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.