Three Cases of the Irrational Dad

No one has ever labeled me as laid-back. Efficient? Sure. Productive? You bet. Always on the go? Check. But never laid-back.

So, it may not surprise you that I'm occasionally a tad nervous, or, perhaps, irrational, when it comes to my daughter, Annabelle.

Now, in my defense, before the last 10 weeks, I knew as much about babies as you know about the mating habits of flamingos. I don't think that makes me a unique male. Most guys (dudes, bros, boys -- whichever you prefer) I know didn't do much babysitting in high school. Instead, we played sports, chased girls, and spit a lot.

Guys, then, are inherently at a disadvantage with this baby stuff. We're starting from square one and we're suddenly the head of a household. (Is there any phrase in the English language that can make you feel older? Excuse me, can I speak to the head of the household?) We're nervous, scared, and anxious because there's this perfect thing that we don't want to mess up in any way. We want our sons and daughters to be absolutely perfect for as long as possible. We want them to be happy, healthy, and quiet. Forever.

And because of that, we're irrational.

More specifically, I'm irrational. Thanks to my lack of baby knowledge and my, um, active personality, Bridget and I have already had a few interesting  (and unnecessary) moments with that screaming gal in the photo. In chronological order, here are the three cases of the irrational dad:

1. After a few weeks of life, Annabelle started to develop a rash on her face and her chest. "Oh, man," I said, when it got particularly bad. "What's wrong with her? Is she okay?"Bridget looked at the rash. "Yes, she's fine," she said. "It's probably just baby acne. Plus, babies get rashes all the time." I shook my head. "No, no, I don't think so," I said. "I think something's wrong. Can you call in the morning?" Bridget, to appease me, called in the morning. "They think she's fine." Two days later, the baby acne disappeared.

2. I was convinced Annabelle was blind. Two weeks ago, I was playing with Annabelle while Bridget made dinner. I was making faces at her and trying to get her to follow my finger. (Babies, I'd read, were supposed to be able to track things at eight weeks.) I moved my hand right. Annabelle stared straight ahead. I moved my hand left. She stared straight ahead. In fact, she was actually looking past me. "Bridget," I yelled. "I think Annabelle might be blind!" Bridget came running in. "What do you mean? Why would you think that?" I showed her Annabelle's poor tracking ability. "I mean, would we know? She had that hearing test, but we don't know anything about her eyes," I said. Bridget assured me everything was fine. A couple days later, we told our pediatrician about my irrational fear. She laughed. Annabelle's eyes are fine.

3. I woke up in a panic at 3 AM last Tuesday. I jumped out of bed, and went over to Annabelle, who was asleep in her Rock 'n Play. I stared at her in fear. She was so quiet, so still. There had to be something wrong. I leaned over and touched her hand. Nothing. I listened to hear breath, and slowly, softly, she exhaled. And then I exhaled. Bridget was awake by this point. Our conversation:
"Hun," she said.
"Yeah, I"m okay," I said. "I was just really nervous. She was just so still."
"Right," Bridget said, "she was sleeping."
"I know," I said. "I just got nervous because the blanket was there."
"Was the blanket near her face?"
"No, it was under her feet … I'm cool. I'll go back to bed now."

This parenting thing gets easier, right?

Maternity Leave by the Numbers

Today marked a major maternity leave milestone. Did our darling daughter have some magical developmental breakthrough? Did she start walking or talking way ahead of schedule? No. (Though she is smiling and giggling which is pretty awesome.)

Today, friends, I watered my plants. “Watering the plants” has been on my to-do list since before Annabelle was born. Annabelle is 8 weeks old. I have not been able to get my act together and water these plants until just a few minutes ago. Now, this is not so much a victory for the plants (because, let’s be real, these plants are clearly dead at this point), but a sign that just maybe my life is regaining a bit of normalcy. Perhaps we are turning a corner and I’ll be able to do more things than just feed and change an infant.

You see, the thing I didn’t quite grasp about maternity leave, and about taking care of a tiny human in general, is that keeping said tiny human alive is incredibly time consuming. Yet, at the end of the day, you aren’t quite sure what you did. It isn’t like being at work, when you are constantly checking things off of your to-do list like some sort of corporate ninja.

This has been an adjustment for me. For the first month of Annabelle’s life I basically just fed and changed her and watched an obscene amount of TV. How much? Lets recap:

•  Seasons 2-5 of Fringe 
•  Seasons 1-4 of The Good Wife 
•  Seasons 6-7 of the West Wing 
•  More than a little Gossip Girl 

That is, by a conservative estimate, 214 episodes total. Which results in 160 HOURS of TV. All watched in one month. Before you call the mommy police on me, please know that newborns sleep like 36 hours a day. And Annabelle really preferred to do her sleeping on me. Turns out there are a limited amount of things you can accomplish with a sleeping infant on your chest. So TV watching became my pastime of choice.

Since we are already crunching numbers, let’s look at Annabelle’s life so far. Thanks to this app, we’ve been diligently tracking her every move. This tracking was necessary for the first week or two of life to make sure she was doing ok, but at this point it has just become a sick obsession. Of course, it allows me to look back at the past 8 weeks and realize how I’ve spent my time:

• 35 bottle attempts 
• 392 diaper changes 
• 7,245 minutes of nursing 

And, actually, when you add it all up like this it does seem rather impressive. So what if I didn’t sew her Halloween outfit together from scratch? Or finish decorating her nursery. Or make dinner. Or clean the apartment. Or even get really into knitting.  I kept a baby alive. And maybe, if today is any indication of things to come, moving forward I just might be able to keep a baby AND my plants alive. Fingers crossed.

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 …

Dad's First Feeding

Yelling. Then crying. Then really loud yelling. Then spit up. Then more crying. Then more spit up, more yelling, and lots of tears, in that order. Then more yelling.

In short, chaos. Absolute chaos.

I fed Annabelle for the first time this week. It didn't, you know, go well. In fact, some would call it a disaster, a train wreck, or, in the parlance of our times, a dumpster fire. At least at the beginning.

It all started when I received a text from Bridget around lunchtime: "Guess what? I pumped today, so you can feed her tonight!" I was thrilled. No, elated. I'd read a lot about that first "Dad to baby feeding" and, now, it was my turn. I was going to get to feed my young. But I was also really nervous. I had never fed another human before. Sure, I'd given a date a bite of chocolate cake, but I'd never fed another person an entire meal.

I immediately turned to the most logical place to refresh my knowledge: Google. After getting sidetracked on a video about how to bathe a newborn (Belle hates baths, which is a story for another time), I finally found a decent site that talked about 45-degree angles and "not forcing it." Content with my superficial research (especially the angle thing, which seemed pretty scientific and impressive), I enjoyed the rest of my day at work and some early evening tennis. As I walked home in front of a setting sun at 6:30, I realized I was muttering to myself: You can do this, Mike. You can do this. 

I walked in, grabbed Belle, grabbed the bottle, took off my shirt in preparation for copious amounts of spit and vomit, and put on my game face. You can do this, Mike. I took a comfortable seat on my couch and held Belle at precisely 45.0 degrees. Here's the play-by-play:

Attempt 1: Waaaaaaaaaaaaah! (Baby translation: "Absolutely not. What the hell is this? There is no way I'm feeding this way.")

Okay, okay. She just needs to get adjusted to this, I think to myself. Compose yourself, Mike. You can do this.

Attempt 2: Waaaaaah. Bottle goes in for a second. Waaaaaaaaah! (Baby translation: "Did you not hear me 10 seconds ago? I said no!")

Attempt 3: Waaaaah. Waaaaah. Bottle goes in for a few seconds. Milk comes out! Hooray!  Waaaaaaaah! (Baby translation: "Look, man. You are not my Mom. You'll never be my Mom. Go write a blog post or something.")

"Honey," I say to Bridget. "I don't think this is going very well."

Attempts 4 - 8: A little milk goes in. Waaaaaaaaah! Waaaaaaah! Waaaaaaah! (Baby translation: "No! Give me the real thing!")

I decide to walk around and bounce Belle for a while because that always seems to help her relax. She calms down a bit. Bridget leaves the room because she'd read a baby won't feed when she can smell/sense that her mother is around. It doesn't make a difference. She can easily hear Attempt 9 from the other room.

Attempt 9: Waaaaaah! Waaaaah! Deep breath. WAAAAAAH!

I remove the bottle and look at it -- .25 ounces (maybe) of the 3 ounces are gone. Thirty minutes have gone by. Crap.

Attempt 10: Bridget holds the bottle while I bounce Belle. And ... success! She's sucking and gulping. "Honey," I yell. "You've got it. You're doing ..." Waaaah! Waaaah! Waaaah!

At this point, 40 minutes into the feeding, I'm close to calling it a failure. I'm ready for Bridget to come in with the big guns. (Pun intended. Whatever. I'm tired, so I'll use puns when I want.) And then, suddenly on attempt 11, something clicks. Her eyes soften, her breathing slows, and her lips curl. It's like the moment when a kid understands long division for the first time or a minor leaguer learns how to take an outside curve ball to right field. Success! Just like that, quietly, calmly, Belle grabs hold of my pinkie and guzzles 2.75 ounces of milk in about two minutes.

Bridget snaps the photo above and, out of nowhere, I have one my proudest (and most gratifying) moments thus far as a Dad. (Isn't she adorable?)

Then I realize it's almost time for Belle's weekly bath. Sigh. I think I need a nap ...

Going from Miracles to 9 to 5

I stared incredulously for hours at this perfect, little person Bridget and I created. I learned how to hold her, how to change her, and how to soothe her. I took every opportunity to smell her and kiss her. My life was changed forever.

And then, in what felt like the blink of an eye, I was back at work.

I'd witnessed a miracle -- a damn miracle! -- only 12 days earlier and I was back in my office chair typing away at 8:30 on a Monday morning. Now, let me preface this post by saying that I'm very fortunate to have a job that offers paternity leave. And let me also preface this post by saying I wasn't the one who actually gave birth. (You know, just in case there was some confusion about that.) Still, going back to work that first Monday (and really, that first week) was really, really difficult.

September 16 was the day of reckoning for me. On September 15, I made my lunch, chose an outfit, and got ready for what felt like my first day of work. I'd returned to the office after vacations before, but this was different. Instead of thinking about that delicious bottle of wine we had with dinner or that cloudless day on the beach, I was going to be thinking (constantly, I surmised) about my new daugther.

Think about it: One moment, your outlook on life changes. The next moment, you're back in Outlook. How does anyone make that transition smoothly? There are emails waiting for you, calendar invites that need a response, and colleagues who are eager for some input. And in three specific ways, it's been just as bad as I expected:

1. I'm really tired. Well, duh. In fact, Annabelle has been a pretty darn good overnight sleeper so far, but it's still exhausting. One thing I've already learned about early parenthood is that breaks are few and far between. You're almost always "on." Mix a serious lack of shut-eye with a two-hour meeting in a warm room and, well, you can figure out the rest.
2. The right word is just out of reach. I'm not sure if other people have noticed yet (thanks for being polite if you have noticed, colleagues), but as I'm explaining a program or sharing an opinion, my mind has these moments of blank. I've said "conflict" when I meant "connect" and "hotel" when I meant "hospital." And I've done that thing where you unconsciously switch the first letter of one word with the first letter of the next word at least 400 times.
3. I miss my daughter a lot. I get text messages with photos and enjoy a lunchtime phone call here or there, but I miss her. It's tough.

In three other ways, though, going back to work after paternity leave has resulted in some positive changes:

1. I have a new perspective. I had a strong work-life balance before Annabelle arrived. Other than skipping most lunch breaks, I was pretty good at shutting down by 5:30 PM. (I was once miserable at a job that required constant email surveillance, so I've learned my lesson.) Now, though, I leave as soon as I can to get home to see my family. And I use my lunch break to make phone calls -- even if it's just to hear Annabelle squeak and sigh.
2. I've remembered how lucky I am to work with really supportive, flexible colleagues. Between giving thoughtful gifts and cards, checking in to make sure I'm not falling asleep, allowing me to miss meetings so I can be at doctor's appointments, and being patient on the days when I'm a bit slower, my co-workers (really, friends) have been great.
3. I get to come home every day to something amazing. Whoa, whoa, you might be thinking. Haven't you had a wonderful wife for a while now? Of course! But I often beat her home before Annabelle was born. These days, I walk in and see two beautiful faces every single night.

The re-entry to the salt mines has been tough, but these three changes have made things a whole lot easier. I feel strongly that paternity leave should be four weeks -- three weeks off, one week back at work to develop a schedule, one week off -- but even if that were the case, that first Monday at 8:30 would have been just as tough.

The Pull of the Push Present

The words of the greatest television character of our generation, George Costanza, reverberated in my head when I first heard about this thing called a push present:

"It never ends, this present stuff! Engagement present! Then they get married, you're gonna have to get something for that. Then the baby, there's another present. Then the baby starts getting their presents. I don't even like the Drake."

(Seinfeld fans will remember that no one likes the Drake in the end, especially after charity got all the gifts. Those of you who aren't Seinfeld fans should think long and hard about why you don't like hilarious things.)

Pregnancy comes with lots of opinions. Name your child this. Don't drink that. Eat this. Don't lift that. It's the push present, though, that may be the most polarizing issue. For those of you who don't know, a push present is a gift to a mother that celebrates the birth of a child. Essentially, it's a way to say, "Hey, you just had a really tough 10 months and went through an enormous amount of pain, so here's this token of my love."

The whole push present deal really comes down to two questions:
1. Should I get one for her?
2. What should it be?

(Of course, No. 2 is moot if the answer to No. 1 is "no.")

Let's tackle No. 1 first. Should I get a push present for Bridget? I decided to do some quick research about the push present business and found that it really only started in 1992 -- at least that's the first time the phrase was published. (So much for a long, meaningful tradition.) A 2007 BabyCenter.com survey found that 38% of 30,000 women received a push present. Fifty-five percent wanted one. Forty percent said the baby was enough of a gift.

Hmmm. Good information, but it certainly didn't make the decision for me.

I asked a few people at work and got varied opinions. Some women skipped my first question and just asked what I was getting Bridget. One of my male friends, on the other hand, had a priceless reaction when I asked him if he planned to get a push present for his wife: "A what now? Are you serious? No, I don't think so. No." Other male friends have opted for diamonds. (Thanks, jerks. Isn't there a homemade breakfast-in-bed you should be preparing in your Italian villa?)

I still couldn't decide.

And again, I couldn't help but think of George's wise (and angry) words. He's right about presents, as he was about most things. We're trained to buy gifts for everything. And in my experience, the gesture seems to mean more than the gift nowadays because most people just buy themselves what they want. Sigh.

Still, I decided yes. A first baby is a once-in-a-lifetime experience and my darling Bridget had sacrificed a lot in 2013. I also decided that I'd wait to see her push before I chose a gift.

That brings us to question No. 2: What should I get? I had decided I would get either a massage gift certificate or this Patagonia winter coat. Then, after seeing my tough-as-nails wife endure a great deal of pain and witnessing the amazing moment, I, of course, got both gifts. (Plus, I got her some sour gummy worms because she really likes those.)

Is it the most romantic gift ever? No. But the massage will make Bridget feel wonderful for an hour and the coat will keep her warm when she takes Belle on long walks this fall and winter. Plus, the gift resulted in a lot of happy tears, which is always a good thing.

Of course, now I have to think of a Christmas gift. And that's only if we decide not to exchange gifts on Columbus Day this year ...

Seven Things I've Already Learned about Fatherhood

I can now wear high, white socks. I can now use phrases like, "Money doesn't grow on trees" and "A little hard work never hurt anyone." I will now, without exception, eat all the end pieces and the leftovers no one wants.

I am officially a Dad.

I've had my shiny, new title for all of 11 days, but I've already learned a few things. I still have about 174,893 things to figure out, but after almost two weeks as Annabelle Grace Briddon's father, I am certain about these seven things:

1. Parenting is pretty natural. In other words, I'm not nearly as bad at this as I expected I would be. I know how to change a diaper, hold a baby, and turn crying into quiet. (Not every time on that last item, but I'm getting there.) Everyone said that you just kind of figure it out. Everyone was right.

2. My pinkie finger is very important. If you put your pinkie -- nail-side down -- into a baby's mouth, she sucks on it and, subsequently, stops crying. So far, anyway. For whatever reason, this little secret didn't appear in any of the baby books I read. When one of our nurses showed me how to do it, I felt like I was being invited into an exclusive club.

3. I would be screwed without my wife. This isn't a new fact, but it's become very apparent in the past couple weeks. Bridget, a seasoned babysitter, has cared for a lot of newborns in her life and appears to be really good at all this complicated stuff. Diaper change? Eight seconds. Breastfeeding? A natural. Explosive diarrhea? Handles it with a smile. She more than makes up for my 10-thumbed hands.

4. Poop smells. Several times, I read that breastfed babies don't have stinky diapers. That is, excuse the pun, a load of crap. It is not pleasant.

5. Your body can adjust to anything. I really enjoy sleep. The thought of a soft, delicately braided hammock gently rocking on a cool summer evening is downright sexy to me. I used to average about 7-8 hours of snoozing every night. Now? Well, if you're a parent, you know it's sometimes half of that. Or a quarter. Or some other tiny (and ungodly) fraction. But, so far, both Bridget and I are holding our own. I've even worked out a few times in the past week. (Or maybe I dreamt that ...)

6. Apps can be wonderful things. I love apps. I'm constantly looking for new ones and touting the value of my favorites to friends and family. Yes, they can be a giant waste of time, but the right ones, like Baby Connect, can really improve the quality of your life. Baby Connect tracks feedings, dirty diapers, doctor visits, and everything else related to our bundle of joy. It's a data lover's dream. In the last five days, I know Belle has gone through eight diapers, nine diapers, eight diapers, seven diapers, and 10 diapers, respectively. And now you know. Neat.

7. There's no word for how much you love your child. The English language just doesn't have one. Dozens of times every day, I'm experiencing emotions I've never even imagined. I know this is mushy and all that, but it's true. When she sleeps for an hour on my chest. When she opens one eye, but not the other. When she kicks me while I change her. It's, well, like I said, there's no word.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go buy some socks ...

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."

Why Having a Baby is Like Fantasy Football

It's almost here.

By "it's," of course, I mostly mean Wednesday, the day Bridget will be induced. We are over-the-moon excited, nervous, and ready to "get that baby the hell out of Bridget's belly." (Her words, not mine.) But by "it's," I also mean the beginning of fantasy football, which officially kicks off on Thursday with the start of  the NFL season.

Now, at a quick glance, these two things -- babies and fantasy football -- are quite different. One is a pooping, drooling mess that changes your life forever. The other is a baby.

But seriously, they are quite different. One is an actual human. One is fake. One is doted on by parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and friends. The other is, in many people's opinions, a giant waste of time. One is the continuation of evolution. The other is grown men eating chicken wings, drinking beer, and throwing things at computer screens.

So, yes, these things are very, very different. But as Bridget and I get ready for a life-changing week and I start adjusting lineups in my two fantasy leagues, I'm realizing these two things can be quite similar. Here are five ways:

1. Research is critical. I've read a handful of baby books and spent several hours on ESPN.com. I've learned about colostrum, stork bites, and speedy wide receivers. I've learned a lot about kneecaps -- babies are born without them and an injured one can ruin a season. Will every bit of reading I've done pay off in either situation? Probably not. But I feel a lot more confident knowing that I've prepared as much as I can.
2. You have no control. At the end of the day, however, all of the research in the world isn't going to change reality. We will be frustrated with our baby at 3 AM and have no idea what to do, and someone on my team will get injured. (Thanks for already taking care of that, Le'Veon Bell.)
3. A name is important. I've already written about the process of naming our daughter. I'm quite certain it's the most important thing you do before your child is born. (Installing the carseat is probably a close second.) Our daughter will have her name forever, so we hope we've picked a winner. Naming your team -- in my case, Texas Forever -- can have a big influence on your season. Do you go with humor? Something like Little Lebowski's Urban Achievers? Do you highlight a star player? Maybe Tom Brady's Bunch? Either way, it's not a decision one should take lightly.
4. It's easy to get frustrated. One more touchdown. One more reception. One more yard. If you've ever played fantasy football, you know there's nothing quite like looking at your score on a Sunday evening and seeing that someone rushed for 99 yards or that a 80-yard touchdown catch got called back because of a phantom hold. Garbage! Similarly, I'm imagining, with constant crying and a lack of communication skills, the first few months of a baby's life will be challenging. The key to both situations, I believe, is taking it all in stride.
5. Winning is fun. As much as I try, I can't imagine the feeling I'll have when my daughter smiles at me for the first time. Or the joy that will infuse my body when she starts sleeping through the night. The first words, the first steps, the first goal she'll score in soccer. They'll all be huge wins. Beating a friend in an important fantasy football game is a great feeling, too. Even if it lasts for only a second, the jubilation of "my team is better than yours" is pretty damn cool.

Of course, I've never  actually won a league title. So here's hoping I'm better at fatherhood than I am at fantasy football ...

Due Date, Schmue Date

Bridget's due date was this past Thursday. Or it was Saturday, depending on whom you ask. Originally, her due date was August 24, but after our first ultrasound, it became August 22.

Either way, one thing is for certain: It really doesn't matter.

As a first-timer to this pregnancy experience, I assumed that a due date was pretty concrete. If not etched in stone, it was at least written in permanent marker somewhere. Underlined. In all capital letters. But as it turns out, I was dead wrong. In fact, only about 5 percent of babies are born on their designated day.

This statistic stinks. And it stinks for three reasons:

1. Due dates are a big tease. Think about the last big thing for which you prepared. Maybe it was a speech or a presentation. Maybe it was a wedding, a birthday, or an anniversary. Perhaps it was a vacation. Whatever it was, you set a date, said thing occurred on that date, and then you moved on with your life. That's not so in baby world. August 22 (or August 24) came and went for us. We had marked the date on our calendars, made sure our hospital bag was packed, and had our hands on the doorknob. (I've even been working on my sprinting, just in case.) But the hours, minutes, and seconds slipped by. And we waited. How are you feeling now?, I asked. How about NOW?

2. I like deadlines. As a journalist by trade, I'm accustomed to looking at the clock. You need 400 words in 25 minutes? You got it. Need a quote by 2 PM? I'm your man. Not surprisingly, this thinking crept into my daily life and I have a great respect for time. If I'm supposed to be somewhere at 6 AM, you know damn well that I'm going to be there. My daughter? She'll come when she's good and ready, thank you very much.

3. Poor Bridget. Bridget is a champ. She's a great sport and a tough cookie. In other words, she's not one to complain. But good God. This poor thing has endured 40 weeks of back-breaking, ankle-swelling, acne-inducing pregnancy. When I ask her if she's comfortable on the couch, she contorts her body into a pretzel and sheepishly nods her head. And yes, I know that millions and millions of women have gone through pregnancy and given birth, but the experience is different when it's in your living room and it's your wife. Yes, she'll make it and yes, she's had a fairly easy pregnancy. But, again, good God.

So, what's next? Well, we wait. Eighty percent of women deliver between weeks 37 - 42, so there's a good chance we'll fall in there somewhere. After that, if everyone stays healthy and we're still watching the clock, they'll induce Bridget when she hits 42 weeks. That means, like it or not, our daughter will meet the world by September 6.

Until then, I'll be singing along with Tom Petty, one of the greatest songwriters of our time:

Every day you see one more card 
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart 
The waiting is the hardest part ...

A Letter to My Daughter Before She's Born

Bridget’s due date is August 22, which means our baby could arrive at any second. She could arrive before I finish this blog post. She could arrive now. Or now. But as it tends to go with first babies – and if she’s anything like her mother – she’ll be late. (Ohhhh! No, he didn’t …)

More than likely, our baby will arrive somewhere between weeks 40-41, which puts up somewhere around the end of August and maybe into the beginning of September. Or, again, it could be now.

As I was walking home from work the other day, it struck me that I’d probably never again feel the way I do right now. After you have a baby, they say, likely with good reason, it’s never the same. Pretty soon, I’ll have different priorities, understand what it really means to be tired, and know how to change a diaper.

So before that all happens, I want to write something to my daughter to explain how I feel:

Dear Baby, 

First off, sorry about the generic moniker. This isn’t a form letter, but you don’t really have a name yet (at least not one your mother and I are sharing with people), so I had to go with something generic. Also, I’m sorry about using the word “moniker.” You probably won’t know what that means for a while. It essentially means name. I’ll teach you lots of stuff like that in the next 10-15 years before you decide I’m uncool and that listening to your Dad is lame. 

This isn’t getting off to a great start, is it? 

As you can tell, I’m fairly nervous. You see, I’ve never had a daughter before. I’ve never had a son either. You’ll be our first child. By “our,” I mean me and your mother. Her name is Bridget. She’s 31. (I’m 33, in case you’re wondering.) I fell in love with her about three years before you joined our family. She’s pretty wonderful, as I imagine you know by now if you can read this. Even though you’re reading this several years after I write it, I promise you that I still love her a lot. In fact, I love her more every day – even during those rare times when she and I aren’t getting along. People don’t get along sometimes, but it doesn’t mean they aren’t in love. That isn’t to say that everyone who doesn’t get along with someone is in love with that person. I’m really confusing you, aren’t I? Don’t worry. I’ll get better at this parenting thing in the next few months. 

I wanted to give you a snapshot of what life was like before you came. As I said, your Mom and I met a few years ago at a friend’s birthday party. Not too long after, we started dating and fell in love. Then, we got married at this place called Cape Cod. It was gorgeous. In fact, it was probably the best day of our lives. We’ll show you pictures whenever you want. The year we got married, 2012, our friends joked that we went on a lot of honeymoons, which is basically a romantic vacation after you get married. And we did, sort of. We went to Ireland, France, and Mexico, thanks to a Christmas gift, work, and, well, a honeymoon. They were all wonderful trips and we were taking advantage of our time alone together. Your Mom and I are both lucky enough to be well educated and have good jobs. That way, we can buy you things. You’d be amazed at how much stuff you have already. You have lots of clothes and toys because people – your grandparents, our friends, and our co-workers – are excited that you’ll be here soon. (They aren’t as excited as we are, but they seem pretty excited.) 

In short, we’re lucky to have a pretty great life. We live in a really fun city called Cambridge and we can walk to anything we want, like restaurants and grocery stores and parks. And about a year after we got married, we decided we wanted to try and have a baby. (We’ll tell you how that works much, much later.) And, luckily, it took only six weeks before we learned you were already growing inside your Mom’s belly. Almost 10 months later, here we are. We’re waiting patiently for you to decide you’re ready to meet us. We’re expecting you to come any day now. 

And before we meet you and get to hold you for the first time, I just wanted to say three things: First, I’m really excited that you’re coming. I’ve never been this excited about anything in my life. No matter what I’m doing during the day, I think about how you’ll be here soon and how our lives will change. Second, I’m also really nervous. I hope you like me and I hope you don’t get too annoyed when I’m not good at something. I’ve never changed a diaper or held a baby for more than 15 minutes, so this is new territory for me. That brings me to number 3. Please know that I’m always trying my best. Whether I’m changing you into some new clothes that don't quite fit, putting your hair into a misshaped ponytail, or feeding you some disgusting food, I’m trying my best. I won’t always do everything the right way, but I promise I’ll always do everything I can to make you happy. 

I can’t wait for you to get here! 

Love, 
Your Dad

The Greatest Idea Ever: Baby@Gmail.com

My friend, Gordon, and I were riding back from a rec league basketball game a couple months ago. We chatted about the game, about how we used to be able to touch the rim, about the upcoming weekend, and about kids. (I’m not sure how smooth the transition to the final topic was.) Then, in only 13 words, he shared an idea that would change my world:

 “You should set up an email address for your baby before she’s born.”

Yes! So simple! So useful! So wonderful! Why hadn’t I thought of that? In the spirit of accurate reporting, Gordon’s brother shared the idea with him. He and his wife had set up an email for their first child before her birth. And the idea has been around for quite time. There’s this article from 2007. And this one about the percent of newborns with email address from 2010. (That number has probably tripled, at least, in the last three years, but I couldn’t find anything that said so.)

I suspect this warm and fuzzy Google ad from 2011 was probably what brought this baby email idea into the mainstream. (It’s well worth the 90 seconds if you’ve never seen it. I just watched it seven times. It’s amazing.) Taking it even a step further, this one dad captured one second of his son’s life for 365 days and turned it into a pretty creative (and popular) video.

So, this weekend, I am setting up an account for Baby Briddon. Yes, that means I’m revealing her name to the Internet before we reveal it to our families and friends, but oh well. I trust the Internet not to tell anyone because A) it doesn’t care and B) it’s not a person.

Some of you might have a question dancing around in your head: Why? I’m quite certain my mother does, if she’s reading this. She’s saying, “Oh, Michael. Why would you want to do that? Why would you want to set up an email address for a baby? She’s not going to be able to use it for years! You and your technology!”

Well, Mom, here are three reasons why:

1. I can send her emails about the day she is born, about the first time she meets her grandparents, about her first walk around the neighborhood, about her first smile, and about her favorite toy. I can send her pictures of her parents in Mexico (before she barged in!), of her favorite dress, of her chubby, little legs. I can send her videos of her first step, her first word, and her first birthday. I can send her so many wonderful things. 
2. You (and any other friends and family) can send her stuff, too. 
3. She’ll have this amazing history of her life that she’ll enjoy immensely when she’s old enough to read.

When I was old enough, I remember flipping through old, worn photo albums. I remember scanning through a baby book to see a certificate and a set of footprints. I loved those things because they helped define who I was and where I came from. Now, thanks to technology, I can create those memories in more creative ways. And so can my friends and family.

An email address may be a simple thing, but it’s a powerful connector. And, most importantly, it will put a smile on my daughter’s face someday.

Thanks, Gordon. I owe you one.

A Review of Five 'Dad' Books

I read a lot. I read even more than that when I'm trying to learn something new. Learning to be a dad, then, meant it was time to get elbow deep in some literature about fatherhood.

As you might imagine, there are some clunkers and all-stars out there.

In total, I've read five 'Dad' books in the past couple months (I just started number six) and I thought it was worth a few minutes to share what I've learned (or haven't learned) from them. It might save some of you dudes out there some time when you start preparing for your little one. Here's my list -- complete with a letter grade for comparison:

The Happiest Baby on the Block: This, according to many new moms and dads, is the bible of baby. In a nutshell, you learn about the 5 S's (swaddling, side/stomach position, shushing, swinging, sucking) that can soothe your baby. Because we're still a few weeks away from our due date, I'm not sure how useful this stuff is yet. But, from what I understand, this will be the greatest book I've ever read. (That's obviously an exaggeration, but if it will help quiet a screaming child, I imagine I'll singing its praises to anyone who will listen.) The book isn't winning any awards for writing, but it was presented in an accessible, how-to format. Grade: B with potential for an A+

Be Prepared: A Practical Handbook for New Dads: A friend of mine passed this on to me with some names of other Dads already scrawled inside. Nice, right? It makes you feel like you're part of this welcoming community. Thanks again, Jameson, for the wonderful gesture. (Is it getting dusty in here?) The good vibes continued when I opened the creative cover you see above. This book was simple, straightforward, sometimes funny, and chock full of creative ideas to get baby to eat, sleep, and explore the world. I plan on keeping it close by in the next 12 months. Then, of course, I'll pass it on to someone else. (Where is that damn dust coming from?!) Grade: A-

The New Father: A Dad's Guide to the First Year: After reading hours of Amazon reviews, this seemed to be the best Dad book on the market. My view, in five words: Helpful, but a little weird. This is your typical month-by-month guide filled with nuggets of wisdom and tips. I really enjoyed the section about the first three months (that's where my head is now) and I can see myself grabbing this again when I'm lost in month four. However, the section on placentas had me scratching my head for weeks: "Whatever you and your partner decide to do, it's probably best to keep [what you do with the placenta] a secret -- at least from the hospital staff. Some states try to regulate what you can do with a placenta and may even prohibit you from taking it home ..." Wait, what? People take it home? Maybe I'm showing my naivety here, but, again, what? Grade: B+

Dude, You're a Dad: How to Get [All of You] Through Your Baby's First Year: This arrived in my in-box the day of Bridget's baby shower, thanks to my incredibly thoughtful sister. It was such a wonderful surprise. The book, on the other hand, was a bit cheesy. The author actually used the line, "Denial isn't just a river in Africa." Come on. I did, however, learn that babies are born without kneecaps. How weird is that? Grade: C- (but the gesture from sister was an A+)

Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Lead: Obviously, this isn't a traditional baby book. Far from it. But it should be required reading for any Dad who is having (or has had) a daughter. Written by Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg, this was a practical and often eye-opening read about women in the workplace. I didn't agree with all the advice (I think it's important to disengage from work), but Sandberg's success is clear and impressive. Her imagery of using a jungle gym instead of a career ladder is brilliant thinking. Surprisingly, this book may have been the best in terms of mental preparation. Grade: A

There are dozens more out there, but this list provided a pretty good starting place for me. Dads (or Moms), are there others you've read that have been influential in your parenting?

Why I'll Miss Being Pregnant

I have been pregnant for 255 days. I know, it feels like much longer to me, too. With about 25 days to go, I've officially hit that point in my pregnancy when people stop looking at me like I am just another pregnant woman, and start looking at me like I'm a liability. They stare at my huge belly with a mixture of discomfort and terror, worried, I think, that I'll give birth right in front of them. I'm hoping this does not happen.

I'll be the first to admit that I was ill-prepared for this pregnancy thing. While I've never questioned our timing on actually having a child, I didn't realize how difficult it would be for me to adjust to having my body taken over by the miracle of life. Hormones are a powerful thing, and I underestimated them. I'm sorry for that, hormones. It will not happen again.

In fact, it took me about 20 weeks to really come to terms with the fact that there was a baby growing inside of me and that I better get used to it. I complained about my bad mood. I complained about not feeling well. I complained about all the pounds I was gaining. But now, 255 days into this thing, I've realized that I'm going to actually really miss being pregnant. I was standing in the kitchen at work the other day pouring my decaf coffee, and it occurred to me that in about a month I would no longer be pregnant. And it made me sad. Why, you ask? Well here are 4 reasons:

1. People love the bump. I was not prepared for the amount of goodwill that my massive belly would generate. I've gotten more smiles these past 9 months than the previous 31 years combined. Strangers come up to me to congratulate me and strike up conversations about motherhood. They stare at my bump with such glee that I feel like they can actually see my baby in there waving back at them. I also think it doesn't hurt that there is something innately appealing about a pregnant woman -- especially one who is 9 months pregnant -- waddling down the street. It must be like seeing a hippo in the wild. 
2. People encourage me to have two servings of cake. Let me preface this by pointing out that I realize that pregnancy is not an excuse to binge eat. And, for the most part, I think I've done a pretty good job of providing my baby with all the necessary nutrition to ensure she is as healthy as can be. However, I've found that all judging stops when a pregnant woman is indulging in something delicious. Just last night we stopped for ice cream at J.P. Licks and as I was frantically trying to combat the slow melting of my huge ice cream cone, a woman in line asked me what flavor the baby had demanded. The baby! Those babies are demanding little creatures. Always needing huge ice cream cones and two slices of cake. It will be a sad day when I can't blame my ice cream consumption on the baby. 
3. Very little is expected of me. I know a lot of women have a tough time coming to grips with the limitations of pregnancy. No heavy lifting, no horseback riding, no full contact sports, no hang gliding. I am not one of these women. It is a huge relief when someone offers me their seat, because, man, standing is tough when you are pregnant. And when my husband stopped asking me if I'd like to take Oscar out for his last pee of the night it was a momentous and glorious occasion. Going down two flights of stairs is tough when you are pregnant. Heck, just hoisting my massive body off the couch is tough when you are pregnant. So I'm totally on board with these lowered expectations of me. I love that when people see me slowly lumbering down the street on one of our family walks they are thinking, "Wow, good for that huge pregnant lady!" instead of, "Speed it up, fatty!"
4. Our baby will never be so safe again. Everything changed for me when I felt our baby move. And even though she spends most of her time now jabbing me in the ribs with one tiny body part or another, there is something so wonderful about knowing she is completely safe and secure in my gigantic belly. I don't have to worry about her being hungry, or wet, or lonely. I don't have to worry about where she is or what she's doing. For the last time, she is as close to me as she ever will be and there is something really sad about letting her into this big world knowing that she'll never be so well protected again. Just thinking about dropping her off at daycare is giving me hives. 

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.

The Power of a Good Deed

I did a good deed on my walk home from work today.

It was one of those, "Man, if I'm ever in that moment, I'm going to help" kind of situations. And, this time, I stepped up to the task. (Truth be told, I walked by at first and then turned around to help after about 10 seconds of deep thought.)

It doesn't matter exactly what I did or how much time it took; those details aren't important. In fact, if I told you, it would cheapen the act. That's kind of how those things go. As soon as the guy I was helping asked if he could buy me a beer or compensate me in some way, I said, "Of course not, man. Just pay it forward. Help someone else."

You might ask why I'm telling you this. Why am I writing this on a public forum? Do I want an award? A pat on the back? A parade? Do I want you to look at me differently the next time you see me and think, "That Mike, he's a good dude." No, none of those. (Although it would be cool if you think I'm a good dude.)

I'm telling you this because of the amazing transformation the moment had on my day and my week.

I've been stressed lately. We have to figure out how to pay for daycare. Someone stole my damn laptop. Our rent is going way up. Work is busier than ever. And, there's this little life-changing miracle thing that's about 10 weeks away. (I am, of course, incredibly excited about the miracle, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't petrified.) So, I've been stressed. And it's so easy to focus on those things.

You probably feel the same way. Some of you probably have way more stress and hardship in your life; some of you probably have less. That's how the world works. And most days, you probably come home from work and think about what went wrong. You think about the never-ending to-do list, the trip to the gym you'll definitely make tomorrow, or your awful commute. It can get easy to grow bitter and resentful and angry.

So, then, here's an idea that I'm going to try to make a habit in my own life: Focus on other people. Focus on helping others and, in the process, you'll help yourself. The high you get from lending a hand is far greater than the one you get from raising your own. (There's a cool TED Talk about how money can buy you happiness -- if you spend it on other people. Check it out.)

And, yes, this is a blog post about only one deed on only one day. Yes, I'm only 32. Yes, I still have a lot to learn. Yes, I still have a lot of hardships ahead of me. But isn't it better to approach all those hardships with a positive attitude and a focus on helping others?

I think so. I hope you do, too.

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?   

Here, Daycare, Take My Wallet

How much? I'm sorry. How much? And that's every month? That's not an annual fee? Are you sure? Can you double-check? 

Bridget and I made our first visit to a daycare center today. My breathing is finally getting back to normal now. I expect the color to return to my face early tomorrow afternoon. At least I hope that happens.

For now, I'm left with one burning question: How the hell do people pay for daycare?

It's insane. I mean, daycare centers call it tuition. Tuition! It's daycare! There aren't any co co-eds or keg parties or dorms. Tuition!

There's a range, of course. There are top-tier places, decent places, and places you wouldn't want to leave your child. We've explored them all online. But today was our first trip to an actual, brick-and-mortar business that we might entrust with the most important thing we ever create. (That is, if we ever get off the "wait list," but that's another story.) And this place was nice. Not like chandeliers and golden pacifiers nice, but good, quality people taking care of your child. The price tag: $2,100 per month. Punching that into a calculator (which, fortunately for me, is free to use online), that comes out to $25,200 per year.

Do you know what else you can do with that kind of money? Are you curious? Well, I was. So I came up with these five things:
1. Just over 56 nights at the Ritz Carlton in Boston.
2. A new Honda Civic and 2,000 gallons of gas.
3. Just under seven years of tuition at Cal State, Northridge. (That's an actual college.)
4. Just over 630 boxes of these diapers from Diapers.com. (And there are 258 diapers in each box! Also, can someone buy us a box? Please?)
5. Twenty-five roundtrip flights to Hawaii. (Ha, vacation. Yeah, right.)

Bridget and I are fairly conservative when it comes to money. As she's written about, we're in the process of getting rid of all our debt before the baby comes in August. No more college loans, no more car payments, no more big credit card bills. Nothing.

And that's all well and good, but it doesn't seem to matter. We're going to be eating Ramen noodles and store brand peanut butter on stale bread for the rest of our lives.

I have two final questions before I start rolling pennies for the rest of the night:
1. Any advice?
2. Do people really have more than one kid? Is that possible?