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?

Goodnight, Goodnight Moon

Our sweet little Annabelle changes every day. (She's changed an awful lot since August 30, the last time we posted to this blog. I blame the hiatus on house hunting, which is exhausting. More on that in an upcoming post.) Anyway, Annabelle. Sweet, sweet, sunshine and light Annabelle. Now 14 months old, she's close to taking her first step, close to saying her first few words, and, yes, our gummy darling is (finally!) even growing teeth.

One change, though, has been a little surprising: She's, well, how to say it delicately … opinionated. She's very, very opinionated.

Now, if you know me, this probably isn't surprising. I have strong thoughts on everything from fantasy football and the decline of journalism, to the taste of mayonnaise (awful) and Breaking Bad. Annabelle, along with being the lucky recipient of my eyebrows, seems to have acquired my opinionated gene. (Bridget, on the other hand, is pretty cool with whatever.)

This whole "Annabelle is super opinionated" reality hit me the other night. We were reading together, as we always do before bed. Lately, we've started to pick the books together. She'll shake her head to say no (which is the cutest damn thing ever) if she's not in the mood for The Very Hungry Caterpillar or Oh, the Thinks You Can Think. We usually read four or five of these literary gems before I put Annabelle in her crib. And the final book is always Goodnight Moon.  

Until one night last week.

Annabelle had started to rub her eyes, so I knew it was almost time. We closed a book about shapes and I reached for Goodnight Moon. She shook her head. "But this one is your favorite, Annabelle." She shook her head again. "Let's just give it a try."

I opened the book, turned the first page, and then Annabelle closed it. Aggressively. I opened it again. She closed it again. Because I love routine and tradition, I gave it one more try. She slammed it shut, then slapped the front of the book several times and yelled. "Okay," I said. "Let's not read this tonight." I put her down and she slept, as the saying goes, like a baby.

The next night, I tried again. The same thing happened. And then again. And again. And again. For some reason, Annabelle has decided that Goodnight Moon will no longer be part of her reading rotation. Not tonight, not tomorrow night, not ever. Why? I'll probably never know.

But I do know that Goodnight Moon is just a sign of things to come. Sweet little Annabelle will soon be telling us what she thinks of this book, that food, and everything else she comes across.

And while I'm really sorry about the eyebrow thing, I couldn't be happier about this.

The Lab of Horrors

It'll all be over soon, I said to myself through gritted teeth. Just look away. Look away. Look away. Look away. It was like a mantra. I stared out the window down onto the late afternoon traffic in Davis Square in Somerville. The smell of rubbing alcohol hung in the air. I tensed my body from head to toe. I clenched my fists, curled my toes, and took in a deep breath. Look away!

Then slowly, calmly, the blood drained from Annabelle's left arm.

This past week, we had Annabelle's nine-month check-up. I'm happy to report she's gaining weight (17 pounds, 11 ounces), growing tall (28.5 inches), and developing normally. Overall, she's pretty darn healthy. And best of all, this time, after shots, shots, and more shots at her last few appointments, we were in the clear at this nine-month check-up.

Or so the nurse led us to believe.

We absolutely love Annabelle's pediatrician. She's smart, funny, and, as you might expect, wonderful with kids. But when she said, "Oh, and just some quick lab work before you go to test her iron," she was suddenly family enemy #1. Lab work? You mean today? Are you sure?

The relief and happiness from a great appointment already a distant memory, we clutched our post-appointment summary and somberly rode the elevator down to the second floor. A high school girl and Annabelle exchanged big smiles on the way down. Bridget and I stared ahead, wondering what the next 10 minutes of our lives would be like.

"Oh, a baby! She's so cute." The receptionists at the lab were all smiles, too. "Just sign that sheet and have a seat with the little one."

Look, no one likes lab work. No one likes giving blood. No one likes needles. As we sat patiently in the waiting room, I could feel the prick in my arm and the obligatory butterflies in my stomach. Poor Annabelle, I thought. She's going to be a puddle of tears. 

They called us to come in. Bridget and I had been handing Annabelle back and forth (she always likes the person who isn't holding her a little bit better), but I ended up with the hot potato. Together, we walked slowly down the hall toward a small room.

"Just go have a seat in the corner by the window," the cheery technician said.

"So, yeah, I'll hold her?" I asked Bridget, remembering that she had taken the lead with all the shots up until now.

"Sure, I mean, if you want to."

With Annabelle in my lap, I sat in the small, unforgiving grade-school desk, complete with the bar that came over the top of us. Annabelle banged on the desk as if it was her high chair, expecting another handful of Cheerios. The poor thing. She has no idea what's coming. This is awful. 

A collection of tiny needles and tubes sat to our left. The technician, a brunette girl in her late 20s named Becky, tied a tiny rubber band around Annabelle's left arm and searched for a vein. No luck. She tried the right arm. No luck. Back to the left. The chunky, 42-week-old arms were not cooperating. Finally, Becky found something.

"Hold on one second now," she said. "I just need to get my co-worker to help hold her down."

What's that now? Hold her down? Are we sawing off her leg after a Civil War battle? Hold her down?!

Another woman came in and immediately started bouncing around the room and smiling at Annabelle. She tried her best to distract us from the tiny needle that Becky held in her hand.

"Dad, make sure you have a really tight bear hug," she said. "Whatever you do, don't let go of that right arm."

Wait, what? This is serious. Are her arms going to flail? Is this a reflex? Is she about to lose it?

I hugged Annabelle as tightly as I could and stared out the window. It was over before I even knew it started. And Annabelle? Not a peep. She let out a quick yell when they withdrew the needle, but she'd already missed the action. They tied a neon green bandage around her arm, gave her a "Terrific Patient" sticker, and she was all smiles the rest of the afternoon.

Me? I'm still tense and nervous as I sit here writing this. It was a traumatic experience. And, well, I'm darn lucky to have a little daughter who will toughen me up a bit.

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.

A Post That Isn't About Annabelle

If you read this blog, you know I've written a lot about my daughter, Annabelle, in the last year. If you look at the photos on my iPhone, you'll find hundreds of Annabelle. Annabelle smiling. Annabelle crying. Annabelle eating. If you could somehow read my mind, almost all of the time, Annabelle would be there.

This, I'd argue, is understandable for a new Dad. And maybe even expected. I have a seven-month-old daughter who I strongly believe is the greatest thing that has ever happened.

But this post isn't about Annabelle; it's about her beautiful mother.

Two weeks ago, in the middle of possible first words, trying to discover new foods, and our first household sickness, Bridget and I celebrated our second wedding anniversary. Two years ago, on March 31, 2012, on a suddenly sunny day in Chatham, MA, I married my best friend and the most wonderful person I've ever known. We celebrated the anniversary with some small gifts and a nice dinner, but the day itself folded quietly into another exciting, stressful week.

And, well, that isn't quite fair.

A year of marriage is a big deal. Whether you've been married one year, two years, 10 years, or 30 years, each one presents its share of joy and sadness. New babies. Bad fights. Promotions at work. Expensive bills. Tropical vacations. Car accidents. They're all part of life and in just two years of marriage, I've realized just how important it is to have the right person by your side.

In a nutshell, I love spending time with Bridget. And as I listened to an old Freakonomics podcast about marriage this week, I was struck by just how important that sentence is. Here's an excerpt from the podcast:

We’ve moved to what economists would call consumption complementarities. We have more time, more money, and so you want to spend it with someone that you’ll enjoy. So, similar interests and passions. We call this the model of hedonic marriage. But really it’s a lot more familiar than that. This is just economists giving a jargon name to love. So you want someone who’s actually remarkably similar to you or has similar passions that you do. 

Our passions don't always align, but they often do. We love music, reading, traveling, Annabelle, and each other. More than that, Bridget makes me feel better when I'm having a tough day and keeps my ego in check when I think I've done something pretty special. She takes care of me, challenges me, cheers for me, and puts me in my place. And she does it all with a delicate touch. I admire and love her more today than I did two years ago. I can't wait to see what the next 60 years bring.

Happy second anniversary, Bridget. I love you so damn much. And, just because it will make you smile, here's a picture of our daughter inside a cardboard box:

Motivated by Milestones

We encourage Annabelle to do new things all the time. Roll over, Annabelle. Say da-da, Annabelle. Say ma-ma. Grab your toy. Feed yourself. Solve this Rubik's Cube. We encourage her because it's natural. That's what parents do.

We obviously want her to be the best at everything. We want her to meet every milestone. Wait, no. We want her to crush every milestone.
Annabelle just hit the seven-month mark, so we want her to talk now, walk in two months, and do algebra by 18 months. We want progress, progress, and more progress.

But maybe we shouldn't.

As Annabelle fell asleep in my arms earlier this week (she wasn't feeling her best), I thought to myself: Why in the world would I ever want this to change? Why would I ever rush this? And yet, here I was encouraging her in this video of her first sounds that also happen to be a word:
 -

"Da-Da," of course, will become "I love you, Daddy." (Awww.) But that will turn into "Why can't I have that, Daddy?" That will evolve into, "You don't understand, Dad." That, in turn, will be, "Because everyone is piercing their eyelids, old man!" And, finally, "I just can't relate to you, gray-haired gentleman who happens to live in my house."

So why would I rush to get there? Why would I be so excited about Annabelle hitting these predetermined milestones? And how realistic are these milestones anyway? Let's take a look at some general guidelines:

• Rolling over: 2 to 3 months
• Crawling: 6 to 10 months
• Sitting up: 8 months
• Walking: 10 to 18 months
• Talking: About 12 months
• Potty training: As early as 18 to 24 months

(While I was digging up those stats from parenting.com and WebMD, I also found this: "Some eager parents interpret a string of "dada" babbles as their baby's first words -- "daddy!" But babbling at this age is usually still made up of random syllables without real meaning or comprehension." Whatever, WebMD. You don't know what the hell you're talking about. Annabelle isn't usual. Stupid Internet doctor.)

Annabelle can't crawl yet, so should we be worried? Should I grab a whistle, get on all fours, and set up an obstacle course with barbed wire to encourage her? I didn't walk until I was 16 months old and I turned out just fine. (I'll prove it if you want to race.) And I wasn't potty trained until I was about 3-years-old. (I developed just fine in that area, too.)

But still, there's this constant pressure from society for our children to be the earliest, the first, and the best. Friends and family, even with the best intentions, add to the stress. To make friendly conversation, they say, "Six months! Wow. Is she doing anything new?" Those five words immediately put me on the defensive. I want to have an impressive answer, like, "Yes! Origami!" or, "She sure is! She just filed our taxes!" Instead, I say something boring, like, "Still working on that tummy-to-back roll!"(Also, are YOU doing anything new? Oh, your job? Boring.)

The moral to all of this is simple: I need to slow down. Slow way down. Annabelle will walk when she walks, talk when she talks, and pee in a toilet when she pees in a toilet. Sometimes, she'll be ahead of the crowd and other times, she'll be near the back of the pack.

For now, I'm going to stop urging her to achieve all the time. Instead, I'll just hold her when she sleeps. And I'll smile.

Diabolical Puffs

My nemesis stands 1/8th of an inch tall. It's shaped like a star. It tastes like apples and cinnamon, and doesn't have much nutritional value.

It is the puff. Or, more correctly, puffs, because there are so damn many of them.

For those of you who aren't elbow-deep in the baby world, puffs are little, fluffy cereal bites for babies. Think Apple Cinnamon Cheerios, only lighter. Annabelle loves them.

I don't.

This isn't to say there's anything wrong with puffs themselves. Gerber makes a nice product that is a great supplement to meals. They're tiny, they're delicious, and they melt in your mouth.

But I hate them. So much.

It all started a couple weeks ago when Bridget suggested we get some puffs so Annabelle could "work on her pincer grasp." (I think there was a crack of thunder when Bridget made this suggestion, but I can't be sure.) Working on her pincer grasp is a fancy way of saying working on picking up small things.

The next morning, as I was feeding Annabelle some breakfast, we tried the puffs. She was confused at first (that happens a lot with a six-month old), but figured it out quickly. She picked them up, played with them, and really enjoyed eating them. She didn't actually feed herself, but we were pleased.

The morning after that, she ate even more puffs. In fact, she preferred the puffs to her oatmeal. By a lot. And that's when things went downhill.

Puffs became an obsession. Other foods Annabelle loved, like apples, pears, and oatmeal, were cast aside like a photo of an old girlfriend. Day after day, it was puffs, puffs, puffs. Here, see for yourself:

Cute? Sure. Frustrating? Definitely. I even tried that bait-and-switch technique where I'd show the puff, get her to open her mouth, and then go in with the oatmeal. This made me feel shady and dishonest, though.

Annabelle had made up her mind. It was puffs or nothing. For days on end.

This may sound somewhat adorable, but I feed Annabelle breakfast every morning. I want her to have variety and high-caloric foods like avocados and bananas so we can make her nice and chubby. But she has other ideas and, I've quickly learned, she means "no" when she says it. I beg. I plead. I do the whole airplane loop thing. Nope. Give me 10 more puffs, Dad. And make it snappy.

So now what? What do we do with her beloved puffs? Well, they aren't welcome at breakfast (or any meal) anymore. They're buried deep in the pantry. To me, they're dead.

Sure, I feel a little bad. It's not like puffs did this on purpose. Really, it's Annabelle's fault. But, as you might guess, my daughter is perfect, so puffs get the blame and become the nemesis.

We have an extra container of puffs if anyone is interested. We won't be needing them.

From the Fan of Death to Annabelle Grace

You probably don't remember what you were doing on June 3, 2012. For the most part, I don't remember what I was doing either. But I do know that I sat down for an hour that day to write the first blog post for A Joint Account. 

This blog post is number 100.

Who cares? That would have been my first reaction when I was in high school or college. (It may still be your reaction now.) I used to think round numbers were overblown. I just couldn't understand what made the 5th, 10th, 25th, or 50th of something such a big deal. Why not have a big party for someone's 29th birthday or 11th anniversary? It seemed stupid.

Now that I'm getting older, though, I get it. First, instead of just saying something was "stupid," I do a little research. It turns out there's this thing called round number bias. Essentially, people prefer round numbers when setting goals and buying things. (This piece, "The psychology of numbers: Why is 100 better than 101?," is pretty darn interesting.) And second, I reflect more now than I did when I was an invincible teenager or 20-something. I use milestones to look back at the process, celebrate successes, and learn from mistakes.

Here, then, are two sets of reflections. First, a look at the blog itself:

• Most popular post: "The Greatest Idea Ever: Baby@Gmail.com" with 513 views. We published it on Saturday, August 10, 2013.
• Least popular post: "Oscar the Incorrigible" with 63 views. We published this on Wednesday, July 25, 2012. (We stopped publishing on weekdays soon after this one.)
• Total page views: 24,780.
• Most posts in a month: 15, which happened in June of 2012. We obviously haven't kept up the pace. No one saw that coming.
• Fewest posts in a month: 1, which happened in October of 2012. We were traveling a lot then, he gave as an excuse for laziness. 
• Bridget's favorite post: "The Story of Belle's Birth" from September 9, 2013. 
• Mike's favorite post: A tie between "The 18 Reasons 2012 Was the Best Year Ever" and "A Letter to My Daughter Before She's Born." 

Second, some reflections on why we've kept this blog going for almost two years of our lives. (It shows an interesting life trajectory, from summer concerts and half marathons, to maternity leave and being boring new parents.) So, why have we been blogging for 21 months? There are three main reasons:

1. The blog gives us both a chance to work on our writing. We both love to do it, and the blog gives us the structure and motivation we need. Is there anything more exciting than a blank piece of paper ready to be filled with words, sentences, paragraphs, and stories? 
2. It's a great way to keep a record of our family's life. (It's so easy to forget things when you don't write them down, isn't it?) We can look back at the days when the "Fan of Death" and magazine clutter were our biggest concerns. And now, since we have Belle, we're hoping she'll really enjoy reading through these stories when she gets older. (To make the memories even more tangible, my sister gave us a book of our blogs (that's the photo at the top) for our first wedding anniversary. It was very sweet.) In short, the blog helps us keep memories fresh and alive. 
3. The blog helps us connect with other people. In essence, it's a conversation starter. Hundreds of times in the past two years, someone has made a comment to either me or Bridget about the blog. (Most of the comments are complimentary, which is very nice. A few comments, mostly from male friends, are insults, but it's important to stay grounded.) Simply put, the blog makes our life more interesting. 

Some people tell us they love our blog (which is humbling) and other people might find it obnoxious (which is cool, too). Like it or hate it, we've had a lot of fun with it. When will we stop? Who knows? But, for now, on to the next 100 ...

Baby Must-Haves for Surviving the First 6 Months

As has been previously documented in this blog, I like to buy things. But what you may not know is that I'm also incredibly cheap. So if I'm going to spend money, I like to know that what I'm buying is the best quality, most highly rated, and also that it is a good deal. This drive is so strong that Mike has accused me of being "a little obsessed" with my internet research. He's even suggested that I quit my job and become a researcher full time. So if anyone knows of a job opening in researching things to buy for Annabelle, let me know. I'm very well qualified and I have great references.

Because of all the hours I put into our baby registry, I feel the need to share with the world the things that we bought that absolutely made our lives easier over the last 6 months. I understand this post will only appeal to about 3 people who are actively gestating, and for that I apologize. But let's get real. All the baby stuff we've posted recently really only appeals to about 3 people anyway, so why not embrace it? So without further ado, here is my list for baby registry must-haves:

1. Fisher Price Rock 'n Play: This was a lifesaver during those first sleepless weeks. Annabelle loved sleeping in it, napping in it, and just hanging out in it. If you are having a baby, just get this. Trust me. Then when they get bored, buy this and clip it to the top. 
2. Aden and Anais Bibs: We got a lot of bibs at our shower. And for the first couple of months I really didn't get what these things were for because clearly I had given birth to a baby that was too advanced to drool. Then at about four months the waterworks started and I have a total drool monster on my hands. We have probably 50 bibs, but these insanely expensive ones are our favorite. They have a snap which is key because all the others with velcro somehow always get stuck to my bras in the laundry.  I'm not sure why it is always my bras and nothing else, but there you go. They also absorb approximately 30 gallons of drool. Register for these puppies because they are exactly the type of thing that you aren't going to want to buy for yourself. 
3. Swaddlers!: They are going to teach you how to swaddle your baby with a regular blanket at the hospital, but no matter how hard I tried Annabelle was always going to break free from my lame swaddle attempts. You are going to want to buy a bunch of these because your baby will sleep so much better when they are not punching themselves in the face. Silly babies. There are many different varieties, of which this straight-jacket one is the most effective, so buy a couple and experiment. Bonus: your baby will look like an adorable burrito when you put them in one of these. 
4. Merlin Magic Sleep Suit: Mike devoted a whole blog post to this thing, so you know it is good. After your baby is done with the swaddle you are going to want this. 
5. Exercise Ball: This is a weird one, but it is actually great for calming down a fussing baby or getting your baby to fall asleep. It was our last line of defense when Annabelle just wouldn't be soothed. 
6. Infant carseat with Snap and Go base: This is probably our most used item over the past 6 months and one that I really didn't understand the need for before Annabelle arrived. I spent loads of time researching the perfect stroller. But what I didn't realize is that your baby isn't really going to use the diesel stroller for the first few months of their life because they are too tiny and can't hold up that heavy head on their own. Plus, if your baby falls asleep in the car, you are NOT going to want to wake that baby up. Sure, you can buy an infant carseat adaptor for your diesel stroller, but those things cost like $60 and I'm way too cheap for that.  Hence, this little system is a must. We have a Graco Click Connect 35 carseat which gets good marks, but the Chicco Keyfit 30 seems to be another favorite. While you are at, get a cover for it. 
7. City Mini GT: This is the aforementioned diesel stroller. We actually do use it quite a bit now that Annabelle is big enough and it is a far superior experience than the snap and go. The snap and go is light and super convenient, but it doesn't exactly corner well or handle the cobbled sidewalks of Cambridge. This stroller is one of the few that is well made, light and easy to fold, and relatively inexpensive (some strollers cost over a grand. Seriously). I also see a lot of people with this UppaBaby stroller which I secretly covet because you can have the baby facing you and you can also add a second seat to it. It is way more expensive and I have no experience with it, but I do have stroller envy when I see it. People also really seem to like the BOB jogging stroller, not so much for jogging but for everyday strolling. It's like an even more diesel version of what we have. It's a little too heavy for what we wanted, but it seems much loved amongst other mommies. 
8. Bottles: Dr Brown's with the level one nipple is the best for newborns. Annabelle acted like she was being waterboarded with the other bottles so this was a real breakthrough for us. 
9. Wubbanub: Annabelle has a deep and profound love of pacifiers but could not keep them in her mouth. These helped. Plus they are cute. 
10. Baby Carriers: At some point you are going to want to use your hands again, but your baby isn't going to be too keen on the idea of being put down. We have the Baby K'Tan for around the house. Then we bought the Ergobaby for when Annabelle started to get heavier and we wanted to take some longer walks outside. They are both awesome and can save your sanity. Babies generally love sleeping in these things and we've been using the Ergo instead of the stroller when Cambridge sidewalks are just too snow-covered. 
11. Baby Seats: For those times when you actually do have to put your baby down, here are a few good options. Annabelle loved the Rock and Play, but we also used the Boppy Lounger. I love that this is called a "lounger." The mental picture I have when I think of Belle lounging is just awesome. Basically, this is a nice little nest where you can put down baby when you need them close, but not in your arms. There is the Bumbo, which Annabelle enjoys quite a bit. It allows baby to sit before they can actually do it on their own. Sort of like sitting training wheels. She started using this at about 3 months. We also have hand-me-down bouncer similar to this from Fisher Price that was good when she was a wee one. 
12. Breastfeeding paraphernalia: If you plan to breastfeed, this cover helps when you are in public or just don't want your boob out in front of friends and family. You are also going to want some sort of pillow when your baby is just a little nugget and super sleepy. I used the unfortunately named My Brest Friend. There is also the popular Boppy, which I think is actually a inferior breastfeeding pillow, but has a lot of value as a pillow for tummy time and for support when your baby starts to sit. One thing you should NOT register for is a pump. Thanks to Obama, your health insurance should cover this. They made it really easy for me at the hospital. You basically just need a "prescription" for one from your healthcare provider. My insurance would have completely covered the Medela Pump in Style (which is a misnomer if I ever heard one), but I upgraded to the FreeStyle. It is great. You'll also need this and this. Sorry. Breastfeeding can be tough at first. And these are my favorite for storage because they lay flat. 
13. Toys: At some point your baby is going to want to start playing with things. Annabelle likes her stacking cups, the Oball Rattle, these links, the Winkle, Freddie the Firefly, her rainforest crib mobile, the Jumparoo, this playmat, the wonder wheel for the highchair, and this mirror because babies are super vain. 

OR, you can skip this list and just buy Baby Bargains. It is amazing and rates everything. 

Improving the Quality of Our Mornings

I hit the "answer" button on my iPhone in a panic. My shaky "hello," I imagine, sounded more like a nervous shout than a greeting. At first, all I heard was crying. Then, I heard a sentence that hit me with a heavy thud: "I can't do this."

It's interesting when we look back on the moments that make us change -- an unexpected job offer, a brutal hangover, a surprising number on a scale.

Bridget's trembling, overwhelmed voice at 8:30 one weekday morning created a feeling of helplessness I had never experienced. She was crying, Annabelle was wailing, and I was standing in my bedroom in a collared shirt and a pair of boxer briefs. It turned out, as Bridget has already written, to be just a tough moment in time. But it was the tipping point for us to make a change.

That phrase "make a change" has been an abstract idea for most of my life. Maybe you feel the same way. Other than willpower, how do you actually change something? How do you improve something? Thanks to the job I've had for three years, I've discovered a valuable method. It's called the science of improvement and, during the last six weeks, it's helped change our little family's life. More specifically, mornings have never been the same.

Our mornings come down to one simple truth: If Bridget and Annabelle leave by 7:20, everyone is okay. Everyone gets to work on time, traffic is bearable, and stress is under control. If the dawdling duo leaves at 7:25, 7:30, or heaven forbid, even later, panicked phone calls are a distinct possibility. So how could we make sure they left by 7:20 every weekday? The science of improvement! (If you work at IHI and you're reading this, feel free to stop now and make fun of me relentlessly tomorrow.)

First, we needed a goal or, as improvement folks call it, an aim. (Otherwise, how will you know where you're going?) That seemed easy enough for us. We needed to get Bridget and Annabelle out the door by 7:20.

Then we needed some data and some things to measure. What time did they usually leave? What usually made them late? We spent a few weeks tracking the time we all walked out the front door. (I don't leave for work then, but I always carry Annabelle to the car.) Those data points were helpful, but we needed more detail. If we left at 7:20 one day and 7:30 the next, it wasn't clear why there was a 10-minute difference. So we brainstormed and came up with six other things we needed to measure (these are called process measures) to help us understand why we were meeting (or, more correctly, not meeting) our goal:

• Time out of bed
• Time spent pumping
• Time spent in shower
• Time spent feeding Annabelle
• Time spent preparing breakfast
• Time spent getting dressed

We predicted that if we understood how long it took Bridget to do each of these things, we'd have more knowledge about our morning. 

And guess what happened? We've started to see some improvement. Each week, we calculate, the average time out of the house and compare that to our goal of 7:20. During the first week, it was 7:29, then it jumped up to 7:34 (not a good week), and last week, we hit our goal for the first time. (Hooray!) Here's a chart that shows our progress so far:

We still have a lot of work to do. We've hit our goal only once and now we'll have to find a way to sustain the improvement, which is quite difficult. But simply becoming conscious of the process and understanding that we control it has made our mornings much smoother.

And now with this new-found knowledge, we can run some tests -- getting up earlier, showering the night before, setting a time-limit for pumping -- that can help us get out the door by 7:20. (We'll test all these things with a tool called the P-D-S-A  (which stands for plan-do-study-act) cycle, which is as simple as it sounds.) 

Oh, and for those of you who might be picturing me chasing my wife around the apartment with a notebook, yes, that's exactly what happens. But she doesn't mind because she knows we're measuring for improvement and not for judgment. (There's a huge difference!) 

If you want to learn more about this improvement thing, here's a link to a free online course that will take you about an hour. If you don't want to learn more and think I'm a huge nerd for liking this stuff, that's cool, too. 

How Much is Your Commute Worth?

I don't have a good commute to work. No, I'd characterize it as great. Or maybe even wonderful.

While Bridget and most of the Northeast struggle through the last few weeks of driving in the snow and ice of another brutal winter, I can't help but think of how lucky I am. Most people drive at least 25 minutes to work (the average in the US in 25.4) on crowded highways. I stroll through Harvard Yard while I listen to NPR. Most people drive among a mix of reckless idiots and angry jerks. I sometimes pass people in front of me because I tend to be a fast walker. Most people drive to a gas station at least once a week to fill up. I occasionally stop at one of the three Starbucks I pass on my way into the office.

I'm not saying any of this to be annoying; believe me, I realize how incredibly lucky I am. I'm saying all of this because I wonder what it's all worth. What's the value of a commute?

Let's try to find out. And let's use me as an example because, well, I'm writing this. (Who else would we use?)

How much money do I save every year because I get to walk 1.1 miles from my apartment in Cambridge to my office in Harvard Square (still Cambridge)? We'll start with the easy car-related stuff:

• Car payment: If we estimate this at $300 per month, that means it's $3,600 per year. 
• Car insurance: When I had a car, I paid about $80 per month. That's $960 for the year.
• Parking: There are lots of great perks that come with working in Harvard Square. Parking is not one of them. Let's estimate this at about $15 per day. Multiply that by 220 working days in a year and that's another $3,300.
• Gas: With a standard commute, we'll put this at $40 per week. Multiply that by 52 weeks and there's another $2,080.
• General upkeep: Oil changes, wipers, random stuff that goes wrong with the car. Let's just say $1,000 here to be conservative.

So, all tallied, we're at $10,940.

Now it gets tricky. Now we have to assign a monetary value to exercise, stress, and time. Here goes:

• Exercise: Rain or snow, whether it's 77 degrees or 7 degrees, I walk both ways every day. (There are a few exceptions, of course, but let's say every day.) That's 2.2 miles per day and, assuming 220 work days per year, 484 miles per year. For the sake of argument, let's say every mile walked is equal to five dollars of good health. That's obviously not scientific in any way, but it's a round number and it seems reasonable if you think about it. That's $2,420 per year.
• Time: My commute ranges from 15 minutes to 20 minutes. I'm a pretty fast walker and there aren't a whole lot of trouble spots. I do have to wait at 2-3 crosswalks (depending on which way I go), but it mostly comes down to the speed of the heel-toe express. Let's say I average 20 minutes to keep it simple. That's five minutes less than the national average, which equals 1,100 minutes or 18.3 hours per year. If we say a person's time, on average, is worth $25 per hour, then we land at $458 in savings. (That was a lot of work for a little savings.) 
• Stress: I never have to deal with traffic jams, slippery roads, or construction. And I don't really have to pay attention while I walk. I can use that 20 minutes at the end of the day to decompress after a stressful meeting or think about what I should make for dinner. To me, that savings is huge, at least $20 per commute. That equals $40 per day, so I'm going to add $8,800 to the tally. And then if I leave work around 5 PM, which I try my best to do every day, I get home to spend two hours with my family before Annabelle goes to bed. Basically, I'm home at 5:20 instead of 5:50, which seems like a reasonable estimate for the average commuter with traffic, travel time, and parking. That extra half hour of family time is worth far more than our $25 per hour rate. I could obviously argue that the time is invaluable and impossible to measure, but then we wouldn't have a number at the end. Let's say those hours are worth $100. So, $50 per day equals $11,000 per year.  

That section adds up to $22,678, which gives us a grand total of $33,618. That's pretty damn significant. I realize, of course, that I won't be this lucky for the rest of my life. I've had annoying commutes in the past and I'll have annoying commutes in the future. 

But it's nice to have this in perspective. And, more importantly, it makes me realize I better start enjoying every penny.

Does My Daughter Look Like Me?

My oldest friend and the best man at my wedding, Andrew, has always had a way with words. Even when we were in middle school and high school, he'd drop witty one-liners that have managed to stay with me for years. Stuff like, "The beaten path is beaten for a reason" and "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." It's not so much that they were original lines; it was really his timing, his ability to choose the perfect phrase at the right moment.  

So when I asked him over the holidays if he thought Annabelle looked like me, I was anticipating another memorable line. He didn't disappoint.

"Well," he said, "I can tell she isn't the milkman's."

Classic. In other words, not really, but I know you want me to say "yes." 

Andrew isn't the only one to hedge when the topic of resemblance arises. Most people, with good reason, say Belle looks a lot like Bridget. Grandparents, extended family, colleagues, friends, Facebook friends. Most everyone can't believe how much Belle resembles her mom. (This is a good thing, I always say, because girls are much prettier than boys.) But I'll be honest: I want my child to look like me. And no, it's not because I'm vain. Or because I think I'd be particularly attractive as a female. I want Annabelle to look like me because she's my daughter. (Not, as my dear old friend pointed out, the milkman's.) 

So, does she? Does Annabelle look like me? I figure the best way to find out is to compare photos of us at about six months old. Here goes:

Let's break it down a bit further by examining the physical features:

Hair: Belle's is fiery red and I had a mop of brown. Verdict: No.

Skin tone: Belle is like porcelain (thanks to Bridget) and will be year-round. I'm pasty in the winter and somewhat tan in the summer. Did you know I'm actually 1/16th or 1/32nd (I forget which) Native American? No? Did you care? Also no? Cool, let's move on. Verdict: No.

Face shape: Belle's appears to be round; mine appears to be narrow. Verdict: No. Again.

Eyes: Belle, so far, has blue eyes. Mine are brown. My eyes also seem fairly close together (which I'm noticing just now and hope people haven't been talking about for years) and Annabelle's seem perfectly symmetrical. Our eyes do have the same shape, though. Verdict: A little.

Nose: Belle has a cute little button for a nose. My nose is long and, well, long. Verdict: No. (This isn't going well.)

Mouth: Hmm, a little bit? Belle seems to lack a strong upper lip, just like me. Lucky girl! Verdict: A little.

Smile: I think so. We both seem pretty damn happy in the picture on the right. Verdict: A lot.

Eyebrows: Uh oh. Yep, these are pretty much the same. Breaking news: My eyebrows are big and thick. Hopefully, this particular likeness will fade over time or Belle will spend a lot of money on wax and thread. Verdict: A lot.

In summation, I guess we do look a bit alike -- at least in some ways. This makes me feel better. Well, except for that brutal blue sweater. I look like a fluffy cloud. Seriously, Ma, what were you thinking?

I'm Feeling Overwhelmed

This week, I found myself sitting in my car on the way to work, on Route 2, in stopped traffic, crying to my husband on the phone, with a wailing Annabelle in the back seat. It was, by all accounts, not one of my best moments.

You see, my commute to work, from Cambridge to Waltham, is 11.9 miles. Google Maps helpfully tells me this should take me 20 minutes. However, in reality, in winter, in Massachusetts, with a foot of badly plowed snow on the ground and hundreds of Masshole drivers, this commute takes me 3 times that.

On this morning, I sit, white knuckled, as I miss stoplight after stoplight. And bleary-eyed, I try to concentrate on the radio news as Belle drops her binky for the 87th time and starts to fuss. The fussing slowly builds to a low wail. Then, while nearing the end of my commute and trying to merge onto 128 while at the same time aggressively trying to prevent cars from jumping the long line of traffic and merging INTO me, Belle starts to scream. Binky is no longer in reach. I am already late for work and I know I still have 30 minutes of traffic ahead of me. Belle is inconsolable. NPR is giving me the rundown of the most depressing things that have happened in the world today.

It is at this point that I do the only thing I can think to do. I call my husband.

Mike answers with fear in his voice, because clearly if I am calling him at this hour something is gravely wrong.

“What it is it?” he asks.

“I can’t do it. I can’t do this. This commute. She’s crying. I can’t listen to this anymore. This isn’t going to work.”

And as her shrieks pick up from the back seat, I find myself starting to cry. My daughter and I are having a meltdown. Together, in this small car, in traffic, we are collectively losing it. And my poor husband, on his own commute to work, is listening to two blubbering ladies blubber on.

He asks what he can do to help (nothing). He sympathizes. He assures us things will be ok.

And he is right. Things will be ok. And by the time I make it to work, they are. But these moments, these meltdowns, they seem to happen a lot. So often, in fact, that Mike and I have put a word to them. When they happen, we just look at each other and say, “I’m feeling overwhelmed.” And immediately, we know what this means.

Because at the time I was sitting on Route 2, I was feeling overwhelmed by Belle’s crying and the day-to-day minutia of keeping another human alive. By the frequent feedings and diaper changes and too-short naps and the complicated outfits and the endless pumping sessions. By daycare drop-offs, and developmental milestones, and sleep training. Overwhelmed with the stuff, with the toys and tiny clothes and Rock and Plays and Jumparoos and millions of other things exploding out of our 700 square foot apartment, which is now, never, ever, even for a split second, clean. I’m overwhelmed by the heavy diaper bags and smelly bottle bags and dowdy breast pump bags that I try to juggle while also carrying Belle in her bulky car seat up and down stairs and through doors. By pacifiers constantly falling out of smiling mouths. By tiny bibs soaked in an endless stream of baby drool.

I am overwhelmed by my job, and with the daily commutes and deadlines and details and the challenging and rewarding work I get to do each day. I am overwhelmed by the generosity of my colleagues who picked up the slack when I took 16 weeks off from work to fall in love with my daughter and who still pick up the slack when my overtaxed brain starts to sputter.

I am overwhelmed with the idea that I am tasked with trying to keep another person – my husband – happy when I can barely scrape myself off the couch after Belle goes to bed. And I am overwhelmed with joy when I see Mike and Annabelle together and I realize what an incredible father he is to Annabelle, and partner he is to me. And I am just plain overwhelmed when I think of how lucky we are to have gotten pregnant and have delivered a healthy baby girl. That Mike and I get to wake up each morning with more happiness in our lives than we could have ever imagined.

That morning, and every morning, I was feeling completely and utterly overwhelmed by love for Annabelle, my perfect, amazing daughter who was crying her face off in the back seat of my car.

This new life of mine, this life of working mother and wife, is overwhelming. And 99% of the time I feel happier than I have in my entire life. But that 1%. Man, those times are tough. At those times, I really do feel like it is all too much. But in reality, I should be thankful for those moments. Because they are just an indication of how full my life has become. And I wouldn't change a thing.

Are New Parents Boring?

A few weeks ago, we hung out with some friends we hadn't seen in a while. After the obligatory hugs and handshakes, we got down to talking about what we had been doing for the past few months and what was ahead for the spring. As you might expect, this newly married couple talked about traveling, bachelorette parties, and their favorite types of beer. They talked about Vermont, New York City, and New Orleans. They talked about good food, good movies, and good fun. 

And then they asked about us.

"Well, we had a baby."

(Silence.)

(Awkward silence.)

(Where did those damn crickets come from?)

We all laughed about it, of course, because they're nice people and our sudden change in lifestyle is kind of funny. But "Well, we had a baby" is a pretty good summation of our last five months on this Earth. It'll be a pretty good summation of the next five, too. And as the conversation moved in a different direction, it struck me: Are we boring? And, on a larger scale, are all new parents boring? 

At face value, I suppose the answer is yes. I mean, we must seem very boring to newly married couples and, undoubtedly, to single people we know. Let's face it: Falling asleep before 10 PM on a Saturday night has never been "cool." "Do you mind if I don't shower today?" is not a distinctly sexy question. 

It's not like we don't do things. We go out for dinner, visit friends, take naps, and take long family walks. We have date night and we're even going to a concert next month. So, we do stuff. It's just that the stuff (save the concert and the occasional date night) usually includes our beloved Belle.

In fact, Belle was with us that day with our friends. As I answered the question about our recent activities, I immediately thought of her as a great accomplishment that made the last five socially slower months seem acceptable.

That's how people think of babies -- as accomplishments. I sat in a conference room of health care professionals last fall and listened as 29 out of 30 people talked about their kids as the most important thing in their lives. (One dude was crazy about triathlons.) But babies aren't really accomplishments. Accomplishments fade. You accomplish something -- an A on a test, a game-winning shot, a new raise -- and then eventually move on and forget about that thing. Babies, on the other hand, define your life. At all times, you're thinking about your child. Maybe not literally every second, but certainly every hour. What's she doing? Is she happy? I can't wait to see her smile again. I hope she likes me when she grows up. These thoughts constantly swirl in your head. 

And along with defining your life, babies are a convenient excuse to get out of social situations we dislike, which makes us seem more boring. I've used Belle as an excuse and I'll continue to do it in the future. The simple reality is that no reasonable person can say, "Oh, that's really lame that you want to hang out with your daughter." (I mean, you can say that, but you'd be a huge jerk.) 

This week, though, I watched a video that immediately changed my perspective on this boring question. I'd seen the video before, but this time, it really hit me. It's called "This is Water" and it's an illustration of a commencement speech by the late author David Foster Wallace. Here's the link. (If you haven't watched it, I strongly encourage you to take the nine minutes.) 

It made me realize that we're boring -- and new parents are boring -- only if we choose to be. It all comes down to altering your perception and how you feel during the everyday, grind-it-out moments of your life. To put it in specific terms, I'd rather feed Belle oatmeal than get drunk at a bar. And a trip with Belle to the Curious George store in Harvard Square brings me more joy than a round of golf. 

So it may seem, at first blush, like new parents are boring. Early bedtimes, middle-of-the-night wake-ups, and eating at restaurants at 5 PM to beat the dinner rush can certainly sound boring to newly married couples, single friends, and even retirees. But, in reality, this is, without question, the most interesting my life has ever been. 

Dressed to Depress

It was the last question I wanted to hear as I wiped the sleep from my eyes on Thursday morning. The 10 words hung in the air, taunting me, laughing at me. The question mark chuckled, too.

"Is your Daddy going to pick out your outfit today?"

Oh, no. God, no. Please, no.

Bridget was talking to Annabelle about the day ahead and asked the question just loud enough so I could hear it. Unmercifully, she continued:

"It's always exciting to see what he's going to choose. Is he going to go with something girly? Something a little more unisex? Oh, boy. Let's see."

I'll kill the suspense immediately. It's going to be a disaster.

As you can see from the enormous pink pants in the image above, I'm not what you would call "good" at dressing Annabelle. In fact, I'd say I'm downright awful at it. Like "dumpster fire" awful. But you know what? It's not my fault. And there are two main reasons:

Reason No. 1: As a male who grew up wearing white T-shirts and warm-up pants to high school, I'm not very stylish. If you're a female and you're reading this, raise your hand if you'd let me choose your outfits for a week. Obviously, you're all sitting on your hands now. And, honestly, why would you let me? I'd just pick sweatpants and T-shirts. If I tried to pick something nice, it almost certainly wouldn't match. And, without a doubt, it would be way too big or way too small.

Frankly, ladies, there are too many damn options. Too many colors. Too many combinations. Too many possibilities. That's why, like most guys, I wear grays, blues, and browns. Muted colors keep me safe!

Annabelle, of course, can't spend her life in muted colors. I try to match different shades of pink. I throw in an occasional purple or yellow. Sometimes I even use lace. It never really works out.

Reason No. 2: It's incredibly complicated to dress a baby. Do we really need these clothes to be so complex? There are zippers, snaps, buttons, clasps, and hinges. (Seriously, hinges!) It's ridiculous.

Every morning I dress Annabelle, I cross my fingers that this won't be the time her head gets stuck. Like most babies, she has a big head and she doesn't particularly like getting it stuffed through a tiny cotton hole. And she hates socks -- absolutely hates them. Why? I have no idea. But she lets out a loud cry every time I go to stuff her little feet into tiny socks. She almost always kicks the first one off as I'm putting on the second one, which is especially frustrating.

Bridget, meanwhile, doesn't help anything by picking the most intricate, perplexing outfits she can find. She always adds a little flair -- a headband, an undershirt, or sparkly shoes -- that result in pain and anguish for both me and Annabelle.

I'd imagine I'll get better at the dressing thing as time goes on. I mean, I have to, right? Then again, I still wear warm-up pants.

The First 'No, Belle!'

We encourage Annabelle. A lot. In fact, that's what we've spent most of our time doing in the last month.

• "Grab that ring, Belle. You've got it! Good girl!"
• "Smile for the camera, cutie."
• "Fall asleep, baby. You can do it!"

And then, this week, all of a sudden, it happened. The unthinkable. The unimaginable. The first "No!"

It was a pretty surreal moment, almost like slow motion. I think I actually saw the two letters rolling off my tongue. And as soon as I said it, I regretted it.

What possibly could have forced me to say such an awful thing to a perfect, angelic four-month-old baby? 

I was giving Annabelle a tour of our apartment, which happens to be one of our favorite activities. We check out the blinds on the windows, the shiny refrigerator, the snow-covered backyard, and the pictures of Mom and Dad when they were young and care-free. We've probably taken the tour, oh, 739 times since she was born.

The tour, which can last up to 15 minutes, depending on the quality of the guide, typically ends in Belle's room. We look at her white noise machine, some of her stuffed animals, and pay homage to the magic sleep suit. And we always end up in front of her full-length mirror for a spirited game of "Who's the Baby in the Mirror?" (Hint: It's always Annabelle.) She looks at herself and smiles. She looks at me and makes a funny face. Then she hides into my shoulder. It cracks us both up every time.

But on this occasion, on Wednesday night, as I looked away to move something from her crib, her little hand reached out to grab the mirror. Then her hand darted toward the side of the mirror and she tried to grab it ... "No, Belle!" I grabbed her hand and pulled it back toward us.

Now, the chance of her hurting herself was somewhere around 1 in 8,000. The side of the mirror isn't exactly sharp, but it does have a corner that made me envision a cut finger, a bloody mess, a wailing baby, and an inconsolable Dad. Fortunately, none of that happened. Annabelle didn't seem bothered by my negative words and was asleep in her crib five minutes later.

I left her room with my head down and told Bridget what happened, about the first time I discouraged our daughter from doing something. She smiled and put it in perspective for me: "That 'no,' sweetie, is the first of many."

As usual, she's right. The word "no" is going to become a favorite in the next several months. Annabelle's going to start putting Oscar's fur in her mouth and banging her head against everything she can find. She's going to start crawling and pulling things off tables. Then, of course, she'll start dating asinine teenage boys who won't wear their baseball caps the right way. Keep your hands to yourself, punk!

(Relax, Mike, relax ...)

Okay, so I'm getting a little ahead of myself. Still, she's my little girl and she's perfect. If you ever read this, Annabelle, just know how traumatic it was for me to say "No" to you for the first time. Now, shut off the TV and go do your homework ...

Belle's Magic Suit

It costs $39.95. It weighs 15 ounces. Its dimensions are 11 x 10 x 3 inches.

But that’s not really how you measure the appropriately named Baby Merlin’s Magic Sleepsuit. The only measurement that really matters is this: Hundreds of hours of sleep.

Now, I’ve been a Dad for only four months. I still don’t know much about milestones, daycare, and development stages. But I know that Baby Merlin’s Magic Sleepsuit is the greatest thing that anyone has ever invented in the history of the world. Ever. In the history of the damn world! EVER!

In fact, you should buy one now. Seriously, here’s the link. If you find your way back to the blog post, cool. If not, I really don’t mind.

But, Mike, my partner and I aren’t planning to have any children. Doesn’t matter. Buy one anyway. Okay, maybe that’s a bit too far, but this thing, man, this thing!

(Now is a good time to note that I'm not a paid advertiser for Baby Merlin's Magic Sleepsuit. Honestly, who would pay me to advertise something?)

Baby Merlin's Magic Sleepsuit is, without question, the one thing I would tell every new parent to buy. Sure, you need diapers and bottles and bibs. You need clothes and pacifiers and a crib. You need blankets and wipes and a stroller. But you need Baby Merlin’s Magic Sleepsuit.

At first glance, of course, it was just another piece of clutter. It drew my typical doubting, raised-eyebrow glance and patented four questions:

• “Do we really need that?” 
• “How much did it cost?” 
• “Where are we going to put it after it doesn’t work?” 
• “Really?” 

In fact, when Bridget brought it home from a store or ordered it from Amazon (it’s hard to know anymore), I actually thought it was a scam: “A suit to help babies sleep? Did it come with magic beans? If I look out the window, will I see a giant stalk?” (I continued with this hilarious line of questioning for a while until I realized Bridget was in a different room and had stopped listening after the word “suit.”)

It took only one night before I realized the power of Merlin’s magic. Belle, knock on wood, has been a pretty darn good sleeper so far. Even in the first couple weeks, she was going down for four or five hours at a time. Bridget and I were tired new parents, but it wasn’t unbearable. Then the suit happened and, bam, she slept from 10 PM – 6 AM. We’ve been using it for about two months, and those four or five hours have consistently become 10 hours.

How does the suit work? Well, it’s magic, so how the hell would I know? The website says this: “The Magic Sleepsuit is designed to be introduced at approximately three months of age when most babies are growing out of swaddling, transitioning into larger more spacious cribs from smaller sleep environments … it provides babies with the comfort they need by helping to muffle their twitches and startle-type movements that can wake them prematurely, and by keeping them cozy and secure making it easier to go to sleep on their own or fall back asleep if woken.” 

Like I said, magic. If you don’t believe me, check out the testimonials on the Sleepsuit site. So many testimonials, right? (If you didn’t click the link, basically, it’s people using lots of exclamation points.)

Does it make Belle look like the kid from A Christmas Story? Sure, but who cares? That movie is a classic. She and I will watch it together someday and I’ll tell Belle about her magic suit.

I really hope she’s still sleeping through the night then.

Why I'm Choosing a Word Instead of Making a Resolution

Oscar and I haven't always been buddies. In fact, when we first met, relations were downright icy. I didn't really like dogs and he didn't really like some dude getting lots of Bridget's attention.

But in April of 2011, we became best friends. That spring, after about a year of dating, Bridget went to Australia and Fiji for two weeks, which meant I was responsible for Oscar. I had to walk him, feed him, and pick up his poop. I called it my Oscar immersion.

Fast forward 2.5 years and I just had the same experience with Annabelle. Sure, I'd changed diapers, fed her, and generally learned how to be a Dad from September 4 - December 23, but when Bridget went back to work that Monday morning, all baby eyes were on me. For the last two weeks, from 9-5, I had to do it all myself. (Well, mostly myself; I had help with milk production.) My sole purpose in life was making Annabelle smile more than she cried.

Now, Annabelle is officially turning into a daddy's girl. These two weeks changed everything. I know I can take care of my daughter on my own. I've successfully completed my Annabelle immersion.

As I thought about these two experiences, that one word stuck in my head: immersion. It's going to guide me in 2014.

Back in April of 2011, I had some fears about the whole Oscar experience. I'd never cared for a dog on my own and had this image in my mind of Oscar ripping off a small child's leg at Fresh Pond while I watched in horror. Dog catchers. Paramedics. Lawsuits. Blood everywhere. That, of course, didn't happen. (In fact, Oscar's most aggressive move is barking at the doorbell.)

A couple weeks ago, going into the Annabelle experience, I had the same fears -- not of her ripping off a child's leg, but of me doing something horribly wrong. Broken bones. Hours of crying. Poop on the ceiling. And all of that, again, of course, didn't happen. (She did pee on me several times, but that's cool.)

I realize, in hindsight, that the fears were unfounded. But it took really dedicating myself to something to know for sure. The Oscar and Annabelle immersions both gave me a newfound confidence that changed the way I interacted with both of them.

So why not get immersed in more things in 2014? Instead of making a resolution that I'll undoubtedly ignore in a month, I'm going to try to change my mindset. Think about it: Will I really stop eating ice cream at night? (Not likely.) Will I really go running four times a week? (Doubt it.) Will I really learn how to play the guitar? (No.)

That doesn't mean I won't have goals or strive for success; it just means I'm going to try to take a deep dive into what I'm doing and be more present. Right now, I'm one of those people who is always thinking about my next step. If I'm at the gym, I'm thinking about the groceries I need. If I'm walking to work, I'm thinking about that project I need to finish. If I'm reading a book, I'm thinking about the next one on my list. Instead, I should be thinking about my body's response to the exercise, my foot against the pavement, and the words on the page.

I hope to apply this idea of immersion to everything this year -- new skills, new books, and new ideas. Will it be challenging? Yes. But it seems like a great place to put my energy for the next 12 months. Plus, there's no way I'm giving up ice cream.