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.