A Change of Scenery

Without question, my iPhone is my most important possession. I look at it somewhere between 100 - 150 times every day, and, without it, I'd be lost. It contains my virtual social network, my financial information, and my photos and memories. Put another way, I'd rather lose my wallet 10 times than lose my iPhone once.

So, first, way to go, Apple. You pretty much own me.

Secondly, because the iPhone captures so much of my attention every morning, afternoon, and night, I've become pretty obsessed with changing the wallpaper on a weekly basis. Novelty, after all, unfolds time. If I had the same background image on my phone all the time, I'd get bored.

Because I look at my iPhone so damn much, it's important to keep it fresh and interesting. It's sad, but it's the thing I see more than anything in the world -- more than my wife, more than my daughter, more than my reflection. (It would be really, really odd if I looked at my reflection 150 times every day.)

And this simple change, this photo swap, makes me feel different. Like a new toy or a new discovery, it makes me smile when I'm losing energy on a Tuesday afternoon or I'm walking home from work on a rainy Thursday. It brightens my day. It brings me joy. (And yes, it typically includes the two beautiful gals at the top of the post.)

Facebook photos work the same way. When we change our profile picture or our cover photo, we're presenting ourselves to the world in a different way. We're tweaking our image. It says a lot about who we are. If I post a picture of myself after a race, it means running is a big part of my life. If I post a picture of me with my wife, it's because I want to show her that I love her or maybe that it's an anniversary of some kind. A picture of myself? I may be a family man, but I'm independent and I do whatever I want on Saturday afternoons. (Not true. Ever.)

This week, as I changed my photo to the one you see above, it made me realize just how powerful these images really are. A simple change of scenery can change how the world views you and, more importantly, how you view your life.

How often do you change the background image on your phone? Or on your Facebook page? Have you thought what that says about you? Maybe it doesn't mean anything. Or maybe it makes you smile on a rainy Thursday afternoon.

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.

Podcast Fever

Now that I've been a Dad for almost a year, I have a little bit of perspective. I realize how lucky I am to be married to someone I love. I realize how fortunate I am to have a happy, healthy, growing baby girl. I realize how wonderful it is to read to my daughter, hang out with my dog, and spend some quiet time with my wife.

And I realize how rare and precious alone time really is.

The reality of the situation is that, after you start a small family (a wonderful, beautiful small family), you don't get much time to yourself. At least not as much as you're used to getting. Maybe a quick hour here and a 15-minute block there. And it's usually later at night or early (like, really early) in the morning.

That, of course, means that you want to make the most of these rare minutes to yourself. And for me, in the past year, that has meant podcasts.

I've never really liked talk radio. I'm not sure why, but it never really appealed to me. Then, about a year ago, as I was walking to work listening to some song I'd heard 800 times, I realized how incredibly stupid I was being. What value did it have? Now, don't get me wrong; music is amazing and has this unique power to bring back memories, relax you, or get you going -- depending on your mood. But the same songs over and over and over? It's like watching the same episode of a TV show or the same movie day after day after day. The same lines. Nothing new. No surprises. No, thanks.

Enter podcasts and, for me, podcast fever. Free, funny, interesting, engaging, educational, entertaining -- what's not to love? I started listening to them every day on my commute to work and now find myself sneaking them in whenever I have a spare chunk of time away from Belle and Bridget. (Overcast is my favorite podcast app, in case you're curious.) And since I've been listening religiously for about a year, I thought I'd quickly share my five favorite podcasts:

1. This American Life. No surprise here. If you listen to podcasts, you know this is pretty much the gold standard. Ira Glass's storytelling is as good as it gets.
2. Freakonomics Radio. These two authors -- Dubner and Levitt -- are smart, funny, and thought-provoking. I hadn't thought of it until just now, but I can't think of any two famous people with whom I'd rather have a beer. Is that depressing? This episode is my favorite. 
3. Planet Money. This one is from NPR, which really sets the quality bar for podcasts. Fascinating stories, a great mix of talent, and short shows that are perfect for a quick break at lunch or a quick commute. NPR's Ted Radio Hour and Wait Wait … Don't Tell Me (even without Carl Kasell) are fantastic, too.
4. Slate's The Gist. I was really skeptical about this at first -- it seemed like one dude's typically angry rants -- but this daily show is incredibly entertaining. Mike Pesca, known for NPR sports, is damn funny. One line from a recent show, which was also featured on This American Life: "I should answer Donald Trump's take on science as soon as Donald Trump is asked to comment on my opinion that he is a pompous, overbearing, ignorant windbag who lusts for attention the way a meth-addicted prostitute lusts for his next fix." Great stuff.
5. ESPN: Fantasy Focus: Football. It's that time of the year and, as much as I hate to admit it, I can't get enough of hearing Matthew Berry explain what he's buying or selling this season. It's like a weird drug.  Oh, and speaking of fantasy football, here's a podcast about the only league I'm in this season. It is, by about five galaxies, the worst podcast on this list. But whatever. At least we're putting ourselves out there.

One bonus podcast: The Memory Palace with Nate DiMeo. These are incredibly short, but incredibly engaging. I just wish there were more of them.

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 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 Baby Boy Bias

Last week, during our family vacation in Seattle, a man approached me and Annabelle at the Chihuly Garden and Glass Exhibition.

"Hey," he said. "I saw you yesterday. I recognize your (San Francisco) Giants hat."

"Oh, yeah, right," I said.

"Yeah, you were reading to your son in the library. I wanted to yell, 'Go Giants,' but it was a library and all."

"Oh, it couldn't have been me then," I said. "I don't have a son. This is my daughter, Annabelle."

"Oh, right, whatever. Well, yeah, go Giants!"

Then he walked away. I chuckled at first, but then I thought, wait, no. No, dude. Not whatever. There's a big difference in what you just said. What if I walked up to you and said, "Excuse me, miss"? So, no. Not whatever.

Baby boy bias, that is, the belief that every father wants only sons and that every small baby who doesn't have super long hair and earrings is a male, is very real. I started experiencing it long before Annabelle was born and now, a full 9 1/2 months later, it's still popping up almost weekly.

It started about halfway through Bridget's pregnancy, when we found out the little bump in her belly was made of sugar and spice. I said I didn't care if it was a boy or a girl, and I meant it. But some of my friends didn't believe me. Come on, they said, you tell everyone you don't care because that's what you're supposed to say. But you want a boy, right? Everyone wants a boy.

But why? Why does everyone want a boy?

So I can teach him how to play sports? (Girls play sports.) So I can relate to him? (Dads relate to daughters.) So we can become best friends? (I fully intend to be best friends with Annabelle.) Because I rule over the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros and need a male heir to sit on the Iron Throne? (That's silly, but what a great season finale, right?)

Since Annabelle was born, things have gotten even worse with the baby boy bias. When he walk down the street, people ask about the "little guy's" name. In elevators, they ask us how old "he" is. And when Annabelle wears a blue shirt (like the one in the photo above)? Forget about it. The shirt might as well read: "100% Stud. Proceed with Caution."

Now, sure, I'll admit that Annabelle's gender isn't immediately clear. She's mostly just a squishy lump with a wispy head of hair and no teeth. But why does everyone always think boy first and girl second? Does she need to wear all pink all the time? Tiny, little pig tails? Or should we just get her high heels and a mini skirt, and teach her how to wear mascara?

We hope to have another child someday. And yes, part of me wants it to be a boy. I'd say just about 50 percent of me. The other 50 percent is hoping for another girl. Either way, if they are anything like Annabelle, they'll be absolutely perfect.

In the meantime, I'll just keep correcting people and hope the ripple effect will make people think twice before immediately fist-bumping my little slugger. (And by the way, girls hit home runs, too.)