM on a Saturday night has never been "cool." "Do you mind if I don't shower today?" is not a distinctly sexy question. 

It's not like we don't do things. We go out for dinner, visit friends, take naps, and take long family walks. We have date night and we're even going to a concert next month. So, we do stuff. It's just that the stuff (save the concert and the occasional date night) usually includes our beloved Belle.

In fact, Belle was with us that day with our friends. As I answered the question about our recent activities, I immediately thought of her as a great accomplishment that made the last five socially slower months seem acceptable.

That's how people think of babies -- as accomplishments. I sat in a conference room of health care professionals last fall and listened as 29 out of 30 people talked about their kids as the most important thing in their lives. (One dude was crazy about triathlons.) But babies aren't really accomplishments. Accomplishments fade. You accomplish something -- an A on a test, a game-winning shot, a new raise -- and then eventually move on and forget about that thing. Babies, on the other hand, define your life. At all times, you're thinking about your child. Maybe not literally every second, but certainly every hour. What's she doing? Is she happy? I can't wait to see her smile again. I hope she likes me when she grows up. These thoughts constantly swirl in your head. 

And along with defining your life, babies are a convenient excuse to get out of social situations we dislike, which makes us seem more boring. I've used Belle as an excuse and I'll continue to do it in the future. The simple reality is that no reasonable person can say, "Oh, that's really lame that you want to hang out with your daughter." (I mean, you can say that, but you'd be a huge jerk.) 

This week, though, I watched a video that immediately changed my perspective on this boring question. I'd seen the video before, but this time, it really hit me. It's called "This is Water" and it's an illustration of a commencement speech by the late author David Foster Wallace. Here's the link. (If you haven't watched it, I strongly encourage you to take the nine minutes.) 

It made me realize that we're boring -- and new parents are boring -- only if we choose to be. It all comes down to altering your perception and how you feel during the everyday, grind-it-out moments of your life. To put it in specific terms, I'd rather feed Belle oatmeal than get drunk at a bar. And a trip with Belle to the Curious George store in Harvard Square brings me more joy than a round of golf. 

So it may seem, at first blush, like new parents are boring. Early bedtimes, middle-of-the-night wake-ups, and eating at restaurants at 5 PM to beat the dinner rush can certainly sound boring to newly married couples, single friends, and even retirees. But, in reality, this is, without question, the most interesting my life has ever been. 

Dressed to Depress

It was the last question I wanted to hear as I wiped the sleep from my eyes on Thursday morning. The 10 words hung in the air, taunting me, laughing at me. The question mark chuckled, too.

"Is your Daddy going to pick out your outfit today?"

Oh, no. God, no. Please, no.

Bridget was talking to Annabelle about the day ahead and asked the question just loud enough so I could hear it. Unmercifully, she continued:

"It's always exciting to see what he's going to choose. Is he going to go with something girly? Something a little more unisex? Oh, boy. Let's see."

I'll kill the suspense immediately. It's going to be a disaster.

As you can see from the enormous pink pants in the image above, I'm not what you would call "good" at dressing Annabelle. In fact, I'd say I'm downright awful at it. Like "dumpster fire" awful. But you know what? It's not my fault. And there are two main reasons:

Reason No. 1: As a male who grew up wearing white T-shirts and warm-up pants to high school, I'm not very stylish. If you're a female and you're reading this, raise your hand if you'd let me choose your outfits for a week. Obviously, you're all sitting on your hands now. And, honestly, why would you let me? I'd just pick sweatpants and T-shirts. If I tried to pick something nice, it almost certainly wouldn't match. And, without a doubt, it would be way too big or way too small.

Frankly, ladies, there are too many damn options. Too many colors. Too many combinations. Too many possibilities. That's why, like most guys, I wear grays, blues, and browns. Muted colors keep me safe!

Annabelle, of course, can't spend her life in muted colors. I try to match different shades of pink. I throw in an occasional purple or yellow. Sometimes I even use lace. It never really works out.

Reason No. 2: It's incredibly complicated to dress a baby. Do we really need these clothes to be so complex? There are zippers, snaps, buttons, clasps, and hinges. (Seriously, hinges!) It's ridiculous.

Every morning I dress Annabelle, I cross my fingers that this won't be the time her head gets stuck. Like most babies, she has a big head and she doesn't particularly like getting it stuffed through a tiny cotton hole. And she hates socks -- absolutely hates them. Why? I have no idea. But she lets out a loud cry every time I go to stuff her little feet into tiny socks. She almost always kicks the first one off as I'm putting on the second one, which is especially frustrating.

Bridget, meanwhile, doesn't help anything by picking the most intricate, perplexing outfits she can find. She always adds a little flair -- a headband, an undershirt, or sparkly shoes -- that result in pain and anguish for both me and Annabelle.

I'd imagine I'll get better at the dressing thing as time goes on. I mean, I have to, right? Then again, I still wear warm-up pants.