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."