The Wonderful, Magical Sleep Consultant

We failed. We failed horribly. We failed miserably. We failed undeniably.

Choose your adverb, it really doesn't matter. We. Failed.

At least that's what I thought as we prepared for our first Skype call with a sleep consultant a couple months ago. As the call slowly connected across a national border, I sat there with my head in my hands. How did it come to this?

In the past three months, Annabelle's sleep had become a nightmare. She wouldn't fall asleep until we sat with her for about 90 minutes every night and then, like a horrible, never-ending alarm, would wake up every night around 1 AM and refuse to go back into her crib. For a while, we took her into our bed and then, in a flash of groggy common sense, we realized at least one of us should sleep. So Bridget and I rotated nights sleeping in the guest room with Annabelle "I put my butt up while I sleep" Briddon.

And if you've ever had an extended period of crappy sleep in your life, you know how terrible it is. You fear bedtime. You're irritable. You can't think. It's awful. I sent up a white flag disguised as a blog post in July. 

And that's when Bridget's college friend Kate (who I don't know, but basically love) told us about this sleep consultant she'd used.

"She saved our lives," Kate told Bridget.

"A sleep consultant?" Mike asked Bridget. "That exists? Come on. Are we really at that point? How much will this cost?"

As it turned out, Rock A Baby, run by Desiree Cluff out of Vancouver, had very reasonable prices. (Plus, when you're essentially purchasing sleep, does it really matter?) Still, it was reasonable, and we were excited and a little bit skeptical going into our first Skype call.

Ninety minutes later, we had a plan and a glimmer of hope.

During the next few weeks, we slowly inched our way out of Annabelle's room at bedtime and she slowly gained confidence in her sleeping ability. The biggest change: Choices. Instead of sitting and watching Annabelle play with her feet for 90 minutes, we would say, "Annabelle, it's time to close your eyes. If you aren't ready to do that, Daddy has to leave." She'd cry, realize she was really tired, and be asleep 10 minutes later.

Ninety minutes of "trying to fall asleep" turned into 60. And then 45. And then 30. And then we had a couple nights of uninterrupted sleep.

With applied the "Choices" strategy to food, cleaning up her toys, and other areas of typical toddler frustration. Sometimes it's exhausting to come up with two reasonable options, but it gives Annabelle the feeling that she has control over every situation. (Although let's be honest, she pretty much does.)

After about six weeks, we slowly, cautiously raised our arms in victory. We stopped the weekly chats with Desiree and sunk into our cool, refreshing pillows.

Sure, we still have to figure out the pacifier. And we should probably feed Annabelle something other than her staples of pasta, fruit, pizza, and yogurt. But now, thanks to a sleep consultant (who knew?), we have some energy to tackle the next batch of toddler challenges.

A Recycling Bin and a Revelation

I looked -- half with sympathy and half with confusion -- at the old man standing outside my house on Monday night.

"How long have you been doing this?" I asked.

"Since I died," he said.

Like most people, I mostly avoid conversations with strangers -- especially strangers who, at first glance, seem a little creepy. I'm too busy, have too many fun apps on my iPhone, and well, who talks to random people anymore? That's what the Internet is for, right? Why actually make a human connection that can potentially lead to awkward conversation or suck up some of my precious free time? Seems weird in 2015.

"Since you died?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

"I died in 1996," the old man said.

The old man, who is named Paul (and sometimes Kenny and sometimes Jesus Christ because of the reactions he got in a past job as an inspector), goes through the recycling bins I leave outside my house every week. I always thought it was kind of odd, especially in the suburbs. Is it really worth the time and effort to collect cans you can redeem for a nickel. One hundred cans, which seems like a lot of work, is five dollars, and really, what can you buy with five dollars?

So, every week, I look outside as he searches through the bins.

"What do you think he's looking for?" I ask Bridget. "Isn't this weird for the suburbs? I understand homeless people do this in the city, but this guy doesn't look homeless or anything."

She usually shrugs. And I just look, wondering why someone would go through my boring recycling bins.

Until this Monday, when I headed out with an extra bag of trash. As I walked toward him on the sidewalk, he looked up at me and stared.

"Can I ask what you're looking for?" I said.

"Yeah, I like to get the box tops for the kids," he replied. "You know, for schools."

"Oh, really. That's great," I said, kicking myself for being judgmental.

"Yeah, and I get the tabs for the Shriners," he said.

"That's really great," I said. "How long have you been doing this?"

And that's when Paul (and sometimes Kenny and sometimes Jesus Christ because of the reactions he got in a past job as an inspector) told me his amazing story. One day 19 years ago, he went to the hospital to get treatment for an infection. While he was there, he felt some discomfort in his chest. In fact, he was having a silent heart attack.

"I saw a heavy, grey curtain coming down," Paul said. "The doctor told me if I was anywhere else, I wouldn't have made it."

Paul then went to a bigger hospital where he was told he'd have a quadruple bypass surgery. As it turned out, he had a six-way bypass, which, frankly, I didn't know was a thing. The doctor told Paul, who was traditionally stubborn about such things, that he needed to change his lifestyle -- no more greasy food, less sitting around, more exercise.

"I tried a treadmill and a stationary bike, but those were boring," he said. "That's when I started doing this. It's just kind of snowballed."

Every week, Paul (oh, and also "The Can Man" to some kids) goes around to recycling bins in Reading, Wakefield, and Wilmington. He's even started collecting toys for kids, when parents leave them out for him. I got the impression that he likes to talk when people listen. He's probably told the story about his near-death experience -- and the one about the magic toy tea kettle that held 4,109 tabs -- hundreds of times to hundreds of people. But I hope he knows it stuck with me.

Without thinking, we all judge people all the time, don't we? It's human. That guy seems like a jerk. Do you see the outfit that woman is wearing? I wouldn't yell at my kid that way.

Sometimes great things happen when we put judgment aside. Sometimes sympathy and confusion turn into admiration. Sometimes creepy looks turn into smiles. Sometimes you make a connection. And sometimes you hear an incredible story about someone dying.

Thanks for the chat, Paul. See you next week.

The Three Little Bigs Is an Abomination

Have you read Walt Disney's Three Little Pigs lately? I'm guessing no. Unless you have young kids, it's a little strange if you've opened this book in decades.

But whether you have young kids, are planning to have kids, already had young kids, or don't like kids at all, I have a tip: Never open this book again. Ever. It's an atrocious story with a shoddy plot that teaches horrible morals.

Why is it so bad? Where do I start?

Before I do that, though, let me take a quick detour into these so-called timeless kids' books. As you can imagine, with a two-year-old, I've read a truckload of these stories in the last couple years. To throw out a broad generalization, they are garbage. They are outdated, confusing, and, often, scary. Do you know what actually happens in Pinocchio? Or the plot and ending of The Gingerbread Man? The main character is a huge jerk and then a fox eats him. That's the story. Yeah, gather round, kids.

Back to Three Little Pigs. Seeing this 1933 Little Golden Book on the bookshelf at our Cape rental for the week, I got excited. Doing the wolf's voice, adorable pigs, a story with nice lessons. Daddy-Daughter memories, here we come. Or so I thought.

The story started as I remembered, with three little pigs heading out into the world. But before we even got past Page 1, things got strange: "The first little pig did not like to work at all. He quickly built himself a house of straw." How did this lazy pig "quickly build himself a house of straw?" That sounds absurdly complicated. What was the adhesive? Where did he get the straw? And then he sings a stupid song that includes the lyric, "I toot my flute." Nice. Good message.

Then the second pig "did not like work any better than his brother, so he decided to build a quick and easy house of sticks." Quick? Easy? We then see an image of him hoisting up a door and his window already has curtains. So, so far, the message is: Kids, don't work hard. Just go build yourself a quick house with any materials you can find and then "dance all kinds of jigs," as the two pigs do. In other words, architects are idiots.

The third pig makes a house of bricks and chides the two lazy swines for their poor work ethic. Finally! Something resembling a lesson. Work hard and good things will happen. Then, the story gets rolling, as the wolf attacks the first pig's house: "Little pig, little pig, let me come in!" "Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin!" Ah, the memories. The wolf, you may recall, blows down the first house and then runs over to the house of sticks.

Good stuff, right?

But just as my hope was restored, the plot falls to pieces. Inexplicably, instead of blowing down the house of sticks, the wolf dresses in an elaborate sheep costume to trick the pigs into opening the door. It doesn't work ("you can't fool us with that sheepskin!") and then the wolf just blows down the house anyway. So why bother with the damn sheep costume?! Just level the damn house and let's move on!

As I tried to climb out of that absurd plot hole, the wolf finds he can't blow down the house of bricks. So he decides to go down the chimney and jumps "right into a kettle of boiling water!" Then, the book ends with "the three little pigs spent their time in the strong little brick house singing and dancing merrily. And the big bad wolf never came back again."

Really, wolf? Why not try a different costume? Or wait for the pigs to come out? One pot of hot water and you've given up the entire quest? Good lesson on how to stick with it, wolf.

That's not even my biggest problem, though. The most ridiculous part of this 22-page literary farce is the moral or, rather, the lack of a moral. On the last page, we see the three pigs singing and laughing together. How is that justice? One pig works really hard building a fantastic house and, then, after laughing at him while he's working hard, the two lazy freeloaders are picking out their bedrooms? Didn't they learn a lesson of some kind? Hard work leads to success and security? Lazy pigs turn into bacon? Anything?

Nope. Instead, the lasting lesson is clear: Find yourself a sibling or friend who works harder than you and ride his coattail's to an easy life.

See you never, Three Little Pigs. I hope the wolf comes back and devours all of you.

A Conversation with Annabelle

Two weeks from her second birthday, Annabelle is suddenly becoming a little girl.

She pulls up her pants, cleans up after herself, and flies down the "big kid" slide with ease and confidence. She runs, jumps (sort of), and picks herself up whenever she falls down. She smiles, laughs, cries, and asks us to change her diaper.  

And more than anything, Annabelle talks.

She talks at breakfast and she talks when she's falling asleep. She talks in the car and and she talks when she should be brushing her teeth. She talks to her grandparents and she talks to all her friends at school.

For a while now, going back to my journalism roots, I wanted to have a sit-down interview with Annabelle. You know, get something on record. But her schedule and her publicist made things difficult. Just after lunch today, though, before we read a book and took a nap, I snagged three minutes to fire some questions her way. Here's what transpired:

Me: Annabelle, can I interview you? Is that okay?
Annabelle: (Silence)

See, I told you she could be difficult.

Me: Can I please interview you?
Annabelle: Yeah

Me: What did you have for lunch?
Annabelle: Umm, peach.
Me: You had a peach?
Annabelle: Peach.

She actually had yogurt, fruit, and a smoothie. We're off to a bad start.

Me: What color shirt are you wearing today?
Annabelle: Ummm, green.

She adds "umm" at varying lengths before almost everything she says. It's adorable.

Me: Who is your best friend at school?
Annabelle: Ummm, Norvic. And Bonnie. And Amy. JP! Zach. Chloe. Erin. Shiloh.
Me: That's a bunch of people. Can you narrow it down to one?
Annabelle: JP.

A boy. Obviously.

Me: What is your middle name?
Annabelle: Umm, four, five six.
Me: Four, five, six? Are you sure?
Annabelle: Umm, A, B, C, B.
Me: That's your middle name?
Annabelle: Yeah.

For the record, it's Grace.

Me: What's Daddy's favorite food?
Annabelle: Um, apple.
Me: And Mommy's?
Annabelle: Steak.

Neither answer is correct.

Me: Okay, last one. I know you need to get down for a nap. Where do you live?
Annabelle: Mommy!

Maybe not the best interview I've ever done. But certainly entertaining. Plus, I got a big kiss when it ended, so that's always a plus.

Three Videos and a Toddler

I snapped this photo earlier this week. There was nothing remarkable about it. I didn't take my time, check the lighting, or ask Annabelle to pose in any way. I just said, "Hey! Annabelle!" and she looked up at me and my iPhone with those adorable hazel eyes.

Cute, right?

As I smiled at the picture on my phone, I stopped for a moment and thought, Man, it is so easy to capture every moment of this girl's childhood. 

I've written before about the changing value of a baby book (the value is plunging toward zero) and how fortunate we are today to have so much technology at our fingertips. Weekly, Bridget and I get to look back at all the incredible memories we've already made with Annabelle. And in a few years, Annabelle will get to experience them, too. Her early childhood, I hope, will come alive for her.

The problem, I've found, is separating the wheat from the chaff. Is that picture good enough to keep? Is it engaging enough for Facebook? Is it Instagram-worthy? What about that video I recorded last night?

Videos are especially challenging for me because I can't get enough of watching Annabelle grow. I've uploaded, at last count, 108 Annabelle videos to my YouTube channel in the last two years. That's a bit much.

All of them aren't worth sharing, of course. I think these three are, though. So here is the wheat from the last month, the three best recent videos of our "how are you almost already 2?" toddler:

The Commercial That Turned Me into a Puddle

Annabelle and I were watching golf a couple Sundays ago.

Well, kind of. I was trying to watch golf while she was climbing over me saying, "Anna, Elsa, and Olaf" over and over again. (I'm still waiting for Frozen to get unbearable. I imagine it'll happen any day now.)

 "Anna, Elsa, and Olaf."

 Someone misses a putt.

 "Anna, Elsa, and Olaf."

 Good Lord, Jordan Spieth is one hell of a golfer. 

 "Anna, Elsa, and Olaf."

 And then, almost like destiny, we both look at the TV screen at the same time and this comes on:
 


If you had been a fly on the wall watching us watch this, here's what you would have seen:

• First scene: Annabelle and I both stare at the screen, drawn in by the adorable music. Neat, I think, we just bought a house, too. These Dad-Daughter commercials are so good sometimes.

• Second scene: I pull Annabelle closer to me as the Dad bends down to explain to his preschooler why coloring on the wall is bad. Man, Annabelle is growing fast. I sniffle a bit.

• Third scene: I pull Annabelle even closer as the little girl falls off her bike. Annabelle speaks up: "Bike!" (She loves seeing bikes.) "Yes, honey," I say. "You're going to ride a big bike like that someday." 

• Fourth scene: We both stare breathlessly at the thunderstorm. The house could catch on fire and I would need to finish watching this commercial.

• Fifth scene: I move Annabelle's hair out of her eyes as we watch Dad comfort his daughter who either didn't make the team or just lost a big game. I'm going to coach everything, I think. Everything! Sports are the best!

• Sixth scene: Oh, boy. It's getting awfully dusty in here. I start to feel chills -- seriously, literal chills -- up my spine as the college-bound daughter falls into her Dad's arms. Then the tears start. I cry about 2-3 times a year and this is definitely going to be one of those times. I can't hug Annabelle much tighter. 

• Final scene: I've essentially pulled Annabelle onto my lap. I'm hugging her with every ounce of strength I can muster between the tears, which are actually running down my cheeks now. Annabelle is just staring.

Just then, Bridget came downstairs. "What are you guys doing down here?" 

"Nothing really. Just crying because of insurance commercials. Typical Sunday."

I've watched the commercial a dozen times since we first saw it a couple weeks ago. I haven't cried since, but the chills still hit me when the daughter goes to college. And as I watched it again right now, right before I posted this, a scary thought crept into my mind:

What in the world am I going to do when all this stuff actually happens? 

Annabelle and Homeless People

I see homeless people every day when I walk to work. When they ask for money, I either look down, pretend I'm listening to my expensive headphones, or mutter an inaudible "sorry" under my breath.

I never give them money -- not even a dollar or a quarter or a dime. Not even at Christmas.

Like most people, maybe even you, I feel awful for these people, but I never do anything about it. And lately, because of Annabelle, I'm wondering if this makes me a bad person.

Someday soon, Annabelle, now with some sense of the world, will walk down the street with me in Cambridge or Boston. We'll hold hands as we stroll down the brick-covered sidewalks and she'll ask me all sorts of questions: Why aren't those cars stopping?Where did that snow come from? Why do people eat food outside? Undoubtedly, as she walks past scattered homeless people in the city, she'll ask questions about them, too: Where does that man live? What do you mean he doesn't have a home? Should we help him? 

Annabelle will ask thousands of questions in her first few years of life, and I look forward to almost all of them. But this predictable line of questioning about homeless people gnaws at me for some reason. Maybe because it's so innocent. Maybe because it's so hopeful. Or maybe because I don't know how I should handle it.

Do I teach her about good and bad decisions? About the crippling effects of drugs and alcohol? About bad luck? Do I just teach her how to look away or how to mutter an inaudible "sorry" under her breath?

I didn't see many homeless people when I was little. In fact, I don't remember seeing any. Everyone lived inside in my small town. (At least I think they did.) If there were any homeless people, I can't imagine they had much luck panhandling. Millbury, Massachusetts, isn't really known as a bustling metropolis.

But now I work in a city and I live near one. And so does my daughter. This, I think, is a very good thing. I want Annabelle to be cultured, open-minded, and aware of how lucky she is to have a home and clothes and food. I want her to get to know people who aren't like her. I want her to see homeless people.

That, of course, will then require me to answer the aforementioned string of questions. I will have to say, "He's homeless because ..." And, I'll probably say, "We should help her, but ..."

Unless something changes between now and then. Unless, this week, as I pass the guy with the sign that says, "I bet you a dollar that you read this," or the guy with the grossly swollen cheek near Starbucks, I do something different. Unless I picture Annabelle looking up at me hopefully with her hopeful hazel eyes and hand over the change in my pocket ...

Do our children make us better people? Should we always pretend Annabelle (or someone wonderfully innocent) is always walking by our side? Would we ever lie or cheat or steal? What decisions would we make?

Or more to the point this post, who would we help?

Behind the Lines of a Sleep Strike

I'm tired. I'm tired as I write this and I'll be tired when anyone reads this.

The problem, you can probably guess from the title of the post and the image above, is that a good night of sleep has been hard to come by in our house lately. Like, really hard. Lovely little Annabelle, who turns 2 in September, has developed some quirky sleeping, er, waking habits in the past couple months.

And man, I am tired.

As I wrote back in March, after 18 months of being a great sleeper, Annabelle went through the 18-month sleep regression. But several weeks later, the regression regressed and we were back to our 7 PM - 6 AM routine. A bath, a few books, a kiss on the cheek and it was off to binge watch House of Cards. While watching Frank and Claire lie and cheat their way to power in Washington, Bridget and I would have carefree chats about politics, snow, and the future. Ah, the good, old days.

Then on May 10 (thanks, Day One journal app) Annabelle woke up at 3:30 in the morning with vomit in her crib. We cleaned her up and figured our bed was the best place for her for the rest of the night. The next night, same thing. Vomit, our bed. Next night, same thing.

And since then, well, it's been kind of a nightmare.

Annabelle stopped throwing up that third night (just a stomach bug, we think), but she was suddenly scared of sleeping in her crib. She'd eventually fall asleep, but not without one of us in the room. Then, almost on a schedule, she'd wake up around midnight or 1 AM and scream until we finally relented. Some nights we slept on her floor or in the wooden rocking chair in her room, but other nights we were just too damn tired and brought her to bed.

(If you're a parent, this is where you're judging us and saying: Never bring her into your bed!) 

We tried the "cry it out" technique one night, but she screamed for 3 1/2 hours and then fell asleep standing up. With the light on. (That's the picture you see above. I snapped a quick shot to celebrate the moment.)

It was a brutal night and we decided it wasn't for us. We also decided that our bed wasn't the best spot (Annabelle tends to form the middle of an "H," which isn't good for anyone) and we started switching off nights in the guest bed with Captain Sleep Strike.

But now we're in a tough spot. Sleeping well at night, it is well documented, is incredibly important for your health and well-being. (The New Yorker had a great three-part series on sleep this week.) Without enough sleep, it's hard to perform well at work and, well, at life. And we just don't get good shut-eye.

Instead, we sit for an hour with Annabelle until she finally falls asleep. Then, a few hours later, she's up and we're drawing straws to see whose turn it is. Is it sustainable? Maybe for a bit. Is it good? Not for anyone.

So, friends, if you have any advice or words of wisdom, our ears are wide open. Unfortunately, so are our eyes.

Annabelle Goes to Market Basket

Every Saturday morning, I go grocery shopping. (Yes, of course this is the life I've imagined from a young age.) I almost always go by myself because I really like efficiency. A solo trip takes maybe 45 minutes. A trip with the two adorable, dawdling females in the family would take at least five hours.

But on Saturday, wanting to give Bridget a little time to herself, I volunteered to take Annabelle on her first big grocery shopping trip. 

Since we've moved to the suburbs, we've started going to Market Basket, which is just delightful. Good food, low prices, excellent customer service. The only problem is that it's really, really crowded -- especially on weekend mornings. 

This realization made me nervous as I loaded a somewhat fussy Annabelle, clutching a Curious George doll, into the car at 7:30 AM. Oh well. Off we went:

Parking lot: We pulled into the crowded lot and Annabelle immediately went into the seat in the grocery cart. This, I thought, was a good sign because Annabelle hates sitting in carts at stores. 

Aisle 1: We headed for the cheeses and yogurts, two popular items in our house. I grabbed a bag of shredded parmesan cheese. "Annabelle's!" Annabelle yelled, as she reached for the bag. I gave it to her. I grabbed some kid yogurts. "Annabelle's!" Annabelle yelled, as she reached for the container. This is going to be a long trip.

Deli: As Annabelle sucked down the blueberry yogurt, I saw a great opportunity for interaction at the deli: "Annabelle," I said. "Do you want to pick a number so we can get more cheese?" She smiled. She pulled number 9 and number 2 showed  on the screen, which gave us time for our first random conversation.

Kind woman #1: "She's so cute. How old is she?"

Me: "Oh, thanks. She's almost 2."

Kind woman #1: "Oh, and I love her Curious George doll. My daughter loves that, too. Where did you get that, sweetie?"

Annabelle: (Silence) 

Me: "We got that in Harvard Square. There's a really nice store down there ..." 

Aisle 4: With the deli, the longest part of the experience, behind us, I had high hopes we were on our way. But as we picked out some granola, I heard the dreaded sound: "Up! Up! Up!" I cringed. "Oh, you don't want to be in the seat anymore, Annabelle?" She started at me. "Up! Up! Up!" Crap. I pulled her out, carried her with one arm and steered the cart with the other. This is going to be a really long trip.

Aisle 10: As we picked up some pouches (one of which Annabelle devoured; her second "treat" of the trip), she had mercifully decided she would walk. "Just stay with Dad," I said, as I grabbed several bottles of addictive Polar seltzer water. 

Kind woman #2: "Oh, how cute. I love her hair."

Me: "Say thank you, sweetie."

Annabelle: (Silence)

Me: "Thanks. That's very nice of you. We like it, too!"

Aisle 12: We saw a huge display of Goldfish. "Fishies!" Seconds later, Annabelle was walking around with her own bag of cheddar fish, treat No. 3. Smiles followed us (mostly her) as we turned toward the busiest part of the store. 

The frozen section: In between fistfuls of fish, Annabelle started holding my hand as the cart traffic picked up. I ducked into the freezers to get some waffles and then some mini raviolis, which delighted Annabelle: "Daddy's IN there!" I grabbed some ice cream. "Daddy's INNN there!" She couldn't stop laughing, which means I couldn't laughing. 

Fruits and vegetables: Enough fun. The fruit and vegetable section is essentially a war zone in Market Basket. Determined suburban moms in workout clothes, dads with complicated grocery lists, young kids "learning how to steer," and older folks carefully finding the perfect tomato. Carts were everywhere. One hand on the cart, one hand in Annabelle's, we weaved and darted our way to nectarines, cucumbers, and crisp green peppers. 

Tired dude: "How old is she?"

Me: "Almost 2."

Tired dude: "Yeah, I have four-year-old twins, so I can't bring them grocery shopping."

Me: "Oh, god. That must be tough."

Tired dude: "Yeah. Yeah, it is ..."

With our cart full, we headed for checkout. I picked up speed as I grabbed Annabelle's hand. Then, suddenly, she pulled.

"Oh, no. I dropped my Goldfish, Dad," shouted a nice couple. I cringed and looked back. No Goldfish on the ground, so I quickly grabbed the bag, smiled at the couple, and headed toward checkout lane #8. 

I expected a mini tantrum because the cashier had to scan the Goldfish, but it never came. Annabelle even volunteered to hold my hand as we walked across the parking lot, something that has proved very challenging in recent weeks. Sure, she took off running when I put the cart back, but, all in all, it was a wildly successful trip. 

Total trip time: 70 minutes. But the extra 25 minutes were the best ones of the day. 

22 Reasons Why I Love Father's Day

I'm not big on holidays. On the whole, they are stressful, outdated, and commercialized. And Halloween is just damn silly.

But for two years now, I've loved Father's Day.

I know what you might be thinking: You're a Dad. Of course you love Father's Day. You're so selfish. Go mow the lawn. 

But I love Mother's Day, too. In fact, I love any day that celebrates our little family, which, of course, includes Oscar's birthday. (He'll be 9 (in dog years) and 63 (in human years) next month.)

On this Father's Day morning, I thought it would be a perfect time to share 22 reasons why I love today:

1. Annabelle slept through the night last night, which was the first time in two months. (What a gift!)
2. It's a holiday that doesn't require gifts.
3. It's a chance to scroll through our growing collection of Daddy-Daughter selfies.
4. It's a chance to remember last week's nap in Aruba, the best one of my life. (See the picture at the bottom in the middle.)
5. It's the best thing Richard Nixon ever did. Richard Nixon? Yes, he officially signed the holiday into law in 1972. 
6. It's another morning of waking up to a beautiful wife.
7. I get to hold my daughter's hand. (That's a treat every time.)
8. I get to try to put my daughter's hair into a ponytail, which is really, really difficult.
9. I'll spend a few minutes remembering the moment I became a dad.
10. The quiet time of typing this blog post while listening to a conversation about when it's appropriate to use the potty. (You should have to pee or poop; we don't just flush the toilet.)
11. No chores for Dad.
12. Oscar, tired from a week at the kennel, lying down under my chair.
13. This commercial showing new dads hearing the big news.
14. Annabelle. Slept. THROUGH. The. Night.
15. Hearing Daddeeeeee when I woke up.
16. Constantly hearing the most innocent, carefree laugh in the entire world.
17. I get to watch the final round of the U.S. Open this afternoon.
18. Knowing that I'll totally be watching Frozen this afternoon. And being totally fine with that.
19. That laugh again.
20. I get to drink a bottle of the best beer in the world.
21. I get to try to be a better dad than I was yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that ...
22. I have the most wonderful daughter in the world.

Happy Father's Day. Enjoy every moment.

The Best Parenting Book I've Read

In a world of 140-character tweets, six-second vines, and snapshot #TBTs, I still think there's incredible valuable in immersing myself deep in the pages of good book. ("Pages" is a loose term, as I switched to a Kindle about five years ago. Tradition, smell of books, feel of the paper, blah, blah. Get with the times, dinosaur. Kindles are better.) My mostly non-fiction reading diet consists of sports, history, and business books, which probably doesn't come as a surprise if you know me. Those things are pretty much my jam.

But a couple years ago, I added another genre to my list: baby books. Or, rather, parenting books. I read, mainly, to educate myself and I had an awful lot to learn (I still do, in fact) about what I was in for as a Dad.

And just recently, I finished the best book I've read about parenting and kids: Overwhelmed: Work, Love, and Play When No One Has the Time. 

Before I get to why that one stands above the rest, here's a short list of five others I've read:
The Happiest Baby on the Block: Pretty much required reading for new parents. You could just look up the 5s and probably get the same benefit, but it does provide confidence about how in the world you're going to calm the tiny screaming monster in your arms. I read this one four months before Annabelle was born.
Be Prepared: A Practical Handbook for New Dads: Good tips for new dads in a short, practical format. I actually referred to this one quite a bit during the early days.
Dude, You're a Dad. Horrible. I'm not even going to include a link. Don't waste your time.
Dr. Dan's Last Word on Babies and Other Humans: Weird, at times, but oddly comforting, too. It made me realize I was probably going to be okay. And so far, I have been. Our pediatrician (who we like an awful lot) recommended this one, so it was a must-read.
Do Fathers Matter? What Science Is Telling Us About the Parent We've Overlooked: I had such high hopes, but it turned out to be dry, lifeless page after dry, lifeless page. Some bright spots here and there, but a big disappointment.

After that last one, I took some time off from the baby books for a while because they were starting to repeat and contradict themselves. Books on similar topics tend to do that. But I picked up Overwhelmed, by Washington Times reporter Brigid Schulte, and was hooked from Page 1.

The basic idea of the book is that we're all too damn busy to focus on the most important things in our lives -- that parents, in particular, have very little leisure time. The author weaves engaging narratives and fascinating studies, and provides practical guidance on how we can lead better lives as parents, partners, and workers. The idea of working in pulses to stay productive has already helped me a great deal.

I highlighted several passages in the book (which I can reference easily with my Kindle) and one really stuck with me. The author is talking about her husband, an NPR correspondent, being on assignment overseas in a tough area. She writes: "In my world of crashing deadlines, teacher phone calls, late Girl Scout forms, forgotten water bills, kids' stomachaches, and empty cupboards, all I could think was: Man, all he has to do every day is go to work."

All he has to do every day is go to work. I remember feeling like that.

In truth, I read Overwhelmed because that was how I've felt lately. Annabelle still isn't sleeping well, work is stressful, and breaks are few and far between. This is particularly scary because Annabelle is still an only child and is a smiling ball of fun 90% of the time. What happens if and when we have another little one? What happens when Annabelle turns 13 and hates me?

After I tell a tale about getting up five times in a night, thrown up on, or worse, my friends who aren't parents often ask me, "How do you do it?" Like most parents, I answer, "You just do it." But "it" is really damn hard sometimes. It's hard to convince your child to eat a healthy meal. It's hard to sleep with a foot in your ribs. It's hard to explain why 40 degrees is too cold to go outside. It's hard, and I know I'm incredibly fortunate to lead a somewhat privileged life.

I did my best to put things in perspective as I was reading the book, but it wasn't until the end when it really hit me: "Recognize that children do, indeed, grow quickly. And that the moment to stop and notice and enjoy is now. And now. And now."

So that's what I'm going to go do. Right now.

Do You Miss Your Old Life?

It's a simple question, really.

"Do you miss your old life?" Someone asked me that this week and I froze.

Do I pine for the days when I could do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted? Do I wish I could go out every weekend, drink delicious Dogfish Head beer, and not worry about what the next morning might look like? Do I yearn for the time when my primary responsibility didn't involve a precocious, stubborn, willful little red head?

It's a simple question. But it doesn't have a simple answer.

I've actually been thinking about this question for quite a while -- almost two years, actually. At first, I didn't because I thought it made me a bad parent. You've been blessed with this wonderful miracle. How dare you ever pretend it never happened?! But then I realized it was normal to think those things, even healthy. If you never talk about the things that are really on your mind, what kind of a life is that?

Fatherhood, as I've chronicled on this blog, is wonderful. Mostly, I present the lighter side of things here and on social media. Pictures of a smiling Annabelle. Memorable moments by the ocean's edge. A family relaxing in the backyard.

I post those things because I think they are probably more enjoyable to see and they are the way I want to remember the early years of Annabelle's life. It's certainly not to fool anyone into thinking our lives aren't filled sometimes with stress or challenges. But who wants to look at pictures of incessantly runny noses? Or a video of a tantrum caused by a lack of pretzels inside the bag of Chex Mix? (Obviously, I didn't just come up with that example on my own.)

This week, or the past two weeks actually, have been especially challenging because Annabelle will no longer sleep in her crib. We're trying lots of different things, including crying it out, which is absolutely brutal. She just cries and cries and cries. And the second you start becoming immune to the sobbing and screaming, you think you're a horrible person because you're letting your adorable child go through it.

Shudder.

So with those experiences fresh in my mind and, well, ongoing, I figured it was a good time to pony up and answer the question: Do I miss my old life?

First answer: Sometimes.

I mean, how couldn't I, right? How couldn't any parent? Before baby, you had lots of free time, more disposable income, and more control over your life. You slept well almost every night and actually looked refreshed from time to time. During certain moments, like when I was lying on her rock-hard floor at midnight on Tuesday begging her to "just close her eyes," it's impossible not to miss it.

But if there was a way to go back and make the decision again, I would absolutely take the same path. I would take it 100 times out of 100 opportunities.

Why? Mostly because one big hug, one care-free minute of laughter, or one "I love you" trump anything I've ever experienced. Just one of those things is better than 50 amazing nights out at a bar, a European vacation, or a game-winning shot in a local hoops league. Call me a sap, but that's how I really feel.

So, my final answer: I miss moments of my old life. But I couldn't imagine not living the one I've chosen.

Going Postal

Bridget and I stood over Annabelle with hopeless, distant looks in our eyes. I let out a deep sigh. She shrugged. And we both did everything in our power to avoid the awkward gazes of the sympathetic people who tiptoed around us.

There, on the stone steps of the post office in the middle of town, Annabelle was throwing her first public tantrum.

She's thrown mini tantrums before. I mean, she'll be 2-years-old at the end of the summer. There was the time in the car when she lost her mimi (pacifier), the time when she was too tired to be at Assembly Row, and the time she did NOT want to come inside to eat dinner. But this one, oh boy. This one.

It's still hard for me to believe that the perfect, adorable, cherubic angel in the picture above is capable of anything other than sunshine and rainbows. She's too sweet, right? Other kids throw tantrums, but my daughter throws kisses and flowers.

Right.

We went to the post office because we needed to get little Annabelle a passport. We're off to Aruba for a much-needed vacation in the near future and she'll be leaving the country for the first time. (By the way, I got my passport when I was 30. Crazy, right? Or maybe embarrassing.) Getting a passport means getting a public photo, which Annabelle hasn't done before.

Simply put, it didn't go well.

At first, the two female employees brought out a stool on which Annabelle was supposed to sit. No luck. Annabelle reached for Bridget while I filled out the annoying paperwork. Then the tears started. Then the yelling. And the uncontrollable, "No, no, no." 

"Maybe you could just hold her," said the first woman, who we'll call Beth, as I came over to help.

We tried that and it looked like we'd found a solution. Hooray! Not too bad!

"Oh, this is the new camera. I'm not sure how it works and I can't click the button," said a suddenly unhelpful Beth. "I'll need to get Alice." 

As Alice (or whatever her name was) came over, Annabelle's tantrum started to gain momentum. Bridget tried to soothe her. I tried to just get it over with. Annabelle tried to run away.

"See if you can hold her, Dad, and keep your head out of the picture," said an increasingly annoyed Alice.


Finally, mercifully, Annabelle stopped crying for 10 seconds and I extended my daughter while arching my head as far back as it would go.

"I can still see your arm," offered Alice, "but maybe this will work." (One of the outtakes is right over there.)

After a couple signatures, some stamps, we were done. But that's when Annabelle's real meltdown started. It's impossible to know why, exactly,, but my guess is that it was a combination of being tired, being forced to do something against her will, and being 20 months old. The crying, wailing, sobbing, and screaming reached a crescendo as Annabelle wriggled out of Bridget's arms to lay down on the cool, concrete steps of the post office.

Finally, after a couple minutes of awkward glances and the public embarrassment came and went, we scooped up Annabelle and put her in her car seat. She was asleep 30 seconds later.

Ah, well. At least she got the tantrum out of her system for this year. That's how it works, right?

Seven Things I Learned During My Three Days as a Single Dad

Bridget went to New York City for a short business trip this week. Such a simple, innocuous sentence, but it carries two huge truths with it:
1. It was the first time Bridget spent a night (two, actually!) away from Annabelle.
2. It was the first time I had to hop in the saddle as a single Dad.

We'll be focusing on No. 2 here.

To make a long story short, everything went fine. No fires, no tantrums, no uncontrollable sobbing. There was an incident with poop on the floor, but that was thanks to our furry first born, Oscar. He's such a delight lately.

Anyway, although everything went fine, I did learn quite a bit during my Tuesday-Thursday stretch as single parent. In fact, I counted seven new bits of education:

1. A bag of Russet Gourmet Dark Potato Chips makes a fine dinner. No cholesterol or preservatives. Hand cooked in 100% pure peanut oil. Pure peanut oil, folks. Pure! It's basically the same thing as a well-rounded meal of chicken and vegetables. Just check out these Amazon reviews! Also, stop judging me. We have six more things to discuss.
2. It's really, really hard to put a toddler's hair into an elastic. Up above, you can see my best attempt. It was actually my eighth attempt that morning, but who's counting? This falls into the "why didn't someone teach me this before she was born?" category with the fruit cutting. 
3. Grandmothers are life savers. Annabelle still goes to daycare in Waltham, which is down the treacherous, traffic-filled Route 95. Driving into the teeth of the Boston commute wasn't much fun (for me or Annabelle) every morning, but Grammy/Mimi, who works in Waltham, was kind enough to bring Annabelle home so I could work a full day. Yay, Mimi! (I suppose I already knew this truth about grandmothers, but a reminder never hurts.)
4. Apparently, grilled cheese on a hamburger roll is an inappropriate lunch. "On a burger roll? The people at daycare are going to think we're hobos," said Bridget, when I informed her of my culinary offering for our toddler. "Other people bring, like, gourmet meals." Well, excuse me. I'll have you know she ATE THE WHOLE THING.
5. Reality almost never mirrors your expectations. Whether your vision of the future is positive or negative, it probably won't happen. I had premonitions of "Mama! Mama!" at 3 AM and they never came to fruition. There are tons of biases that can help explain my fears, but I prefer the simple words of Mark Twain: "I've had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened."
6. Baa Baa Black Sheep has some questionable lyrics. I sang it about 40 times in three days and, after a while, you start to get suspicious. Turns out I'm not alone here.
7. Single parents are my heroes. Seriously. My three days were fairly easy, but I honestly can't imagine doing everything all the time. Diaper change? It's you. Throwing food and won't eat? You're up. Sick and needs to go the doctor? Yep, you're on call. Whether you are a single mom or a single dad, you're doing a hell of a job and I bow down to your grit and determination.

If you need me this weekend, I'll be drinking beer and watching The Masters. I think I've earned it.

My Life as a Chopaholic

Before Annabelle was born, I spent more time than I’d like to admit practicing skills I’d need to care for her. Bridget and I attended a day-long parenting class and attended a baby expo that is cleverly named Drool. Bridget had quite a bit of experience with babies, so it was all review for her. But for me, who hadn’t babysat a day in my life, it was all new. And scary.

I learned how to support a baby’s head, change a diaper, and swaddle a newborn. (I never quite mastered that third one.) I learned how to feed, how to soothe, and how to bathe. The instructors were kind, patient, and supportive.

But no one, not one person, mentioned the task that would consume most of my time as a new Dad: chopping fruit.

I have chopped so much damn fruit in the last 19 months. Like, a ton. Do you ever wonder how much money you’d have if you never spent a cent in your life? What would that pile of cash look like? That’s the way I think of the fruit I’ve chopped. If it was stacked up in a big pile, I’m quite certain it would equal the snowbank in my backyard that won't officially melt until June.

I’ve chopped a LOT of fruit.

The reason, of course, is simple. You cut fruit so that your baby is less likely to choke on fruit. Tiny, bite-sized morsels make it easier for her (or him) to swallow bites of nature’s candy. This is especially important when the baby doesn’t have teeth, but it continues after chomper growth, too.

What I didn’t realize about the fruit cutting (because, again, no one had the decency to mention it) was that not all fruits are created alike. Some are easier to chop into tiny bits than others. Some keep better than others. Here's a quick sampling (from best to worst) of the fruits Belle eats on a regular basis:

• Grapes. Grapes are sturdy and need just one clean chop to split into digestible chunks. Quick, easy, efficient. If my chopping life focused solely on grapes, I’d be a happy man. (Maybe I'd even turn into this guy someday.) But sadly, that's not my reality.  
• Bananas. Easy, right? Easy to chop, mushy. A piece of cake. But bananas turn brown very quickly when you cut into them. They don’t keep well. Plus, what are you supposed to do with the strings? Include them? Just eat them yourself while you’re cutting? That’s gross. 
• Watermelon. Fairly easy to cut, but it never holds together very well. Plus, it can get mushy. Not one of my favorites. 
• Blueberries. Ugh. Blueberries are so tiny and it’s hard to cut more than one at a time. Plus, blueberries take more concentration than the rest, which can be a big challenge on a few hours of sleep.
• Strawberries. The bane of my chopping existence. Strawberries are oddly shaped, have inconsistent textures, and have the stupid stem on top. Plus, they often have non-ripe spots or overly sweet spots, which you feel bad giving to your kid. I always start by cutting off the top and then experiment with different techniques of chopping lengthwise or widthwise. I typically end up just diving in and doing unique cuts, which is time-consuming and generally awful.

Annabelle is getting better now. She can eat a banana by herself, but I fear that the cutting is just getting started. We’ll want her to try new foods and I’ll need my trusty cutting board and knife to make it happen.

Just wish me luck when pomegranate seeds are her new obsession …

Trouble in Sleep City

I’m surprised these words on this page.

I do my best to set aside some time to write a blog post each week. It’s been a great way to keep track of Belle’s first 18 months. I’m certain Bridget and I will read this blog fondly in the future – and I hope Belle will, too. Plus, I love to write, so this blog has been something of a win-win.
But this week … man. Man, oh man.

Now, nothing dramatic happened. Everyone’s (mostly) healthy, work was fine, and the weather is finally getting better. But this week, in the spirit of Sesame Street, was brought to us by something called the 18-month sleep regression.

Perhaps you’ve never heard of such a thing. I certainly hadn’t until very recently. But it’s not too difficult to understand if you break it down. The first part, “18-month,” refers to the age of our adorable little nugget at the top of the page. She’ll be 19 months next week. (Aside: When do I stop counting the months? Can I just say she’s 1? I’m starting to feel pretentious.) The second part, “sleep regression,” refers to forgetting how to sleep. And, well, it’s awful.

For the most part, Annabelle has been a pretty good sleeper. After six weeks of life, she was getting about 4-5 hours of solid sleep a night. And, with a few bumps in the road, it’s been fairly smooth sailing since then. I know that’s not the case with all babies. I’ve talked to Moms and Dads who have struggled with sleep issues from the moment their baby arrives:
“We woke up 9-10 times every night for the first year.” 
“She’s 10-months-old and she hasn’t slept through the night yet.” 
“I honestly didn’t get more than four hours of sleep at a time for two years.”

To those parents, I say, “You are far tougher than I am.” Of course, it’s unlikely that those parents are still reading at this point. I imagine they closed the browser while muttering curse words about me after the “Annabelle has been a pretty good sleeper” line.

Even so, this week has been absolutely brutal. What used to be a few quick books and a kiss on the forehead has become 90-120 minutes of “Please, please go to bed.” What used to be a 6 AM wake-up cry has become 11:30, 1:30, and 3 AM wake-up cries. Wednesday night/Thursday morning was the worst, when Annabelle woke up at 1:45 and kept us up the rest of the night.

I realize it’s just one week, but when you wake up to face the day after only a couple hours of sleep, it doesn’t matter if the night before was restful or brutal. (At least it doesn’t matter for me.) It’s almost impossible to perform at your normal level. You're irritable. You can't physically smile. You start to question the cuteness of puppies. You secretly hope we get another blizzard ...

And the worst part of the week? We’re not sure when this is going to end. The 18-month sleep regression, unlike others, involves some personality. So in addition to growing, teething, and developing, Annabelle is exerting her independence and showing how she can be defiant. It makes me shudder to think of the teenage years.

So is there anything positive? Any light at the end of the sleep-deprived tunnel? There are two, actually. One, it’s all part of the parenting deal. This, too, shall pass, as all phases do. We signed up for this and in a weird way, we like it. It’s like earning a badge of honor. And two, on Wednesday night/Thursday morning, when she screamed at the top of her lungs at 1:45, she also yelled something new:
 “Dada!”

And that was pretty neat …

Being Okay with 'Mama'

Annabelle woke up at 2:59 AM on Wednesday morning. There was no real rhyme or reason. She wasn't sick, wasn't cold, wasn't ready to wake up. She just started crying, so I went in to make sure she was okay.

She was standing up with her arms out, a couple small tears started to drip down her cheeks. Groggy, wiping sleep from my eyes, I reached down into her crib to get her.

Me: Hi, baby. Are you okay? 

Annabelle: (Crying.)

Me: What's wrong? Are you feeling okay? Do you want to come into our bed? 

Annabelle, with arms reaching toward our bedroom: Mama. Mama. Mama.

Me: Oh, okay. Cool. 

Hun! She wants you ...

One of the hardest things about being a new Dad is when "Dad" isn't the answer. No matter who you are or where you're from, there's one hope we all share: If you love something, you want that thing to love you back. Now, of course, Annabelle loves me (or at least I hope/assume she does), but it's pretty difficult to get a baby stiff arm when you're coming to the rescue or trying to plant a kiss before bed.

It's not just the middle of the night, either. In the photo above, Bridget and Belle are walking hand-in-hand through the magical streets of Disney World. Cute, isn't it? Where's Dad? Well, in public, for some strange reason, Annabelle refuses to hold my hand. Not in Disney World. Not at the store. Not on the street. Maybe she's embarrassed already?

As an uncertain, first-time Dad, this has been tough for me. Am I doing something wrong? Can I do anything better? Will it ever change? Bridget, being the wonderfully supportive spouse, always answers the same way, "She loves you. She just goes through lots of phases. She'll want you all the time someday."

That kind, thoughtful answer rang in my head at 3:01 AM on Wednesday morning. After my initial disappointment with "Mama," I smiled and realized it was the first time Annabelle called for one of us at night. She's growing up so fast and I'm lucky to be sharing the experience with such a wonderful wife.

Then, at 3:02 AM, as I crawled back into bed with Bridget and, now, Annabelle, I felt a tiny hand on my shoulder. And as my smile faded and I put my attention to falling back asleep, I heard a barely audible whisper:

Dada. 

Missing Luggage: The Five Lows of Flying Without Belle

As I type these words, I’m in the air somewhere over West Virginia. The sky outside the small, rectangular window to my right is blue and white. I just slowly savored a couple packets of complimentary graham crackers (thanks, JetBlue) while listening to my favorite new artist, Vance Joy.

I am, for the most part, pretty relaxed.

Exactly three months ago, I was in the air somewhere over West Virginia. I don’t remember what color the sky was. I have no idea what I ate. I wasn’t wearing noise-cancelling headphones or typing quietly on my laptop. Instead, I was handing out one Gerber puff at a time, trying to occupy Belle with yet another board book, and hoping that the stroller would still somehow be in one piece when we landed in Boston.

Relaxed? Not so much.

One of the many joys (and struggles) of having a little one is flying with a little one. In Annabelle’s first 18 months of life, she’s been on a few journeys that required airplanes. And as any parent will tell you, it’s challenging. Like maybe a 7 or 8 out of 10 on the difficulty scale. Packing is harder. Getting through security is harder. The flight is harder. Then, you have to worry about time zones and sleeping …

But as I sit here without much stress, I’m surprised to find myself genuinely missing some things about flying with Belle. More specifically, I miss five things:

1. People are much nicer when you fly with a baby. Everyone smiles, no one counts your bags, and stewardesses check in on you all the time. The world knows you’re gritting your teeth and counting the minutes until landing. 
2. Early boarding. Airplanes are crowded and never have enough room. The anxiety that comes with standing around a gate with a piece of carry-on luggage that should fit in the overhead compartment is never fun. Is that guy in Group 3? Is he already getting on? Seriously? With a baby, the red carpet of boarding rolls out. 
3. Bridget. No Belle in the air has, so far, meant no Bridget in the air. And I like hanging out with my wife. She’s pretty damn cool. 
4. Belle. This one is kind of obvious. I thought it would get easier as she started to get older, but it’s actually getting worse. Within the first 10 minutes of this morning’s flight, I was pulling out my phone to watch some recent videos of new words, big smiles, and hilarious dining moments. I won’t get a “Dadda!!!!!” hug today and that stinks. 
5. The accomplished feeling when you land. I’ll touch down in a couple hours, slowly collect my carry-on bags, and shuffle out toward the vast, fast-food-filled airport in Dallas. From there, I’ll hop in a cab and head to the hotel. Big deal. With the little one in tow, Bridget and I would share a high-five (and she hates high-fives), let out a couple big sighs, give each other that “We made it” look, and get ready to explore a new place with Belle. 

Now the task of trying to remember these five things the next time I’m handing small bits of food to a screaming toddler before the plane is even in the air? That’s probably a 9 on that difficulty scale. Maybe even 9.5.

What's the value of a baby book?

Hair is the only thing that comes to mind. And maybe teeth, too, but that's a little strange. I mean, who saves teeth?

Otherwise, really, what's the value of a baby book anymore?

My mother, if she's reading this, is rolling her eyes. You don't know what you're talking about, Michael. Baby books are an essential part of childhood. The memories. Oh, the memories! 

Well, Ma, the thing is, books just aren't books anymore. Books are e-books. Books are online courses. Books are images and videos and animations. Physical books are, in a way, and it's hard for me to say this, dead.

And baby books are in that category of physical books.

I've looked through my baby book a few times. It's fun to skim the pages and take an embarrassing trip down memory lane. Mine, probably like yours, is faded, worn, and torn. That isn't because my mother treated it poorly; in fact, she treasured/treasures it. But it's a book and books fall apart. It's filled with images, footprints, and, probably, hair. It's stuffed with memories of foods I liked, illnesses I overcame, and first steps I took. I'm sure there's quite a bit about the potty in there, too. And don't get me wrong -- these are all wonderful things.

But we don't have one for Annabelle. And, frankly, I don't see it happening.

Instead, we have this blog, Annabelle's email account, hundreds of digital photos (many of which you might have seen on Facebook and Instagram), and dozens of videos. Again, I'm channeling my mother: This is all technology! What will you actually hold in your hand? Oh, you're missing out! (She says "Oh" a lot as she leads into emotional sentences. Maybe your mom does, too?)

I don't think we're missing out, though. (And I don't think Annabelle is either.) I think we're being practical and making good use of technological advances. The tattered images of me in a snowsuit are are now sharp, high-def images of Annabelle sitting in her highchair. A story about my first steps is now a 15-second video I can watch every day. A list of my first words is now an audio file on my iPhone.

Sound cold? Sound sterile? To me, it sounds like progress. It sounds like the inevitable march of time. It sounds like better, more vibrant memories.

Besides, what would we do with a bunch of old teeth?

A Chilly Housewarming

For most of Massachusetts, January 31 was just another cold, snowy Saturday on this frigid marathon called winter. A few inches of snow in the morning. Single-digit temperatures. Reports of a potential blizzard in the days ahead. If you live anywhere in the state, you've read sentences like these thousands of time by now.

For me and Bridget, January 31 was a day we’ll remember forever. We – wait for it – moved into our first home!

Hooray! We’re officially adults now! We realized our time in the city had to come to an end, so we packed up our things, asked friends for help, and moved 12 miles north to the suburb of Reading.

Like any big day you circle on a calendar, Bridget and I talked about January 31 endlessly. Ever since we officially bought the home in October, we looked ahead to the end of January with excitement and anxiety. Won’t it be great to have more room for our stuff? Should we hire movers or ask friends and family to help? (Aside: Our friends and family are wonderful people.) What will the new neighbors be like? What if we miss the city? Does this mean we’re not cool?

And, to be clear, it’s been wonderful. There are so many great things about owning your own little piece of the Earth, many of which we’ll document in upcoming posts. But, man, did we pick the worst month of all-time to move into a new house.

In no particular order, here are the five activities that have taken up the bulk of our weekends so far:

1. Shoveling 
2. Shoveling snow off the roof 
3. Worrying about ice dams 
4. Salting the walkway and the driveway 
5. Shoveling 

Sure, we’ve done fun stuff, too. We bought a new car and some furniture, ordered our first batch of oil (actually not that much fun), and enjoyed the many pleasures of our local Market Basket. But the winter has been a cold, continuous punch in the gut.

Dramatic? An exaggeration? It has snowed every weekend and, frankly, nearly even day since we’ve moved to Reading. I’ve yet to see a blade of grass or a dry patch of pavement. Before I climbed on the roof the first time, I went to Zillow so I could see some pictures and make sure the angles weren’t too steep. And the list goes on.

Last weekend, on the one “warm” day we’ve had, a young mother walked by and we had this quick exchange:

Young Mom: “Oh, are you the new owners?”
Me (as I shoveled the walk for the 87th time): “Yup, I’m Mike. Bridget and little Annabelle are inside.”
Young Mom: “Oh, how nice. Boy, what a horrible time to move. I feel so bad every time I walk by. It’s a really nice neighborhood. You’ll see … someday.”

Everyone has struggled with the weather this winter. Commutes have been horrible. Backs and shoulders are injured. Roofs are sagging. We’re no different. But on that first 60-degree April day, when we fire up the grill and watch Belle and Oscar run around in the backyard, it’ll be hard to find a happier couple in Massachusetts.

Dear Annabelle ...

There's a scene in that Google "Dear Sophie" commercial that chokes me up every time I watch it. The ad, if you didn't click the link or haven't seen it, features a Dad writing emails to his newborn/infant/toddler daughter. It's incredibly well done -- and inspired me to write Annabelle emails in her first 16 months.

Anyway, there's this scene. In the middle of all these happy memories, there's one in the hospital. The phrases "really bad fever" and "we felt so helpless" pop up on the screen. And every time I see that, I think: Man, that must be awful. I wonder if we'll ever have that experience with Belle.

And then last Sunday happened.

It actually all started Friday. The folks at daycare called and told us Annabelle, who had been nursing a cough for a few days, had pink eye and needed to come home. Bridget picked her up from daycare, I grabbed the medicine, and we hunkered down for a quiet night with our little goopy-eyed monster.  Belle had a slight fever, too, but we assumed it was just part of the pink eye. We called the doctor and she wasn't concerned. And by Saturday, the eye looked a lot better and Annabelle's slight fever had gone down.

Life, we thought, was back to normal.

But then Belle's fever got worse as Saturday afternoon became Saturday night. It climbed to 102 and then 103. We gave her some Tylenol, sent her to bed, and crossed our fingers that the fever would relent in the morning. It didn't. In fact, it got worse. Belle was lethargic, breathing heavy, and seemingly on fire. The doctor's office told us not to worry until the fever reached 105, but at 104, we called in a bit of a panic. Ten minutes later, we were racing through Cambridge to get to urgent care.

Immediately, the doctor gave Belle a breathing treatment and tried to calm our fears. Her pulse was fast and her oxygen was low. Now we were really getting nervous. The doctor tried to improve the situation for about 20 minutes and then said, "I think she needs to go to the hospital. And she'll need to go in an ambulance."

My mind raced: My daughter? An ambulance? No, she's fine. She's a very healthy girl. There must be some mistake. 

I ran down to the car to get Belle's car seat. We put her in and then placed her on a stretcher so she'd be safe in the ambulance. And then I caught a glimpse of her face -- her scared, confused, perfect face. It was heart-breaking, soul-crushing, and nerve-racking. We were helpless. Bridget went in the back of the ambulance with Belle while I drove home to get an overnight bag and take care of Oscar.

Now, I'm not a big crier. I probably break down once every year or two. But, man, did I cry. I cried after I saw Belle's face on the stretcher. I cried when I drove by the ambulance. I cried when I got the text from Bridget saying they were in Room 33 in the ER and Belle "seemed to be doing okay."

And so Sunday night, tired, scared, and worried, we were admitted to Children's Hospital. While most of New England watched 52" screens and cheered for the Patriots, we watched a 9" screen and cheered for Belle's oxygen levels. Slowly, she started to get better. Her oxygen levels went up and her pulse slowed.

The diagnosis was pneumonia, so we knew we were canceling our plans for a few days. But we didn't care. We stayed at the hospital Sunday night and Monday night, and then came home with a relatively healthy girl on Tuesday afternoon. Belle will have a cough for a while, but our first real health scare was behind us.

Before we left on Tuesday, I opened up an email and wrote:

Dear Annabelle ...

Should I Have Posted This Photo?

Should I have posted this photo?

I mean, it's not the most flattering image of my adorable daughter, Annabelle. She isn't smiling or being particularly cute. The lighting is pretty bad. And she's stuffing her face pretty aggressively with what looks to be pizza.

Will this photo come back to haunt her someday? Will some mean-spirited 12-year-old girl find it online in 11 years and make fun of my daughter? Tell her she chews like a cow? Call her names? 

I sure hope not. But is that a reason not to post a photo? Or a video? Or a story?

A 2010 study four that 92% of US 2-year-olds have an online record. And 2010, at least in technology years, is approximately 250 years ago. A baby's digital footprint has replaced the ink footprint hospitals used to give you as a memento of the miracle. Before babies are born, they show up on Facebook news feeds as fetuses and have their very own email addresses.   

Is creating this digital persona a good idea? Or a horrible one? 

If you're a parent (or you plan to be one someday), you probably wrestle with this question. We all share images and updates and stories because we want to entertain our friends and families, create memories, and, well, market ourselves. (It's sad, but we all have a brand.) But is anything over the line? Is a Twitter account for a 1-year-old an accident waiting to happen? What about a naked photo in the tub on Instagram? What happens if your toddler ends up on a Toys R Us marketing list? 

After some digging, I found a really good New York Times article on the topic. It doesn't necessarily have answers, but it raises lots of important scenarios and questions. And it has this closing line, which really made me pause: If anything, a child today who grow up and discovers he has no photos on Facebook or Instagram might think of himself as an unloved anomaly. In an age of obsessive digital detailing, if a child grows up unrecorded, what is his identity at all?  

This last question seems like it's a little over the line. No identity at all? Still, unless you've blocked me on Facebook, you probably know that Annabelle has a pretty strong online presence. Bridget and I have posted approximately 8,000 photos (most cuter than the one above), written about 100 blog posts, and shared dozens of videos. And Annabelle has an email address that I write to regularly. 

Why? Well, partly because of the reasons above: We want to share, entertain, and strengthen our family brand. (Family brand? Gross, I know. But let's call a spade, a spade.) But the main reason we do all this online sharing is to create memories for ourselves and for Annabelle. Already, we look at old videos and laugh. We look at old images and wonder how things have gone so fast. And, more than anything, we look forward to the day we can show Belle memories from her childhood.

So, should I have posted this photo? I think so. What about you? 

A Tale of Two (Sets of) Teeth

This week was the worst of times and, well, the worst of times. 

Look at that smile.

Have you ever seen such an adorable mini vampire before? Those two little terrifying fangs hanging down? Marshmallows everywhere are hiding in fear.

As adorable as those teeth may be, any parent will tell you that their formation has been anything but cute. Those two guys in the front -- and their five or six friends -- have created late night tears, public tantrums, random fevers, and hours and hours of whimpering.

Belle was a late bloomer in the teeth department. She didn't sprout chomper No. 1 until she was 15 months old, which according to the all-knowing Internet is about eight months late.

Apparently, her Dad was a late bloomer, too:

Look at that smile. (I think that's a smile?)

Have you ever seen such a terrifying face? Those hairy, swollen cheeks? Women everywhere are hiding in fear.

At the ripe old age of 34, I had my wisdom teeth out this week. Most people have them removed between the ages of 18 - 24. I didn't necessarily drag my feet; I just wasn't really champing at the bit to get it done. My dentist mentioned it a couple appointments ago and, finally, he said it was about time.

Like most everyone, I'd heard my share of horror stories and "it wasn't so bad" stories. People screaming into pillows from the pain. People back at work the next day. People losing 10 pounds because they couldn't eat. People who ran a 5K the following day. My experience was somewhere in between. It hurt quite a bit and I still can't fully open my mouth, but I got to eat a bunch of delicious ice cream and I'm here to type the tale.

Still, what will forever be known as "teeth week" in the Briddon house has been pretty exhausting. The result? Lots and lots of rest for me and Belle. Or, in the words of Charles Dickens, "... it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known."