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?