The Wonderful, Magical Sleep Consultant

We failed. We failed horribly. We failed miserably. We failed undeniably.

Choose your adverb, it really doesn't matter. We. Failed.

At least that's what I thought as we prepared for our first Skype call with a sleep consultant a couple months ago. As the call slowly connected across a national border, I sat there with my head in my hands. How did it come to this?

In the past three months, Annabelle's sleep had become a nightmare. She wouldn't fall asleep until we sat with her for about 90 minutes every night and then, like a horrible, never-ending alarm, would wake up every night around 1 AM and refuse to go back into her crib. For a while, we took her into our bed and then, in a flash of groggy common sense, we realized at least one of us should sleep. So Bridget and I rotated nights sleeping in the guest room with Annabelle "I put my butt up while I sleep" Briddon.

And if you've ever had an extended period of crappy sleep in your life, you know how terrible it is. You fear bedtime. You're irritable. You can't think. It's awful. I sent up a white flag disguised as a blog post in July. 

And that's when Bridget's college friend Kate (who I don't know, but basically love) told us about this sleep consultant she'd used.

"She saved our lives," Kate told Bridget.

"A sleep consultant?" Mike asked Bridget. "That exists? Come on. Are we really at that point? How much will this cost?"

As it turned out, Rock A Baby, run by Desiree Cluff out of Vancouver, had very reasonable prices. (Plus, when you're essentially purchasing sleep, does it really matter?) Still, it was reasonable, and we were excited and a little bit skeptical going into our first Skype call.

Ninety minutes later, we had a plan and a glimmer of hope.

During the next few weeks, we slowly inched our way out of Annabelle's room at bedtime and she slowly gained confidence in her sleeping ability. The biggest change: Choices. Instead of sitting and watching Annabelle play with her feet for 90 minutes, we would say, "Annabelle, it's time to close your eyes. If you aren't ready to do that, Daddy has to leave." She'd cry, realize she was really tired, and be asleep 10 minutes later.

Ninety minutes of "trying to fall asleep" turned into 60. And then 45. And then 30. And then we had a couple nights of uninterrupted sleep.

With applied the "Choices" strategy to food, cleaning up her toys, and other areas of typical toddler frustration. Sometimes it's exhausting to come up with two reasonable options, but it gives Annabelle the feeling that she has control over every situation. (Although let's be honest, she pretty much does.)

After about six weeks, we slowly, cautiously raised our arms in victory. We stopped the weekly chats with Desiree and sunk into our cool, refreshing pillows.

Sure, we still have to figure out the pacifier. And we should probably feed Annabelle something other than her staples of pasta, fruit, pizza, and yogurt. But now, thanks to a sleep consultant (who knew?), we have some energy to tackle the next batch of toddler challenges.

A Recycling Bin and a Revelation

I looked -- half with sympathy and half with confusion -- at the old man standing outside my house on Monday night.

"How long have you been doing this?" I asked.

"Since I died," he said.

Like most people, I mostly avoid conversations with strangers -- especially strangers who, at first glance, seem a little creepy. I'm too busy, have too many fun apps on my iPhone, and well, who talks to random people anymore? That's what the Internet is for, right? Why actually make a human connection that can potentially lead to awkward conversation or suck up some of my precious free time? Seems weird in 2015.

"Since you died?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

"I died in 1996," the old man said.

The old man, who is named Paul (and sometimes Kenny and sometimes Jesus Christ because of the reactions he got in a past job as an inspector), goes through the recycling bins I leave outside my house every week. I always thought it was kind of odd, especially in the suburbs. Is it really worth the time and effort to collect cans you can redeem for a nickel. One hundred cans, which seems like a lot of work, is five dollars, and really, what can you buy with five dollars?

So, every week, I look outside as he searches through the bins.

"What do you think he's looking for?" I ask Bridget. "Isn't this weird for the suburbs? I understand homeless people do this in the city, but this guy doesn't look homeless or anything."

She usually shrugs. And I just look, wondering why someone would go through my boring recycling bins.

Until this Monday, when I headed out with an extra bag of trash. As I walked toward him on the sidewalk, he looked up at me and stared.

"Can I ask what you're looking for?" I said.

"Yeah, I like to get the box tops for the kids," he replied. "You know, for schools."

"Oh, really. That's great," I said, kicking myself for being judgmental.

"Yeah, and I get the tabs for the Shriners," he said.

"That's really great," I said. "How long have you been doing this?"

And that's when Paul (and sometimes Kenny and sometimes Jesus Christ because of the reactions he got in a past job as an inspector) told me his amazing story. One day 19 years ago, he went to the hospital to get treatment for an infection. While he was there, he felt some discomfort in his chest. In fact, he was having a silent heart attack.

"I saw a heavy, grey curtain coming down," Paul said. "The doctor told me if I was anywhere else, I wouldn't have made it."

Paul then went to a bigger hospital where he was told he'd have a quadruple bypass surgery. As it turned out, he had a six-way bypass, which, frankly, I didn't know was a thing. The doctor told Paul, who was traditionally stubborn about such things, that he needed to change his lifestyle -- no more greasy food, less sitting around, more exercise.

"I tried a treadmill and a stationary bike, but those were boring," he said. "That's when I started doing this. It's just kind of snowballed."

Every week, Paul (oh, and also "The Can Man" to some kids) goes around to recycling bins in Reading, Wakefield, and Wilmington. He's even started collecting toys for kids, when parents leave them out for him. I got the impression that he likes to talk when people listen. He's probably told the story about his near-death experience -- and the one about the magic toy tea kettle that held 4,109 tabs -- hundreds of times to hundreds of people. But I hope he knows it stuck with me.

Without thinking, we all judge people all the time, don't we? It's human. That guy seems like a jerk. Do you see the outfit that woman is wearing? I wouldn't yell at my kid that way.

Sometimes great things happen when we put judgment aside. Sometimes sympathy and confusion turn into admiration. Sometimes creepy looks turn into smiles. Sometimes you make a connection. And sometimes you hear an incredible story about someone dying.

Thanks for the chat, Paul. See you next week.

The Three Little Bigs Is an Abomination

Have you read Walt Disney's Three Little Pigs lately? I'm guessing no. Unless you have young kids, it's a little strange if you've opened this book in decades.

But whether you have young kids, are planning to have kids, already had young kids, or don't like kids at all, I have a tip: Never open this book again. Ever. It's an atrocious story with a shoddy plot that teaches horrible morals.

Why is it so bad? Where do I start?

Before I do that, though, let me take a quick detour into these so-called timeless kids' books. As you can imagine, with a two-year-old, I've read a truckload of these stories in the last couple years. To throw out a broad generalization, they are garbage. They are outdated, confusing, and, often, scary. Do you know what actually happens in Pinocchio? Or the plot and ending of The Gingerbread Man? The main character is a huge jerk and then a fox eats him. That's the story. Yeah, gather round, kids.

Back to Three Little Pigs. Seeing this 1933 Little Golden Book on the bookshelf at our Cape rental for the week, I got excited. Doing the wolf's voice, adorable pigs, a story with nice lessons. Daddy-Daughter memories, here we come. Or so I thought.

The story started as I remembered, with three little pigs heading out into the world. But before we even got past Page 1, things got strange: "The first little pig did not like to work at all. He quickly built himself a house of straw." How did this lazy pig "quickly build himself a house of straw?" That sounds absurdly complicated. What was the adhesive? Where did he get the straw? And then he sings a stupid song that includes the lyric, "I toot my flute." Nice. Good message.

Then the second pig "did not like work any better than his brother, so he decided to build a quick and easy house of sticks." Quick? Easy? We then see an image of him hoisting up a door and his window already has curtains. So, so far, the message is: Kids, don't work hard. Just go build yourself a quick house with any materials you can find and then "dance all kinds of jigs," as the two pigs do. In other words, architects are idiots.

The third pig makes a house of bricks and chides the two lazy swines for their poor work ethic. Finally! Something resembling a lesson. Work hard and good things will happen. Then, the story gets rolling, as the wolf attacks the first pig's house: "Little pig, little pig, let me come in!" "Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin!" Ah, the memories. The wolf, you may recall, blows down the first house and then runs over to the house of sticks.

Good stuff, right?

But just as my hope was restored, the plot falls to pieces. Inexplicably, instead of blowing down the house of sticks, the wolf dresses in an elaborate sheep costume to trick the pigs into opening the door. It doesn't work ("you can't fool us with that sheepskin!") and then the wolf just blows down the house anyway. So why bother with the damn sheep costume?! Just level the damn house and let's move on!

As I tried to climb out of that absurd plot hole, the wolf finds he can't blow down the house of bricks. So he decides to go down the chimney and jumps "right into a kettle of boiling water!" Then, the book ends with "the three little pigs spent their time in the strong little brick house singing and dancing merrily. And the big bad wolf never came back again."

Really, wolf? Why not try a different costume? Or wait for the pigs to come out? One pot of hot water and you've given up the entire quest? Good lesson on how to stick with it, wolf.

That's not even my biggest problem, though. The most ridiculous part of this 22-page literary farce is the moral or, rather, the lack of a moral. On the last page, we see the three pigs singing and laughing together. How is that justice? One pig works really hard building a fantastic house and, then, after laughing at him while he's working hard, the two lazy freeloaders are picking out their bedrooms? Didn't they learn a lesson of some kind? Hard work leads to success and security? Lazy pigs turn into bacon? Anything?

Nope. Instead, the lasting lesson is clear: Find yourself a sibling or friend who works harder than you and ride his coattail's to an easy life.

See you never, Three Little Pigs. I hope the wolf comes back and devours all of you.

A Conversation with Annabelle

Two weeks from her second birthday, Annabelle is suddenly becoming a little girl.

She pulls up her pants, cleans up after herself, and flies down the "big kid" slide with ease and confidence. She runs, jumps (sort of), and picks herself up whenever she falls down. She smiles, laughs, cries, and asks us to change her diaper.  

And more than anything, Annabelle talks.

She talks at breakfast and she talks when she's falling asleep. She talks in the car and and she talks when she should be brushing her teeth. She talks to her grandparents and she talks to all her friends at school.

For a while now, going back to my journalism roots, I wanted to have a sit-down interview with Annabelle. You know, get something on record. But her schedule and her publicist made things difficult. Just after lunch today, though, before we read a book and took a nap, I snagged three minutes to fire some questions her way. Here's what transpired:

Me: Annabelle, can I interview you? Is that okay?
Annabelle: (Silence)

See, I told you she could be difficult.

Me: Can I please interview you?
Annabelle: Yeah

Me: What did you have for lunch?
Annabelle: Umm, peach.
Me: You had a peach?
Annabelle: Peach.

She actually had yogurt, fruit, and a smoothie. We're off to a bad start.

Me: What color shirt are you wearing today?
Annabelle: Ummm, green.

She adds "umm" at varying lengths before almost everything she says. It's adorable.

Me: Who is your best friend at school?
Annabelle: Ummm, Norvic. And Bonnie. And Amy. JP! Zach. Chloe. Erin. Shiloh.
Me: That's a bunch of people. Can you narrow it down to one?
Annabelle: JP.

A boy. Obviously.

Me: What is your middle name?
Annabelle: Umm, four, five six.
Me: Four, five, six? Are you sure?
Annabelle: Umm, A, B, C, B.
Me: That's your middle name?
Annabelle: Yeah.

For the record, it's Grace.

Me: What's Daddy's favorite food?
Annabelle: Um, apple.
Me: And Mommy's?
Annabelle: Steak.

Neither answer is correct.

Me: Okay, last one. I know you need to get down for a nap. Where do you live?
Annabelle: Mommy!

Maybe not the best interview I've ever done. But certainly entertaining. Plus, I got a big kiss when it ended, so that's always a plus.

Three Videos and a Toddler

I snapped this photo earlier this week. There was nothing remarkable about it. I didn't take my time, check the lighting, or ask Annabelle to pose in any way. I just said, "Hey! Annabelle!" and she looked up at me and my iPhone with those adorable hazel eyes.

Cute, right?

As I smiled at the picture on my phone, I stopped for a moment and thought, Man, it is so easy to capture every moment of this girl's childhood. 

I've written before about the changing value of a baby book (the value is plunging toward zero) and how fortunate we are today to have so much technology at our fingertips. Weekly, Bridget and I get to look back at all the incredible memories we've already made with Annabelle. And in a few years, Annabelle will get to experience them, too. Her early childhood, I hope, will come alive for her.

The problem, I've found, is separating the wheat from the chaff. Is that picture good enough to keep? Is it engaging enough for Facebook? Is it Instagram-worthy? What about that video I recorded last night?

Videos are especially challenging for me because I can't get enough of watching Annabelle grow. I've uploaded, at last count, 108 Annabelle videos to my YouTube channel in the last two years. That's a bit much.

All of them aren't worth sharing, of course. I think these three are, though. So here is the wheat from the last month, the three best recent videos of our "how are you almost already 2?" toddler:

The Commercial That Turned Me into a Puddle

Annabelle and I were watching golf a couple Sundays ago.

Well, kind of. I was trying to watch golf while she was climbing over me saying, "Anna, Elsa, and Olaf" over and over again. (I'm still waiting for Frozen to get unbearable. I imagine it'll happen any day now.)

 "Anna, Elsa, and Olaf."

 Someone misses a putt.

 "Anna, Elsa, and Olaf."

 Good Lord, Jordan Spieth is one hell of a golfer. 

 "Anna, Elsa, and Olaf."

 And then, almost like destiny, we both look at the TV screen at the same time and this comes on:
 


If you had been a fly on the wall watching us watch this, here's what you would have seen:

• First scene: Annabelle and I both stare at the screen, drawn in by the adorable music. Neat, I think, we just bought a house, too. These Dad-Daughter commercials are so good sometimes.

• Second scene: I pull Annabelle closer to me as the Dad bends down to explain to his preschooler why coloring on the wall is bad. Man, Annabelle is growing fast. I sniffle a bit.

• Third scene: I pull Annabelle even closer as the little girl falls off her bike. Annabelle speaks up: "Bike!" (She loves seeing bikes.) "Yes, honey," I say. "You're going to ride a big bike like that someday." 

• Fourth scene: We both stare breathlessly at the thunderstorm. The house could catch on fire and I would need to finish watching this commercial.

• Fifth scene: I move Annabelle's hair out of her eyes as we watch Dad comfort his daughter who either didn't make the team or just lost a big game. I'm going to coach everything, I think. Everything! Sports are the best!

• Sixth scene: Oh, boy. It's getting awfully dusty in here. I start to feel chills -- seriously, literal chills -- up my spine as the college-bound daughter falls into her Dad's arms. Then the tears start. I cry about 2-3 times a year and this is definitely going to be one of those times. I can't hug Annabelle much tighter. 

• Final scene: I've essentially pulled Annabelle onto my lap. I'm hugging her with every ounce of strength I can muster between the tears, which are actually running down my cheeks now. Annabelle is just staring.

Just then, Bridget came downstairs. "What are you guys doing down here?" 

"Nothing really. Just crying because of insurance commercials. Typical Sunday."

I've watched the commercial a dozen times since we first saw it a couple weeks ago. I haven't cried since, but the chills still hit me when the daughter goes to college. And as I watched it again right now, right before I posted this, a scary thought crept into my mind:

What in the world am I going to do when all this stuff actually happens? 

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?