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 On the whole, they are stressful, outdated, and commercialized.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.

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.

The Best 10 Minutes of Every Day

Like most people, I look forward to a few things every day. An invigorating morning workout. A refreshing drink at Starbucks. A kiss from Bridget before she and Belle head out for the day. These things are part of my daily routine, but I do a pretty good job of not taking them for granted. I try my best to stop and realize how lucky I am to experience these fantastic moments and minutes.

This week, I added something to the list, something that, with apologies to Bridget about the scintillating kiss, may darn well be the best part of every day. What, you might wonder, could possibly be better than those tender, rosy lips? Reading to my daughter.

We've read to Belle since the day she was born. In fact, like most parents who do too much research, we read to her when she was still in the womb. (I'm sure we'll point to those moments when she gets an "A" on her first book report.) But Belle, mostly, hasn't really been so into it. In the first six months of her life, she would either cry, fall asleep, or look off in other directions when we tried to share a book with her. And as she's entered the crawling phase in the last couple months, trying to get her to sit still for five minutes is like asking a hungry Oscar to savor each bite of his kibble.

But this week, something changed. All of a sudden, Belle, just before bed, has decided she loves to sit on my lap while I read her two or three books. It's become a habit, a ritual, and it makes me feel like the luckiest guy in the world. More than that, the whole experience, which lasts from about 6:30-6:40 every night, makes me feel like I'm in a Norman Rockwell painting.

We sit in an old rocking chair in the corner of her room. The soft glow of the lamp in the corner gives off just enough light. A cool evening breeze blows in from the street where older kids are yelling and playing. We open one of her favorites, On the Night You Were Born:

On the night you were born, the moon shone with such wonder that the stars peeked in to see you and the night wind whispered, "Life will never be the same ..." 

Belle, sucking away at her pacifier, looks down at the pages and reaches out with her hands. She touches the pictures. I continue and she starts to rub her eyes. Then, we change up the pace and open something a bit lighter, like the literary masterpiece, Yummy, Yucky:

Blueberries are yummy. Blue crayons are yucky. Soup is yummy. Soap is yucky. Ice cream is yummy. Too much ice cream is yucky.

Belle helps turn the pages and occasionally looks up at me while I change my voice depending on whether something is indeed yummy or yucky. Then she yawns and I know it's about that time. We open the final book, Goodnight Moon:

In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red balloon ...

Belle starts to cry a bit and I know my 10 minutes are nearly over. We get as far as we can and then I kiss her for the last time and put her down in her crib. With any luck, she's fast asleep five minutes later. Meanwhile, I leave the room and think about what she and I will read the next night.

And I wonder, as I get on with my evening by cooking dinner and getting ready for another day at work, if she likes the experience even half as much as I do ...

A Dog in Slow Motion

Lots of people told us things would change for Oscar when Annabelle came along. They said we wouldn't spend as much time with him. They said he'd get in the way. They said he'd be the second, forgotten child.

Alas, 10 months later, these people were right.

It's hard to admit when people are right. (Especially when those people are your parents.) Faced with a new situation, it's human nature to say, "No, not me. Sure, that might have happened to you, but I'm different." And sometimes we are different. Mostly, though, we aren't.

Think about all the examples, all the things people (and movies) have said to you that have turned out to be true even though they seemed crazy at the time:

• "I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was 12. Jesus, does anyone?" Sure, Stand By Me, whatever. You don't know what you're talking about. 

• "The popular kids in high school are not as cool as you think they are." But, Mom, you don't understand. I need sit to sit at that lunch table. 

• "It's important to stretch before you work out. You'll feel it as you start to get older." Older? Who's going to get older?

• "Going to bars will get old." Whatever, 25-year-old friend. It's just because you don't know how to enjoy yourself. 

• "You'll miss college when you're gone." Um, no, I won't. I'm totally over this place. 

• "You'll be annoyed with your new job in a month." Uh-uh. No way. Not this job. This job is always going to be new, exciting, and awesome.

• "You might not want that last beer …" Psssh. I'm fine. This is the greatest night of my life!

• "That meeting with all the important people at work isn't as cool as you think it is." Yeah, right. You're just saying that. I need to climb this corporate ladder and make all the decisions! 

The list could go on and on. You'll probably think of two or three more by the time you finish reading this sentence. And sadly, "You'll forget about your dog after you have a baby" is on that list for us. 

I had a crystallizing moment on Friday when this truth became terribly apparent. It was the end of the day and I was juggling a bag of trash, a bag of laundry, and a 10-month old. Oscar followed us downstairs (as he always does) and watched as I put the trash outside. I went back inside to put the laundry in the washing machine and then came back upstairs with Annabelle in my arms and a smile on my face. I felt productive and efficient. And I thought to myself as I checked my work email one last time, Man, I'm pretty good at multi-tasking. And I'm getting pretty good at this Dad stuff. I mean --

Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!

What the heck? Where in the world is --

Barrrrrk! Barrrrrk! Barrrrrk! 

Oscar was still outside. I had forgotten about him. What a terrible Dog Dad.

To make up for it, this morning, I spent some extra time with him. We walked slowly to the dog park. I threw tennis ball after tennis ball until he looked like he was done, not the other way around. He drank lots of water, smiled, and fell asleep under a shady maple tree. He was happy. 

So yes, people are often going to be right when they say things from experience. We're all similar creatures. But it doesn't mean you can't prove them wrong every once in a while. Sometimes you make even better friends later in life. Sometimes it's still cool to go to bars. Sometimes a new job stays exciting for years. And sometimes you just need to slow down and watch your dog run in the park:

The Not-So-Great Oscar Escape

It's funny when life throws you a curve ball. Actually, that's not always true. Sometimes the curve ball is scary.

This was one of those times.

I was walking home from work this afternoon and all I could think about was our bathroom. For the past two weeks, we've been waiting patiently for plumbers, tilers, and painters to rip apart our bathroom and then, hopefully, put it back together. As you can probably guess, it's been slow. In fact, we didn't have a toilet for most of Sunday. And today, Tuesday, they were supposed to be done. Hurrah!

So I had a little bounce in my step on the warm walk home. Thoughts raced through my head. Bridget, who gets home before me, hadn't called and I couldn't figure out if that was good or bad. Maybe everything was done and she was smiling peacefully on the couch? Maybe nothing was done and she was shaking her head in disbelief? I couldn't decide. I knew it was one or the other.

(This may sound a little dramatic, but we're exhausted. Getting work done on your apartment is frustrating. Getting work done on your apartment, and dealing with a baby and a dog is frustrating times seven.)

I turned onto my street and picked up the pace. It's done. It's not done. It's done. It's not done. Then I saw one of our neighbors walking down the street with her adorable daughter. I stopped to say "hi," mostly planning on just flying past to get home to find out if I could use the toilet.

"Hi," she said. "We found Oscar today."

"Hi … what?! Did you say you found Oscar? What do you mean?"

"He's okay," she continued. "He's home. But we found him at the top of the street."

I had no idea what she was talking about. My mind couldn't make the transition from the bathroom. "Oscar?" I asked. "Wait, our dog?!"

"Yeah, but he's okay. He was at the top of the street and he seemed scared. I recognized him and thought he was yours, so we started calling to him and he eventually came."

"Oh my god," I said. "Thank you so much. I don't even know how to start thanking you. Do you know how he got out?"

"I think went out the door when the plumber was there," she said.

"Oh, no. Again, thank you so much. I'm so relieved."

I ran upstairs, saw Bridget with a smile on her face (the bathroom was done) and told her the story. Like me, her heart sank. We hugged Oscar and realized how lucky we were. He tilted his head, wondering when I was going to feed him.

The whole episode, we realized, was our fault. Oscar had met the plumber before and the plumber said he'd watch him, but we took a risk. We took the risk because Oscar had been to South Boston, Vermont, and at a neighbor's place within the past two weeks because of the work on our apartment. We didn't want to send him away again. But we should have. And we're really lucky nothing happened.

Life, as John Lennon so famously said, is what happens when you're busy making other plans. If something had happened to Oscar, we wouldn't care about a bathroom, an apartment, or really much of anything. We'd be devastated. So, thank you, again, kind neighbor. And thank you to our wonderful neighbors downstairs who helped find Oscar.

Hug your pets. You never know when life might throw a scary curve ball.

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 ...

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.

The 25 Ways Annabelle Has Changed Our Lives …

Annabelle has changed our lives in countless ways since she was born 109 days ago. I mean, how couldn’t she, right? We’re now responsible for another human being who relies on us for everything 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

But countless is a stupid word. If you think about it, everything can be counted. So, this morning, I did. In honor of the impending merry holiday, I counted 25 ways Annabelle has changed our lives since September 4. Here goes:

1. It’s much harder to have a bad day. Annabelle can turn negativity around in seconds with one of her adorable, toothless grins. 
2. It’s harder to watch TV and movies. Annabelle makes a lot of noise and is frankly not very polite when we’re trying to watch Breaking Bad. 
3. The exercise/baby soothing ball is the greatest invention ever. Calm baby, tighter abs, amazing. 
4. We’ve watched A LOT of streaming shows. You think you’re excited for new episodes of Sherlock and House of Cards? Shoot, I’ve watched Behind the Mask. It’s horrible! 
5. Free will is a thing of the past. Simply put, you can’t just grab a nap, go for a run, or take a shower when you feel like it. This is a difficult adjustment. 
6. We clean up human poop now. It’s pretty gross. 
7. We get peed on. Also gross.
8. It’s much harder to go for walks, especially in the winter. Strollers aren’t exactly easy to maneuver over bricks and cobblestones. 
9. People like us more now. We’ve hung out with family and friends more time in the last three months than we had in the past three years. (Whatever. We can see right through all of you.) 
10. We’re more careful with our money. (Duh!) 
11. We’re more aware of the challenges of living in a 725-square-foot apartment. I’m speculating here, but I think Oscar is mighty aware of it, too.  
12. We sing and dance a lot more. (If you know Bridget, you know she’s always loved putting people’s names into song lyrics. This has now reached epic proportions.) 
13. We have excuses for social events we don’t want to attend. (Oh, you’re cousin’s first birthday? Gee, yeah, we’d love to, but you know, Annabelle …) 
14. It takes much, much longer to leave the house for anything. 
15. We’ve realized we need a bigger car. 
16. Baths, which tend to be relaxing, are now stressful. (They are getting better, but it’s still no picnic.) 
17. I now read books about women leaders and feel inspired for my daughter.  
18. I don’t immediately change the channel when I see WNBA highlights. (I change it, of course, but it takes a few seconds longer now.) 
19. A good night of sleep means something completely different now. 
20. Bedtime on Saturday night is no different from bedtime on Tuesday night. 
21. Our iPhones are basically just glorified cameras now. 
22. This year’s “family vacation” was spent in Cambridge. I was going to buy a souvenir, but I realized I already owned everything. 
23. We talk about daycare more than you talk about food, beer, music, and sex. Combined. 
24. We’re happier people. I know there’s a lot of debate about having kids vs. not having kids. There are certainly pluses and minuses on each side. For us, though, good God she’s awesome. 
25. It’s going to be the best Christmas we’ve ever had.

Including Oscar ...

“Poor Oscar.” I think I’ve heard that two-word phrase about 400 times in the last year. “Poor Oscar. What about Oscar? What will you do with Oscar? Is he going to be okay when the baby comes? Are you guys going to forget about him?” Of all the baby advice and questions we got in the past year — and, yeah, there was a lot — the demotion of our beloved Australian Shepherd was the most popular.

But as I walked around Fresh Pond with Oscar yesterday at 7:30 on a 19-degree morning, I realized something: It hasn't happened.

Oscar is still a huge part of the Briddon pack. Is Oscar our No. 1 priority? Well, no. I mean, we do have this little 12-week-old human living with us now. Despite being tiny, she takes up a lot of our time, energy, and attention. Plus, we wouldn’t be very good parents if we cuddled with Oscar and gave Belle a water dish and heartworm medication. And no, Oscar doesn’t get to sleep in our bed at night anymore. (Yes, Oscar slept in our bed. Feel free to judge us.)

But Oscar is still, unquestionably, forgive the pun, top dog. Here are five reasons why:

• He gets to spend more time with Bridget. Bridget has been home on maternity leave for almost three months and she has one more month to go. In between changings, naps, and tantrums, Oscar has received a fair amount of one-on-one time with his Mom.
• He gets more exercise. Oscar’s favorite activity, aside from eating, is chasing a tennis ball around Fresh Pond. He’d do it all day every day and twice on Sunday if we had the free time and the energy. Coincidentally, Belle loves walks around Fresh Pond, too. (I mean, she hasn’t said so. She loves walks and we assume she prefers a circle around a body of water.) That means more family time at our favorite Cambridge stomping ground. 
• He gets fed earlier. As I mentioned, Oscar really likes to eat. He’s one of those dogs who eats his meals in about 11 seconds. He often gags on it because he doesn’t breathe, which is both disgusting and fairly hilarious. And when Oscar wakes up in the morning, he wants nothing more than to eat immediately. In our pre-baby life, that meant about 7 AM. Nowadays, he eats when we wake up at 6 and sometimes 5. Lucky, right? 
• He gets more treats. There’s one sure-fire way to make Oscar happy: A treat. He knows that word better than “sit,” “come,” or “stay.” Hell, he probably knows I’m typing the word treat right now. T-r-e-a … see, he just asked for one. So, when Oscar misbehaves now, we take the easy way out and give him a treat. Licking Belle’s face? Here’s a treat. Humping things? Treat time! Barking incessantly at the TV? You guessed it. Let’s get a treat, buddy! 
• He gets more bro time. There are certain activities the Briddon girls – Bridget and Belle – like to engage in without the boys. Breastfeeding and bad TV are the top two. (Our daughter cried recently when I turned her away from an episode of The Blacklist.) So when Oscar and I are left out in the cold, we have more time to just chill. Mostly, we bump fists/paws and watch Syracuse basketball on the iPad. It’s pretty great. 

I realize, of course, that we’ve been at this (human) parenting thing for only three months. Lots will change. And Belle will continue to drain our time and energy. But she’ll grow to love Oscar. And when she starts eating solid food, Oscar will really, really love her. Until then, he’s doing just fine. In fact, I think he needs another treat …

The Photo Shoot I Never Wanted

I hate photo shoots. Wait, no. That’s not right. I loathe photo shoots. I despise them, abhor them, and detest them. I don’t really know why. I never had a traumatic experience or anything. I just think they are cheesy, forced, and well, silly.

So when Bridget presented the idea of having a newborn photo shoot for Annabelle, I reacted the way you’d expect: “Uh-uh. No way. They are so stupid and expensive. We have iPhones with cameras. Those work fine.”

By now, Bridget knows how to pick her spots and get what she wants. I won’t give in all the time (yet), but if she really wants something, she usually gets it. And she really wanted this newborn photo shoot. “Don’t you want these for your daughter? She’ll never be this small again,” Bridget said. “We’ll have these forever.”

“Ugh,” I said, with extra emphasis on the “g.” “Fine.”

And like always — like spending lots of money on vacations, getting a kitchen island, and living in the city — Bridget was absolutely, 100%, no-doubt-about-it right. Again.

I mean, seriously, look at these pictures:

I suppose you probably couldn’t get that same quality with an iPhone.

Fortunately for us, we had an absolutely wonderful photographer. Actually, she was better than that. Christine Maus, the sister of a friend from work, came to our apartment 10 days after Annabelle was born and spent two hours in our apartment. Now you might be saying, “She was related to someone you work with. You have to say she was good.” Wrong. If she wasn’t wonderful at what she does, I would just avoid eye contact with the co-worker for the next few months and we would hide the photos in a dark closet under some old Sports Illustrated magazines.

So why was Christine so good? Was it talent? No. Although she has plenty of that:

Was it the way she created light in our shaded apartment? No. Although she did a great job of that:

Was it the cool bean bag thing and cute wraps she brought for Annabelle? No. Although they were pretty awesome:

So what was it? What set Christine apart? It was her attitude and presence. It was her patience and her kindness. It was the moment she threw her body between Annabelle and Oscar, creating a human shield that saved a lot of tears, screaming, and barking. (In Oscar’s defense, the quickest way to the treat was through his baby sister.)

So, thanks, again, Christine. You created something we’ll cherish for the rest of our lives.

Does this mean I love photo shoots? Not so much. A couple clad in argyle sweaters staring into each other’s eyes in front of a stone wall on a brisk autumn day? Blech. A family in matching white outfits on a sandy beach at sunset? Not my thing. The studio at Sears? Good God. I’d rather drink a smoothie of Oscar treats.

Nope, no more photo shoots for me. At least not until Bridget brings it up again …

The Story of Belle's Birth

I couldn't say "thank you" because I was trying too hard to swallow my tears. It didn't matter. They kept coming. And slowly, softly, between small sobs, I pushed out the words several seconds apart "thank" ... "you." Thank you to everyone in the room who was excited for us. Thank you to Annabelle for being healthy. Thank you to my wife for her amazing display of strength and courage.

It took 13 hours to get to that "thank you." And here's how it all happened:

At 9:30 PM on Tuesday, Bridget started feeling something in her stomach as she bounced on our exercise ball. (The induction was scheduled for Friday and she was doing everything she could think of to go into labor.) "I don't know," she said. "It's like bad cramps." In classic, clueless fashion, I jumped off my chair, "Is this it? Is it go time?" "We'll see," she said.

In the next 30 minutes, the cramps quickly turned into contractions. Six minutes apart. Then five minutes. We found our trusty Full Term app on our iPhones so we could be track the contractions to the second. "What about Oscar?" I asked. "I ... don't ... know," Bridget said, in between deep, pained breaths. "We should call my sister."

At 10:30 PM, Bridget's sister, Alanna and her boyfriend, Blake, came by to get Oscar. Alanna is a nurse. Blake rents cars. You can imagine who struggled more with Bridget's state. "Um, shouldn't you guys be in the hospital? I'd be in the hospital," Blake said. "Seriously. Now." (In Blake's defense, if Bridget wasn't my wife and I was in my mid 20s, I would have been scared out of my mind, too.) We waved goodbye to Oscar and placed our first call to the hospital to let them know labor was starting.

We sat down on the bed and thought about sleeping, but Bridget couldn't lay down for more than 30 seconds at a time. The contractions hit the magical 4-1-1 number -- four minutes apart, one-minute long, for one hour. Just before midnight, we called the hospital again. "I think we need to come in," I said to the midwife. She agreed, but only because Bridget hadn't felt the baby move in a while. We drove through a quiet Harvard Square and made our way to Mount Auburn Hospital in Cambridge. As we walked up to the door -- the wrong door, more on that later -- I had three overpacked bags in tow. (Just then, I realized I was probably jumping the gun with the bags, but it was too late.) We went into the triage room and the midwife examined Bridget. She confirmed we were in early labor and the baby was fine. "You can stay here, but I recommend going home to try and get some rest," the midwife said.

At 1:30 AM, now on Wednesday, we were back home. And to paraphrase Ron Burgundy in Anchorman, "things escalated quickly." Bridget's pain went from unbearable to searing. (I never realized how hard it would be to watch someone you love in excruciating pain.) We had seen a seemingly realistic labor video in our birthing class with a man gently comforting a moaning woman. That wasn't us. Every few minutes, Bridget would try to hold a wall, bend over a couch, or lean on a chair. Nothing worked. Another phone call to the hospital (they asked us to try a bath before coming in) and an hour later, the pain hadn't subsided. Then Bridget threw up blood several times. "Yeah," I said, seconds later, during my 3 AM call to the hospital, "we're going to come in now."

Exhausted, we made our way back to the hospital at 3:30 AM. Deserted roads made the ride easy, but not knowing the location of the emergency entrance made things difficult. Bridget used all her strength to get the front door, which was locked. I hit the intercom. "Hey, can you let us in?" I asked in a panicked voice. The response: "Who's us?" Right. Of course. I'm an idiot. "Me and my laboring wife." They came right up and we hustled into the hospital. This time, upon examination, the midwife knew we were serious. Without getting into too much detail, Bridget went from two centimeters to nine centimeters in two hours. That's intense.

Bridget gritted her teeth for another hour before she decided an epidural was the way to go. (The baby wasn't in perfect position, so it was either an epidural or approximately three more hours of blinding pain.) Mercifully, we slept (or tried to) from 5:30 to 7:30 AM. After two more quick exams and two more hours, it was showtime. With a midwife, a nurse, and a paramedic student (he needed to see a birth to get his certification) surrounding her, Bridget pushed for the first time at 10 AM. Along with the team, I cheered, coached, and urged. (For the record, I kept my eyes on the top half of the bed.) Thirty minutes of pushing. Forty-five minutes. One hour. Then, at 11:01 AM, after one big push, we held our breath and waited to hear that important first cry. There was some meconium in the womb, which gave us a moment of panic. (Apparently, it can get in the baby's lungs and cause problems.) Then, all of a sudden, "Waaaaaaaaaaah!" We breathed a sigh of relief and the nurse put Annabelle Grace Briddon on Bridget's chest.

A beautiful new baby. An exhausted, tough-as-nails new mom. And one teary-eyed dad. "Thank you."

Six Ways Baby Training Has Transformed Me

All you high school heroes remember the agony of two-a-day workouts. Whether you played football, soccer, basketball, volleyball, or field hockey (lately, I love women's sports), you gutted out two tough sessions in the same day for several weeks. You ran. You lifted. You scrimmaged. You sweat. Basically, you pushed yourself beyond your limits.

I'm adopted that same mentality for baby training.

Baby training, especially during the past two months, has really started to transform me in significant ways. Yes, I'm stockpiling workouts (63 of the last 64 days, according to my Lift app on my iPhone) because I know I won't be able to exercise as much, but the training is about much more than physical activity. I've selected six scenarios, some slightly exagerrated for effect, to show how I've started to change. Using Old Mike and New Mike as the format will help make the comparisons easier. Here goes:

Scenario 1: I wake up after a bad night of restless sleep.

Old Mike: "This is going to to be the worst day of my life. (Sometimes Old Mike was dramatic.) I'm going to be inefficient at work and tired all day. I hate everything."

New Mike: "Yes! An opportunity to show that I can get things done with very little sleep! I'm going to have to get used to this. I'm going for a run!"

Scenario 2: A baby is crying in the apartment next door.

Old Mike: "Hey, good luck with that." (Slams window.)

New Mike: "Bridget, come listen! Do you think the baby is tired or hungry? That sounds like a tired cry to me. Can you believe we have only five weeks to go?"

Scenario 3: A baby is crying in a restaurant.

Old Mike: "Ugh. Seriously? They thought it was a good idea to come to this restaurant right now? Is Burger King closed? Awful."

New Mike: "Isn't that baby cute, hun? How old do you think she is? I wonder if our baby will like pasta. You know, I just read this interesting article about a baby's diet ..."

Scenario 4: We go to visit a friend's baby.

Old Mike: "I guess I'll hold him. I mean, will I break it? I mean him. I'm not really good at babysitting. What if he poops or something? Do I just give him back to you really quickly?"

New Mike: "Let's see if I can get him to stop crying. I really feel like I'm getting the hang of ... what do you mean other people want to hold him?"

Scenario 5: Oscar (our dog) stares at the stove with a tilted head.

Old Mike: "Get out of the way, Oscar."

New Mike: "Oscar, this is called a stove. S-t-o-v-e. Stove. A stove is a hot thing that cooks our food. Never, ever touch it because it's really, really hot. Ouch."

Scenario 6: A quarter mile from home, Bridget says, "I might be a little cold without a sweater."

Old Mike: "You might be? Do you know when you'll know for sure? Why didn't you think about this five minutes ago? Fine. I'll be right back.

New Mike: "Sure thing, sweetie. Do you need anything else? Are you sure you don't want a little snack? Watch how fast I can run."

Will New Mike stick around? I sure hope so. (I think everyone else does, too.)



Our Baby's Name ...

A couple years ago, I met my friend, Rebecca, in Faneuil Hall for a cocktail after work. Instead of a white wine, however, she was drinking water and had big news: She and her husband, Chris, were having a baby! Like anyone would, I extended my congratulations and gave her a big hug. Then, like anyone, I asked about the baby's name.

"Oh, we're not talking about that," she said, in a uncharacteristically sharp tone.

Hmmm, I thought. That's odd. Rebecca is usually so kind and sweet. When my wife is pregnant with a baby, I'm going to tell everyone the name and get all sorts of opinions and feedback. 

As it turns out, as usual, Rebecca was much wiser than me.

When we started our baby journey back in December, Bridget and I jumped into the name conversation with both feet. Why wouldn't we? All of a sudden, you have this enormous privilege and responsibility to name another human being. You could pick something safe, like Michael, John, or Jennifer. Or something bizarre, like Apple, Suri, or North. (Honestly, is there anything worse than the Kardashians? Just go away.)

Before we knew if we were having a she or a he, we developed a short list of six male names and six female names. That, in itself, was a challenge. It's amazing how many associations people (including me) have with names. We had about 40 conversations that went like this:

Bridget: "What about Stephanie?"
Mike: "Nah, I dated a Stephanie."
Bridget: "If we can't use the name of girls you've dated, we won't have many choices!"
Mike: "This is fun. How about Ryan?"
Bridget: "No. There was a really annoying kid named Ryan in one of my English classes in college. How about Adele?"
Mike: "No, I'll just always think about that singer ..."

And on it went. Hours of this. But we finally settled on 12 names we both really liked. We then shared this list with our families.

Bad idea.

There were eye rolls. There were quizzical looks. There were snorts. There were quiet, almost inaudible noises. And there were comments:

• "Gray? You mean the color?"
• "You can't name it Natalie! I'm going to name my kid Natalie!"
• "How about Kathleen? That's a nice name." (Both our moms are named Kathleen, so this comment was shared no less than 314 times. In fact, Kathleen Kathleen Briddon was an actual suggestion.)

So when we found out we were having a baby girl in early April, we put the lid on the baby conversation with anyone outside of me, Bridget, and our dog, Oscar. (We trust him to stay quiet on the name we think is perfect and we'll share with everyone on our daughter's day of birth.) Actually, "put the lid" is not quite right. We slammed the lid. 

"Oh, we're not talking about that," we told our family and friends in an uncharacteristically sharp tone. 

That Rebecca. She's always right. 

The Crippling Thought of Toothbrushing

Today is exactly two months from our scheduled due date. Whoa. I realize, probably more than you, how quickly the end of August will come. But I haven't really freaked out yet.

Until today.

Sure, I've had thoughts of terror here and there in the past seven months. I wrote about some fears of fatherhood a month ago. And, as the due date nears, I still have lots of those thoughts. In no particular order:
What if the baby cries 24 hours a day?
What if Bridget and I never sleep again?
What if daycare prices go up even higher?
What if the baby gets hurt or sick?
What if I'm jogging with the baby and I somehow screw up the harness and she flies 20 feet in the air? 

Typical stuff (maybe save the last one), right? And these thoughts are all scary, but they are mostly fleeting. They rush into my head, pause for a split second, and rush out. And, usually, my thoughts return to positive things like the first time I meet my daughter, the first time she smiles at me, and the first time she says, "Daddy."

But today, for some reason, was different.

The freak out started innocently enough. I was brushing my teeth in my living room early this morning before our weekly visit to Fresh Pond. I was staring out the window at the dancing leaves and the bright sun. It was peaceful. The whirr of the brush (I have one of those neat electric toothbrushes) was the only sound I could hear. Because I use one of those electric toothbrushes, my mind tends to wander as I clean my molars and bicuspids. Thirty seconds went by, which meant it was time to move to the bottom right. Sixty seconds. Move to the bottom left. Then a crippling thought entered my mind:

How the hell do we brush the baby's teeth? 

I laughed to myself for a moment and then I realized I didn't know the answer. And I started to panic a little bit. Do they have little toothbrushes? Do I use my finger? How do I not know this? Do we use special toothpaste? Do we do it right away? (The thought that babies aren't born with teeth didn't occur to me at that moment.) Do we do it twice a day? When does she go to the dentist? What is she swallows too much toothpaste?

And, I thought, toothbrushing is just one of like 1,000 things. 

Slowly, my mind continued to unravel. The images attacked my brain and fought for attention. Diapers. Crying. Eating. Hot weather. Cold weather. The images came one after the other, elbowing for space in my head. Late-night visits to the ER. Oscar. Cribs. Strollers. Daycare. 

I finished brushing and stood paralyzed for five minutes. Sweat poured down my face. My stomach felt empty. I clenched my fists.

Then, slowly, I started to smile. I took a deep breath, pulled some clothes on, and got on with the day.

This parenting thing is going to be an incredible adventure. Two more months. Whoa.

Someone Stole My Laptop

Someone stole my laptop computer on Wednesday. It sucked. Or, rather, it sucks, as I imagine I'll be pretty upset about it for quite some time. In fact, right now, as I type on a different computer, I can't help but strike the keys pretty HARD AS I WONDER HOW AND WHY SOMEONE TOOK MY DAMN LAPTOP.

I mean, who wouldn't be upset, right?

The laptop was a thoughtful gift (from Bridget), a nice piece of equipment (MacBook Air), and something with personal information and meaning (photos, documents, and passwords, for example). So I think I'm completely rational and understandably upset about the experience.

What happened? How did someone take it?

I was at a meeting in downtown Chicago on Wednesday afternoon that ended at about 4:30. I closed my laptop, put it in the sleek carrying case, and put it in my carry-on luggage, which was the only bag I had for the one-night trip. I said farewell to my colleagues, and made my way outside for the three-block walk for the train station. I bought a ticket, hopped aboard the crowded train, put my bag at my feet, and started looking forward to a quick dinner at Chili's because, well, I like Chili's. (Whatever. Don't judge me.) Stops flew by as my mind wandered to quesadillas and my iPhone. I checked email, scanned Facebook, and caught up on the day's news. All was well ...

As the last stop (the airport) neared, I double-checked my bag to make sure I had everything. I don't really know why I did, but I just like to be sure I was all set. As I peeled back the zipper, I felt my stomach drop. No laptop. I stood up, threw the bag down on the train seats, and rummaged around the inside. No laptop. I took out my shoes, my jeans, my shirts. People stared. No laptop. My stomach dropped even further.

I got to the airport and looked three more times. Maybe there's a hidden pocket. Maybe if I look once more. Maybe if I empty everything in the middle of the airport and pull my hair a little harder. Nothing. I called back to the meeting space and security was kind enough to check the room and the entire floor. Nothing. After a panicked call to Bridget, I was resigned to the reality: Somehow, someone reached into my bag when I wasn't paying attention and snatched my laptop. I had been, in the parlance of our times, "apple picked." Son of a bitch.

I called the police department, filed a claim, and settled in for the quick flight home. (Of course, it was delayed for an hour because of weather and then for 20 minutes at the gate when we landed because the universe is hilarious.)

When I finally got home, I was exhausted, annoyed, and, mostly, angry with myself. I was mad that I hadn't been more careful, mad that I hadn't been more vigilant, and mad that I was such an idiot. I changed my passwords, tried to erase the computer using "Find iPhone," and then sulked some more.

On Thursday morning, my thoughtful colleagues shared my disgust. One person put it well: "Yeah, I had a really expensive camera stolen one on trip. Afterwards, I wished there had been two of me, so I could punch myself." I huffed and puffed through the workday, and came home angry on Thursday evening. I'm never going to Chicago again. I really wish I had my laptop right now. God, I'm so stupid!

Then, as my pregnant wife walked in the door with a smile and Oscar put his head on my lap, it hit me: It's just a laptop. It's just a piece of equipment. It's just a thing. The really important stuff was right in front of me. And sometimes, it takes an awful event to make you realize just how lucky you are to have the life you do.

I'm going to do my best to remember that every day -- especially when the next bad thing happens.

P.S. Also, it's a good idea to have renter's insurance. Bridget's brilliance strikes again.

What We Learned at Birthing Class

Have you ever seen a really, really graphic childbirth as you're wiping sleep from your eyes at 9:15 on a Sunday morning? We're talking full frontal, close-up, can't-eat-for-four-hours graphic. No?

We have. Welcome to birthing class. And welcome, yet again, to parenthood.

We spent the Sunday of our Memorial Day Weekend learning about how to have a baby. Instead of doing weekly classes for a month, we opted to jam it all into one eight-hour marathon session -- a decision I highly recommend. Aside from being the only of the seven couples to bring our own pillows (thanks, Internet, for making us look stupid), we actually had a great time. Yes, it may be partially because we're both kind of nerds and we love to learn new things, but mostly it was because it was super helpful.

What specifically did we learn? Here are a some things that stood out:

Well, as mentioned above, we learned that childbirth is really, really graphic. Now, we knew this, of course, but I suppose I just wasn't sure how graphic we were talking. I will now happily take the advice of a couple friends who are already dads to, "Stay at the top of the bed. Whatever you do, stay at the top of bed." Done and done.

Of the seven couples, we learned that only four knew the gender. For some reason, I expected that to be much higher. Maybe six couples. Maybe even all of them. But perhaps it's not quite as obvious of a decision.

I learned it's pretty cool to be called "one of the dads."

We learned that a sense of community is incredibly important. We read a lot. We talk to friends who already have kids. We talk to our mothers. But we don't know many people who are going through the same exact thing we are going through at the same exact time. It made us feel so much better to hear other people ask questions about epidurals, breathing, and poop.

Even before we get to the big event, we learned that we need to start doing yoga and meditating. We're using a midwife and we're going to try to keep things natural, so staying calm and relaxed are of utmost importance. Speaking of relaxation, we learned that Lamaze is crap. It's a method of breathing that doesn't encourage release or downward motion, which are both fairly important when you're trying to squeeze eight pounds out of, well, you know what.

We learned that most babies are born at 41 weeks and that most due dates are a week early. (Bridget may have known this, but a lot of this stuff was completely new to me.)

We learned that the water breaks early in only about 10-11% of births. (Bonus: Also, it's waters break (with an "s"), which was new to me.) I thought this was like 98%. Seriously, every movie I've seen for the last 20 years that involves childbirth involves some new dad slipping on his wife's water. Stupid Hollywood and its dramatic lies.

We learned that labor usually starts at home -- and lasts for quite a while. Maybe it's just me, but I had this image of rushing home from work, grabbing the packed bag, and driving on two wheels down side streets to get to the hospital. Not so much. It's apparently far, far less dramatic and involves hours of pre-labor and early labor. (Oscar, I imagine, will be quite helpful during this time. <-- Sarcastic.)

We learned a whole lot more, too -- including how to breathe, how to properly massage a woman in labor, and the importance of being a positive Dad. I really can't imagine a more productive use of eight hours (especially on a lousy day) as you're preparing to have a bundle of joy.

And I suppose I should get used to the graphic images. I learned they are part of parenthood.

Six Things That Scare Me about Fatherhood

With about three months to go before our little girl's due date, I find myself increasingly petrified about this thing called fatherhood. Some of these fears, as you'll see if you read on, are completely irrational. Others are rational, or at least I think they are.

Now, deep down, I hope and think everything will be fine. But you know when you're not sure about something and your mind starts wandering? Like when you're waiting for a call about a job that never comes so you tell yourself it's because you had lettuce in your teeth. Or when your spouse doesn't call you back for an hour so you assume something amazingly horrible (like a fiery giraffe stampede) has happened. That's what my mind has been doing.

So, I figured, why not share?

Number 6: The baby won't like me. This one seems completely rational to me. I mean, some people just don't like other people. You don't like someone. Someone doesn't like you. It happens. So what if our precious little angel looks at me and says, "Eh, I'm good. You're kind of lame, Pops"?

Number 5: I'll become horrible at my job and my life because I'll never sleep again. Right now, we go to bed before 11 (yes, usually even on weekends) and I get between 7-8 hours of sleep. This solid sack time allows me to think clearly at work, find the energy to work out, and, on most days, enjoy the heck out of life. But what happens when those 7-8 hours turn into 4? Or 2? Or, good God, 0? I am certain those nights will happen and I'm worried about the results.

Number 4: I'll suck at changing diapers. Sure, I'll learn. We're taking the classes and all that. And 14-year-old babysitters have done this since the beginning of time, so how hard can it be? But, truthfully, I'm not very good at stuff like this. I'm terrible at folding clothes. I'm mediocre at ironing. I'm lousy at laundry. On the whole, arts and crafts have always been a struggle for me. What if my child gets a diaper rash because I screw up a change? (How does one even get a diaper rash? Oh, man.) Moving on ...

Number 3: My little girl will get my eyebrows. As you can see from that image up there (and if you've ever met me), I have some fairly serious eyebrows. I do some grooming here and there so they are suitable for the light of day, but they don't belong on a girl. Bridget and I often talk about what features each of us will hand down. Eyebrows, athletic ability, and ankles are usually the three hot topics.

Number 2: Oscar will eat the baby. We went to a concert the other night and came home to find Oscar had crawled into Bridget's bag (which was on a table), removed two apples and a bag of cough drops, and devoured said apples and drops. What if the baby gets something delicious like peanut butter on her hands? Will Oscar start licking and just keep going? Will he start nibbling the fingers and find himself at an elbow? He better not.

Number 1: Daycare costs will rise. I've already written about the horror of daycare prices today. But can you imagine if they go up? Like, a lot? Great, now I'm sweating profusely. Having ... trouble .... breathing.

It's cool if I crack a beer before 8 AM on a Sunday, right?   

When Girl Meets Dog

I'm nervous about the birth of my daughter for many reasons. I don't know how to change a diaper, feed a baby, or dress someone other than myself. (And if you've seen my Syracuse shoes, you may be questioning that last point.)

Truth be told, I've never babysat a day in my life. I tell people this and they are shocked.

"Never?"

"No. Never. I was too busy trying to drive outside fastballs to right field and hone my streaky jump shot when I was younger. Leave me alone."

(Of course, now, I wish I'd been a babysitter instead of an athlete.)

I'm also nervous that my daughter is going to cry all the time, despise baths, or hate when I hold her. Perhaps she won't eat enough. Or maybe she'll eat only very expensive steak dinners. Hell, I don't know.

What I do know, though, is that of all the things I'm nervous about, Oscar, our dog, may be No. 1 on the list.

Oscar is our pride and joy. Like most couples without children, we treat our pet like he's our son. We smile and nod knowingly when people at Fresh Pond tell us how cute he is. We talk about him when we go out to dinner. We give him treats, feed him organic food, and let him sleep on the bed. (You could also say he lets us sleep on the bed because he takes up so much damn room.)

Oscar, you can imagine, is very needy. He whines when we don't play with him, or when we're on our iPads and not giving him our undivided attention. He cries when he's even the least bit hungry or feels that maybe, just maybe, he has to pee. In short, he's a drama queen.

So what's going to happen when a princess and a drama queen butt heads?

Everyone is telling us that Oscar will be forgotten, a second-class citizen, when baby Briddon is born. But I refuse to believe that. Sure, we'll shower our daughter with attention, but we love Oscar too much to give him the cold shoulder.

So how can we ensure that this meeting -- and this new living arrangement -- is going to work out for everyone? Do I sit down and have a man-to-man chat with Oscar about how we're adding another member to our pack? Do we get him a baby doll that wets itself and cries? Do we start ignoring his pleas, cries, and moans?

We've heard the helpful trick about bringing home something with the baby smell (a blanket, a hat, etc.) from the hospital right after the birth. We're definitely doing that. But what other advice does anyone have about ensuring the peaceful coexistence of a baby and a needy pet?

Our entire pack is listening ...

The Science of Bridget Bombs

They lurk, quietly, around corners. They often show up in the kitchen, the bedroom, and the family room. And they show up night or day -- they can appear right when we wake up or, much to my delight, after three hours of shoveling.

They are -- drumroll, please -- Bridget Bombs.

What's a Bridget Bomb? Webster's Dictionary defines it as "a discarded collection of items owned by Bridget Kylah Briddon that is strewn about within a living space." In other words, bombs consist of wrappers, single slippers, dirty dishes, unmade beds, and anything else you can probably imagine. (A recent one is pictured above.) They are not so much fun -- for me, anyway.

Now, if you know me and Bridget, you know we're not all that similar sometimes. For example, on your average Sunday morning, I'll get up, go to the gym, take Oscar to Fresh Pond, and go grocery shopping before 10:30 AM. Bridget, on the other hand, prefers rolling over (sometimes twice!) and finding the cool side of the pillow.

Another example: When she cooks, Bridget uses as many pots and pans as possible, and makes sure to use the stickiest substances in each of them. When I cook, I attempt to clean the pots when they are still on the burner. (I sound fun, don't I?)

To put it simply: I'm the neat one. Bridget is the "creative" one.

So, these Bridget Bombs, you might imagine, are a huge, divisive issue. The thing is, though, they really aren't. And it's because of humor. As a married couple, there are many things we see differently, but they don't seem so bad when we add an element of humor to them.

In the early days of our marriage -- the first couple months, which many people say are the toughest -- we hadn't figured out this little trick. Instead, I'd come upon a Bridget Bomb and say, "Hey, can you clean this up? I'd rather not live in filth." Not surprisingly, this didn't go over so well. Now, I go around and make little explosion noises, which makes us both laugh a little. It diffuses the situation for both of us and, to be honest, I really don't know who ends up cleaning the bombs. It really doesn't matter.

Is humor the answer in every situation? Of course not. But sometimes a little alliterative name for an annoying habit can mean the difference between an argument and a smile.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I see a small explosion on the table behind me ...

The Most Important Purchase We've Ever Made

It's a picture of nothing, right? Mike forgot to take his finger off the lens because he's old and he doesn't understand technology, right? Wrong.

This picture -- this ugly, ugly picture -- of a brown curtain may not mean much to you. But the curtain in the photo has changed my life in ways I could never have imagined.

As you may know, Bridget and I buy a decent amount of things. (We are, actually, quite conservative when it comes to cash, but that's a story for another time.) We took three honeymoons. (Not really, but that's what our friends like to say.) We like our iPads. (Bridget has a somewhat unnatural affinity for hers.) And our wonderful kitchen island has been well documented.

But above all these things, above all these wonderful items and memories, one purchase stands above the rest. Three words: Room darkening curtains. Cost: $60. Place of purchase: T.J.Maxx.

Until about two months ago, I had never heard of room darkening curtains. My guess is most guys haven't. We don't really think about those things. At all. Ever. We mostly think about sports and food and beer and video games and women -- not necessarily in that order. So when Bridget asked me if I thought we should get room darkening curtains, I looked at her like she'd asked if I prefer a shirt with vertical stripes or horizontal stripes. (Read: I didn't care one bit.) I believe my response was, "What the hell are those and how much are they?"

In classic, calm Bridget style, she explained that they were curtains that made a room darker and that they'd help us sleep better. "Sure," I said, "I like sleep. Go for it."

And from the moment they've gone up, it's been a whole new world. We get at least an extra hour of sleep every morning -- and sometimes more. (And really, is there anything more valuable than a good night's sleep?) The curtains do an amazing job of making it always seem like it's 3 AM even if it's 9. (Here's an awkward customer video if you want to see the curtains in action.) They fool Oscar, too, which is probably the most important thing. With little to no light shining in, he's content to just lay on the bed until we decide to wake up.

So, yes, the curtains are another example of my brilliant wife strutting her shopping stuff. But as I thought about this post, it quickly came to me that the curtains are just an example of something larger -- that it's important to marry someone who has a different perspective on money.

I was chatting with a financially conservative friend at a bar last night. We traded stories about stretching dollars and denying ourselves life's pleasures. And, sure, there's a time for that. It's nice to have savings. But it's also pretty nice to sleep well and, in the words of Tom Haverford: Treat. Yo. Self. Said a different way, I would never, ever have paid $60 for curtains. (I used to think curtains came with apartments. They don't.) But I'm really, really lucky to have such a smart wife.