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.

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? 

Going Postal

Bridget and I stood over Annabelle with hopeless, distant looks in our eyes. I let out a deep sigh. She shrugged. And we both did everything in our power to avoid the awkward gazes of the sympathetic people who tiptoed around us.

There, on the stone steps of the post office in the middle of town, Annabelle was throwing her first public tantrum.

She's thrown mini tantrums before. I mean, she'll be 2-years-old at the end of the summer. There was the time in the car when she lost her mimi (pacifier), the time when she was too tired to be at Assembly Row, and the time she did NOT want to come inside to eat dinner. But this one, oh boy. This one.

It's still hard for me to believe that the perfect, adorable, cherubic angel in the picture above is capable of anything other than sunshine and rainbows. She's too sweet, right? Other kids throw tantrums, but my daughter throws kisses and flowers.

Right.

We went to the post office because we needed to get little Annabelle a passport. We're off to Aruba for a much-needed vacation in the near future and she'll be leaving the country for the first time. (By the way, I got my passport when I was 30. Crazy, right? Or maybe embarrassing.) Getting a passport means getting a public photo, which Annabelle hasn't done before.

Simply put, it didn't go well.

At first, the two female employees brought out a stool on which Annabelle was supposed to sit. No luck. Annabelle reached for Bridget while I filled out the annoying paperwork. Then the tears started. Then the yelling. And the uncontrollable, "No, no, no." 

"Maybe you could just hold her," said the first woman, who we'll call Beth, as I came over to help.

We tried that and it looked like we'd found a solution. Hooray! Not too bad!

"Oh, this is the new camera. I'm not sure how it works and I can't click the button," said a suddenly unhelpful Beth. "I'll need to get Alice." 

As Alice (or whatever her name was) came over, Annabelle's tantrum started to gain momentum. Bridget tried to soothe her. I tried to just get it over with. Annabelle tried to run away.

"See if you can hold her, Dad, and keep your head out of the picture," said an increasingly annoyed Alice.


Finally, mercifully, Annabelle stopped crying for 10 seconds and I extended my daughter while arching my head as far back as it would go.

"I can still see your arm," offered Alice, "but maybe this will work." (One of the outtakes is right over there.)

After a couple signatures, some stamps, we were done. But that's when Annabelle's real meltdown started. It's impossible to know why, exactly,, but my guess is that it was a combination of being tired, being forced to do something against her will, and being 20 months old. The crying, wailing, sobbing, and screaming reached a crescendo as Annabelle wriggled out of Bridget's arms to lay down on the cool, concrete steps of the post office.

Finally, after a couple minutes of awkward glances and the public embarrassment came and went, we scooped up Annabelle and put her in her car seat. She was asleep 30 seconds later.

Ah, well. At least she got the tantrum out of her system for this year. That's how it works, right?

Seven Things I Learned During My Three Days as a Single Dad

Bridget went to New York City for a short business trip this week. Such a simple, innocuous sentence, but it carries two huge truths with it:
1. It was the first time Bridget spent a night (two, actually!) away from Annabelle.
2. It was the first time I had to hop in the saddle as a single Dad.

We'll be focusing on No. 2 here.

To make a long story short, everything went fine. No fires, no tantrums, no uncontrollable sobbing. There was an incident with poop on the floor, but that was thanks to our furry first born, Oscar. He's such a delight lately.

Anyway, although everything went fine, I did learn quite a bit during my Tuesday-Thursday stretch as single parent. In fact, I counted seven new bits of education:

1. A bag of Russet Gourmet Dark Potato Chips makes a fine dinner. No cholesterol or preservatives. Hand cooked in 100% pure peanut oil. Pure peanut oil, folks. Pure! It's basically the same thing as a well-rounded meal of chicken and vegetables. Just check out these Amazon reviews! Also, stop judging me. We have six more things to discuss.
2. It's really, really hard to put a toddler's hair into an elastic. Up above, you can see my best attempt. It was actually my eighth attempt that morning, but who's counting? This falls into the "why didn't someone teach me this before she was born?" category with the fruit cutting. 
3. Grandmothers are life savers. Annabelle still goes to daycare in Waltham, which is down the treacherous, traffic-filled Route 95. Driving into the teeth of the Boston commute wasn't much fun (for me or Annabelle) every morning, but Grammy/Mimi, who works in Waltham, was kind enough to bring Annabelle home so I could work a full day. Yay, Mimi! (I suppose I already knew this truth about grandmothers, but a reminder never hurts.)
4. Apparently, grilled cheese on a hamburger roll is an inappropriate lunch. "On a burger roll? The people at daycare are going to think we're hobos," said Bridget, when I informed her of my culinary offering for our toddler. "Other people bring, like, gourmet meals." Well, excuse me. I'll have you know she ATE THE WHOLE THING.
5. Reality almost never mirrors your expectations. Whether your vision of the future is positive or negative, it probably won't happen. I had premonitions of "Mama! Mama!" at 3 AM and they never came to fruition. There are tons of biases that can help explain my fears, but I prefer the simple words of Mark Twain: "I've had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened."
6. Baa Baa Black Sheep has some questionable lyrics. I sang it about 40 times in three days and, after a while, you start to get suspicious. Turns out I'm not alone here.
7. Single parents are my heroes. Seriously. My three days were fairly easy, but I honestly can't imagine doing everything all the time. Diaper change? It's you. Throwing food and won't eat? You're up. Sick and needs to go the doctor? Yep, you're on call. Whether you are a single mom or a single dad, you're doing a hell of a job and I bow down to your grit and determination.

If you need me this weekend, I'll be drinking beer and watching The Masters. I think I've earned it.

My Life as a Chopaholic

Before Annabelle was born, I spent more time than I’d like to admit practicing skills I’d need to care for her. Bridget and I attended a day-long parenting class and attended a baby expo that is cleverly named Drool. Bridget had quite a bit of experience with babies, so it was all review for her. But for me, who hadn’t babysat a day in my life, it was all new. And scary.

I learned how to support a baby’s head, change a diaper, and swaddle a newborn. (I never quite mastered that third one.) I learned how to feed, how to soothe, and how to bathe. The instructors were kind, patient, and supportive.

But no one, not one person, mentioned the task that would consume most of my time as a new Dad: chopping fruit.

I have chopped so much damn fruit in the last 19 months. Like, a ton. Do you ever wonder how much money you’d have if you never spent a cent in your life? What would that pile of cash look like? That’s the way I think of the fruit I’ve chopped. If it was stacked up in a big pile, I’m quite certain it would equal the snowbank in my backyard that won't officially melt until June.

I’ve chopped a LOT of fruit.

The reason, of course, is simple. You cut fruit so that your baby is less likely to choke on fruit. Tiny, bite-sized morsels make it easier for her (or him) to swallow bites of nature’s candy. This is especially important when the baby doesn’t have teeth, but it continues after chomper growth, too.

What I didn’t realize about the fruit cutting (because, again, no one had the decency to mention it) was that not all fruits are created alike. Some are easier to chop into tiny bits than others. Some keep better than others. Here's a quick sampling (from best to worst) of the fruits Belle eats on a regular basis:

• Grapes. Grapes are sturdy and need just one clean chop to split into digestible chunks. Quick, easy, efficient. If my chopping life focused solely on grapes, I’d be a happy man. (Maybe I'd even turn into this guy someday.) But sadly, that's not my reality.  
• Bananas. Easy, right? Easy to chop, mushy. A piece of cake. But bananas turn brown very quickly when you cut into them. They don’t keep well. Plus, what are you supposed to do with the strings? Include them? Just eat them yourself while you’re cutting? That’s gross. 
• Watermelon. Fairly easy to cut, but it never holds together very well. Plus, it can get mushy. Not one of my favorites. 
• Blueberries. Ugh. Blueberries are so tiny and it’s hard to cut more than one at a time. Plus, blueberries take more concentration than the rest, which can be a big challenge on a few hours of sleep.
• Strawberries. The bane of my chopping existence. Strawberries are oddly shaped, have inconsistent textures, and have the stupid stem on top. Plus, they often have non-ripe spots or overly sweet spots, which you feel bad giving to your kid. I always start by cutting off the top and then experiment with different techniques of chopping lengthwise or widthwise. I typically end up just diving in and doing unique cuts, which is time-consuming and generally awful.

Annabelle is getting better now. She can eat a banana by herself, but I fear that the cutting is just getting started. We’ll want her to try new foods and I’ll need my trusty cutting board and knife to make it happen.

Just wish me luck when pomegranate seeds are her new obsession …

Trouble in Sleep City

I’m surprised these words on this page.

I do my best to set aside some time to write a blog post each week. It’s been a great way to keep track of Belle’s first 18 months. I’m certain Bridget and I will read this blog fondly in the future – and I hope Belle will, too. Plus, I love to write, so this blog has been something of a win-win.
But this week … man. Man, oh man.

Now, nothing dramatic happened. Everyone’s (mostly) healthy, work was fine, and the weather is finally getting better. But this week, in the spirit of Sesame Street, was brought to us by something called the 18-month sleep regression.

Perhaps you’ve never heard of such a thing. I certainly hadn’t until very recently. But it’s not too difficult to understand if you break it down. The first part, “18-month,” refers to the age of our adorable little nugget at the top of the page. She’ll be 19 months next week. (Aside: When do I stop counting the months? Can I just say she’s 1? I’m starting to feel pretentious.) The second part, “sleep regression,” refers to forgetting how to sleep. And, well, it’s awful.

For the most part, Annabelle has been a pretty good sleeper. After six weeks of life, she was getting about 4-5 hours of solid sleep a night. And, with a few bumps in the road, it’s been fairly smooth sailing since then. I know that’s not the case with all babies. I’ve talked to Moms and Dads who have struggled with sleep issues from the moment their baby arrives:
“We woke up 9-10 times every night for the first year.” 
“She’s 10-months-old and she hasn’t slept through the night yet.” 
“I honestly didn’t get more than four hours of sleep at a time for two years.”

To those parents, I say, “You are far tougher than I am.” Of course, it’s unlikely that those parents are still reading at this point. I imagine they closed the browser while muttering curse words about me after the “Annabelle has been a pretty good sleeper” line.

Even so, this week has been absolutely brutal. What used to be a few quick books and a kiss on the forehead has become 90-120 minutes of “Please, please go to bed.” What used to be a 6 AM wake-up cry has become 11:30, 1:30, and 3 AM wake-up cries. Wednesday night/Thursday morning was the worst, when Annabelle woke up at 1:45 and kept us up the rest of the night.

I realize it’s just one week, but when you wake up to face the day after only a couple hours of sleep, it doesn’t matter if the night before was restful or brutal. (At least it doesn’t matter for me.) It’s almost impossible to perform at your normal level. You're irritable. You can't physically smile. You start to question the cuteness of puppies. You secretly hope we get another blizzard ...

And the worst part of the week? We’re not sure when this is going to end. The 18-month sleep regression, unlike others, involves some personality. So in addition to growing, teething, and developing, Annabelle is exerting her independence and showing how she can be defiant. It makes me shudder to think of the teenage years.

So is there anything positive? Any light at the end of the sleep-deprived tunnel? There are two, actually. One, it’s all part of the parenting deal. This, too, shall pass, as all phases do. We signed up for this and in a weird way, we like it. It’s like earning a badge of honor. And two, on Wednesday night/Thursday morning, when she screamed at the top of her lungs at 1:45, she also yelled something new:
 “Dada!”

And that was pretty neat …

Being Okay with 'Mama'

Annabelle woke up at 2:59 AM on Wednesday morning. There was no real rhyme or reason. She wasn't sick, wasn't cold, wasn't ready to wake up. She just started crying, so I went in to make sure she was okay.

She was standing up with her arms out, a couple small tears started to drip down her cheeks. Groggy, wiping sleep from my eyes, I reached down into her crib to get her.

Me: Hi, baby. Are you okay? 

Annabelle: (Crying.)

Me: What's wrong? Are you feeling okay? Do you want to come into our bed? 

Annabelle, with arms reaching toward our bedroom: Mama. Mama. Mama.

Me: Oh, okay. Cool. 

Hun! She wants you ...

One of the hardest things about being a new Dad is when "Dad" isn't the answer. No matter who you are or where you're from, there's one hope we all share: If you love something, you want that thing to love you back. Now, of course, Annabelle loves me (or at least I hope/assume she does), but it's pretty difficult to get a baby stiff arm when you're coming to the rescue or trying to plant a kiss before bed.

It's not just the middle of the night, either. In the photo above, Bridget and Belle are walking hand-in-hand through the magical streets of Disney World. Cute, isn't it? Where's Dad? Well, in public, for some strange reason, Annabelle refuses to hold my hand. Not in Disney World. Not at the store. Not on the street. Maybe she's embarrassed already?

As an uncertain, first-time Dad, this has been tough for me. Am I doing something wrong? Can I do anything better? Will it ever change? Bridget, being the wonderfully supportive spouse, always answers the same way, "She loves you. She just goes through lots of phases. She'll want you all the time someday."

That kind, thoughtful answer rang in my head at 3:01 AM on Wednesday morning. After my initial disappointment with "Mama," I smiled and realized it was the first time Annabelle called for one of us at night. She's growing up so fast and I'm lucky to be sharing the experience with such a wonderful wife.

Then, at 3:02 AM, as I crawled back into bed with Bridget and, now, Annabelle, I felt a tiny hand on my shoulder. And as my smile faded and I put my attention to falling back asleep, I heard a barely audible whisper:

Dada. 

Missing Luggage: The Five Lows of Flying Without Belle

As I type these words, I’m in the air somewhere over West Virginia. The sky outside the small, rectangular window to my right is blue and white. I just slowly savored a couple packets of complimentary graham crackers (thanks, JetBlue) while listening to my favorite new artist, Vance Joy.

I am, for the most part, pretty relaxed.

Exactly three months ago, I was in the air somewhere over West Virginia. I don’t remember what color the sky was. I have no idea what I ate. I wasn’t wearing noise-cancelling headphones or typing quietly on my laptop. Instead, I was handing out one Gerber puff at a time, trying to occupy Belle with yet another board book, and hoping that the stroller would still somehow be in one piece when we landed in Boston.

Relaxed? Not so much.

One of the many joys (and struggles) of having a little one is flying with a little one. In Annabelle’s first 18 months of life, she’s been on a few journeys that required airplanes. And as any parent will tell you, it’s challenging. Like maybe a 7 or 8 out of 10 on the difficulty scale. Packing is harder. Getting through security is harder. The flight is harder. Then, you have to worry about time zones and sleeping …

But as I sit here without much stress, I’m surprised to find myself genuinely missing some things about flying with Belle. More specifically, I miss five things:

1. People are much nicer when you fly with a baby. Everyone smiles, no one counts your bags, and stewardesses check in on you all the time. The world knows you’re gritting your teeth and counting the minutes until landing. 
2. Early boarding. Airplanes are crowded and never have enough room. The anxiety that comes with standing around a gate with a piece of carry-on luggage that should fit in the overhead compartment is never fun. Is that guy in Group 3? Is he already getting on? Seriously? With a baby, the red carpet of boarding rolls out. 
3. Bridget. No Belle in the air has, so far, meant no Bridget in the air. And I like hanging out with my wife. She’s pretty damn cool. 
4. Belle. This one is kind of obvious. I thought it would get easier as she started to get older, but it’s actually getting worse. Within the first 10 minutes of this morning’s flight, I was pulling out my phone to watch some recent videos of new words, big smiles, and hilarious dining moments. I won’t get a “Dadda!!!!!” hug today and that stinks. 
5. The accomplished feeling when you land. I’ll touch down in a couple hours, slowly collect my carry-on bags, and shuffle out toward the vast, fast-food-filled airport in Dallas. From there, I’ll hop in a cab and head to the hotel. Big deal. With the little one in tow, Bridget and I would share a high-five (and she hates high-fives), let out a couple big sighs, give each other that “We made it” look, and get ready to explore a new place with Belle. 

Now the task of trying to remember these five things the next time I’m handing small bits of food to a screaming toddler before the plane is even in the air? That’s probably a 9 on that difficulty scale. Maybe even 9.5.

A Chilly Housewarming

For most of Massachusetts, January 31 was just another cold, snowy Saturday on this frigid marathon called winter. A few inches of snow in the morning. Single-digit temperatures. Reports of a potential blizzard in the days ahead. If you live anywhere in the state, you've read sentences like these thousands of time by now.

For me and Bridget, January 31 was a day we’ll remember forever. We – wait for it – moved into our first home!

Hooray! We’re officially adults now! We realized our time in the city had to come to an end, so we packed up our things, asked friends for help, and moved 12 miles north to the suburb of Reading.

Like any big day you circle on a calendar, Bridget and I talked about January 31 endlessly. Ever since we officially bought the home in October, we looked ahead to the end of January with excitement and anxiety. Won’t it be great to have more room for our stuff? Should we hire movers or ask friends and family to help? (Aside: Our friends and family are wonderful people.) What will the new neighbors be like? What if we miss the city? Does this mean we’re not cool?

And, to be clear, it’s been wonderful. There are so many great things about owning your own little piece of the Earth, many of which we’ll document in upcoming posts. But, man, did we pick the worst month of all-time to move into a new house.

In no particular order, here are the five activities that have taken up the bulk of our weekends so far:

1. Shoveling 
2. Shoveling snow off the roof 
3. Worrying about ice dams 
4. Salting the walkway and the driveway 
5. Shoveling 

Sure, we’ve done fun stuff, too. We bought a new car and some furniture, ordered our first batch of oil (actually not that much fun), and enjoyed the many pleasures of our local Market Basket. But the winter has been a cold, continuous punch in the gut.

Dramatic? An exaggeration? It has snowed every weekend and, frankly, nearly even day since we’ve moved to Reading. I’ve yet to see a blade of grass or a dry patch of pavement. Before I climbed on the roof the first time, I went to Zillow so I could see some pictures and make sure the angles weren’t too steep. And the list goes on.

Last weekend, on the one “warm” day we’ve had, a young mother walked by and we had this quick exchange:

Young Mom: “Oh, are you the new owners?”
Me (as I shoveled the walk for the 87th time): “Yup, I’m Mike. Bridget and little Annabelle are inside.”
Young Mom: “Oh, how nice. Boy, what a horrible time to move. I feel so bad every time I walk by. It’s a really nice neighborhood. You’ll see … someday.”

Everyone has struggled with the weather this winter. Commutes have been horrible. Backs and shoulders are injured. Roofs are sagging. We’re no different. But on that first 60-degree April day, when we fire up the grill and watch Belle and Oscar run around in the backyard, it’ll be hard to find a happier couple in Massachusetts.

Dear Annabelle ...

There's a scene in that Google "Dear Sophie" commercial that chokes me up every time I watch it. The ad, if you didn't click the link or haven't seen it, features a Dad writing emails to his newborn/infant/toddler daughter. It's incredibly well done -- and inspired me to write Annabelle emails in her first 16 months.

Anyway, there's this scene. In the middle of all these happy memories, there's one in the hospital. The phrases "really bad fever" and "we felt so helpless" pop up on the screen. And every time I see that, I think: Man, that must be awful. I wonder if we'll ever have that experience with Belle.

And then last Sunday happened.

It actually all started Friday. The folks at daycare called and told us Annabelle, who had been nursing a cough for a few days, had pink eye and needed to come home. Bridget picked her up from daycare, I grabbed the medicine, and we hunkered down for a quiet night with our little goopy-eyed monster.  Belle had a slight fever, too, but we assumed it was just part of the pink eye. We called the doctor and she wasn't concerned. And by Saturday, the eye looked a lot better and Annabelle's slight fever had gone down.

Life, we thought, was back to normal.

But then Belle's fever got worse as Saturday afternoon became Saturday night. It climbed to 102 and then 103. We gave her some Tylenol, sent her to bed, and crossed our fingers that the fever would relent in the morning. It didn't. In fact, it got worse. Belle was lethargic, breathing heavy, and seemingly on fire. The doctor's office told us not to worry until the fever reached 105, but at 104, we called in a bit of a panic. Ten minutes later, we were racing through Cambridge to get to urgent care.

Immediately, the doctor gave Belle a breathing treatment and tried to calm our fears. Her pulse was fast and her oxygen was low. Now we were really getting nervous. The doctor tried to improve the situation for about 20 minutes and then said, "I think she needs to go to the hospital. And she'll need to go in an ambulance."

My mind raced: My daughter? An ambulance? No, she's fine. She's a very healthy girl. There must be some mistake. 

I ran down to the car to get Belle's car seat. We put her in and then placed her on a stretcher so she'd be safe in the ambulance. And then I caught a glimpse of her face -- her scared, confused, perfect face. It was heart-breaking, soul-crushing, and nerve-racking. We were helpless. Bridget went in the back of the ambulance with Belle while I drove home to get an overnight bag and take care of Oscar.

Now, I'm not a big crier. I probably break down once every year or two. But, man, did I cry. I cried after I saw Belle's face on the stretcher. I cried when I drove by the ambulance. I cried when I got the text from Bridget saying they were in Room 33 in the ER and Belle "seemed to be doing okay."

And so Sunday night, tired, scared, and worried, we were admitted to Children's Hospital. While most of New England watched 52" screens and cheered for the Patriots, we watched a 9" screen and cheered for Belle's oxygen levels. Slowly, she started to get better. Her oxygen levels went up and her pulse slowed.

The diagnosis was pneumonia, so we knew we were canceling our plans for a few days. But we didn't care. We stayed at the hospital Sunday night and Monday night, and then came home with a relatively healthy girl on Tuesday afternoon. Belle will have a cough for a while, but our first real health scare was behind us.

Before we left on Tuesday, I opened up an email and wrote:

Dear Annabelle ...

Should I Have Posted This Photo?

Should I have posted this photo?

I mean, it's not the most flattering image of my adorable daughter, Annabelle. She isn't smiling or being particularly cute. The lighting is pretty bad. And she's stuffing her face pretty aggressively with what looks to be pizza.

Will this photo come back to haunt her someday? Will some mean-spirited 12-year-old girl find it online in 11 years and make fun of my daughter? Tell her she chews like a cow? Call her names? 

I sure hope not. But is that a reason not to post a photo? Or a video? Or a story?

A 2010 study four that 92% of US 2-year-olds have an online record. And 2010, at least in technology years, is approximately 250 years ago. A baby's digital footprint has replaced the ink footprint hospitals used to give you as a memento of the miracle. Before babies are born, they show up on Facebook news feeds as fetuses and have their very own email addresses.   

Is creating this digital persona a good idea? Or a horrible one? 

If you're a parent (or you plan to be one someday), you probably wrestle with this question. We all share images and updates and stories because we want to entertain our friends and families, create memories, and, well, market ourselves. (It's sad, but we all have a brand.) But is anything over the line? Is a Twitter account for a 1-year-old an accident waiting to happen? What about a naked photo in the tub on Instagram? What happens if your toddler ends up on a Toys R Us marketing list? 

After some digging, I found a really good New York Times article on the topic. It doesn't necessarily have answers, but it raises lots of important scenarios and questions. And it has this closing line, which really made me pause: If anything, a child today who grow up and discovers he has no photos on Facebook or Instagram might think of himself as an unloved anomaly. In an age of obsessive digital detailing, if a child grows up unrecorded, what is his identity at all?  

This last question seems like it's a little over the line. No identity at all? Still, unless you've blocked me on Facebook, you probably know that Annabelle has a pretty strong online presence. Bridget and I have posted approximately 8,000 photos (most cuter than the one above), written about 100 blog posts, and shared dozens of videos. And Annabelle has an email address that I write to regularly. 

Why? Well, partly because of the reasons above: We want to share, entertain, and strengthen our family brand. (Family brand? Gross, I know. But let's call a spade, a spade.) But the main reason we do all this online sharing is to create memories for ourselves and for Annabelle. Already, we look at old videos and laugh. We look at old images and wonder how things have gone so fast. And, more than anything, we look forward to the day we can show Belle memories from her childhood.

So, should I have posted this photo? I think so. What about you? 

5 Reasons Why I Really Like Disney World ... Now

When Annabelle was born last September, three thoughts raced through my mind:

• "This is one of the best moments of my life."
• "I wonder when I'll sleep for eight straight hours again."
• "This means I have to go to Disney World."

Oddly, the third item created more anxiety than the second. 

I've never liked Disney World. It's too crowded and too happy. Plus, I went when I was 8 and cried most of the trip because I don't like rides. (I was a super fun kid.) So the crippling thought of going again that crept into my mind that beautiful September morning filled me with terror. If you told me our family would be there 15 months later, I would have laughed. Then cried. For at least 15 minutes. But sure enough, this December, last week in fact, Bridget, Belle, and I walked through the gates of the Magic Kingdom. 

I just explained how much I dislike all of this Disney hoopla, so why did we go? Well, most importantly, we thought Belle would like it. Will she remember it? Probably not. But we knew she'd be captivated by the sights and sounds. Secondly, my organization hosts a huge conference down in Orlando every December and we realized it was an opportunity for an affordable vacation. My airfare was covered and we had a discounted hotel room at a nice resort. Why not, right?  

And here's the thing, the turn in my story: I really, really liked Disney. Here are the five reasons why:

1. Belle was mesmerized. Obviously, this is reason No. 1. We spent almost seven hours at the Magic Kingdom and Belle's eyes were pretty darn wide the whole time. (In full disclosure, she slept for an hour.) We went on seven or eight rides (and I survived), participated in plays, saw lots of characters, and some delicious food. This video of a determined Belle on the carousel is pretty adorable.

2. Disney is a good value. I was totally surprised by this. With parking, it cost $227 for two adults and one (free) toddler. That's a nice chunk of change, but we had almost seven hours of memorable fun! And if you get a multi-day pass, the price per day is much cheaper. Yes, it's crowded and yes, you have to wait in lines sometimes, but there's so much to do. One minute, you're on a boat ride and the next you're eating a turkey leg. For comparison, I went to a Patriots game a couple months ago and with (good) seats, parking, food, and booze, my ticket was $250. Both were day-long adventures. Both were fun. But Disney always seems to get unfairly labeled as a ridiculously expensive adventure. 

3. Disney is a well-oiled entertainment machine. Disney knows what it's doing. Everywhere you look, there are great processes in action. The great communication on the tram. The clearly marked wait times for the rides. The spotless streets. The Fast Pass and the intuitive app. The friendly, helpful staff/cast members. Just seeing the dynamic operation in action was worth the price of admission. Nerd rant over.

4. People freakin' love Disney. I'll never wear a Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt or a Donald Duck hat. Adults that go nuts over this Disney stuff frankly scare the bejeezus out of me. But it's fun to watch people be incredibly happy. It's like going to a sporting event or a church just to see what it's all about. It's being a part of things that are bigger than yourself. 

5. The feeling you get when you leave Disney. Your legs are tired, your eyes are tired, and your brain is tired. But when you look down at your exhausted kid(s), you know you just made them really, really happy. And I'm not sure there's a better feeling in the world. 

In conclusion, here are eight words I never expected to write: I can't wait to go back to Disney. 

Another Thanksgiving Ailment

Belle has been pretty darn healthy for the first 14+ months of her life. Sure, she's had the typical smattering of daycare colds, a small fever here and there, and a bout of Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease.  Runny noses one week, small coughs a few weeks later. But, knock on wood, she's been a very healthy little gal.

Except on Thanksgiving.

Belle has lived through two Turkey Days -- and has been a drooling, rash-covered, cranky munchkin for both of them. This year, as you can probably see in the photo, she's suffering from Roseola, a viral illness that comes packaged with a widespread rash and a high fever. (Belle got up to 104.7 on Thursday evening.) Last year,  as you can see in the photo at the bottom of the post, her eye was crusty, sore, red, and closed. The culprit? A blocked tear duct. 

And as we sat on our couch Thursday morning deciding whether to make the trip to see family in West Newbury for Thanksgiving 2014 (we ultimately decided to go), it was a good opportunity to reflect on how far we've come as parents in 12 months.

Last year, with a not quite 3-month-old Belle, Bridget and I were a panicked mess. As soon as her eye started to get slightly discolored, we assumed the worst. Pink eye, red eye, purple eye? Blindness? Scurvy? We were Googling everything that came to our mind. It was Thanksgiving eve and we called the doctor, knowing that a trip to office on a holiday would be a colossal inconvenience. "This is the first time we've called and we're really nervous that she has pink eye or something worse," we said. "Her eye is really red. Should we bring her in?" Obviously, we were total amateurs. 

"It's likely just a blocked tear duct. It's very common," the on-call provider said cooly. "Massage her eye and just monitor it to make sure it doesn't get any worse."

It didn't. And we had a nice Thanksgiving, albeit with a family photo that isn't going to win any beauty awards. 

Fast forward to two days ago. Belle was fussy, uninterested in food, crying, and warm to the touch. "Should we call the doctor?" I asked Bridget. 

"What are they going to say? They'll just tell us to keep an eye on her," she said. "I'm sure she'll be fine." 

We considered staying home, but decided we really like stuffing and that Belle would be fine for a few hours. She mostly just laid on us and didn't eat a thing, but we were able to spend a few nice hours celebrating the Pilgrims' landing on Plymouth Rock. Belle is feeling a bit better today and we're eating leftovers. 

We're still amateurs, of course, but we're getting better. And we'll know what to expect next Thanksgiving. 

Under the Spell of Serial

This week, I realized that Thursdays are great. Thursdays mean the work week is winding down. Thursdays -- well every other Thursday -- mean a paycheck. Thursdays turn into Fridays.

But there's something else about Thursdays, something new, something exciting: Thursday means a new episode of Serial. 

What's Serial? Well, I imagine most people know by now. But if you don't: Serial is a new podcast from the creators of This American Life. Serial is different from most other podcasts, though, because it focuses on a single story -- a true-life murder mystery -- released in 40-minute segments every week. It is, in a word, engaging. No, that's not quite enough. Serial is engrossing, gripping, and captivating. Serial is awesome.

The story follows Adnan Syed, an imprisoned man in his 30s who may or may not have killed his ex-girlfriend in Baltimore 15 years ago. Each week, host Sarah Koenig introduces us to a new character (like Asia, Nisha, and Don) and a new plot twist (like how long it takes to get from the high school to Best Buy or the location of a certain cell phone call). We listeners, of which there are millions, try to solve the crime along with Koenig, an expert storyteller, who weaves the twists and turns into a highway of aural delight. (<-- Worst line of my writing career.)

Anyway, Serial, now nine weeks old, has become a phenomenon. It's typically listed No. 1 on the iTunes podcast chart and has created more water cooler chatter at the office than anything I can remember in the past decade. (Game of Thrones is a somewhat close second.) Every Thursday or Friday, depending on when people finish the episode, several colleagues on my team at work trade ideas, theories, and favorite characters. Some of us think Adnan is guilty and the story won't lead anywhere. Some of us think Adnan is innocent and will be a free man when the podcast reaches its dramatic conclusion.

And it's not just my office. Serial has captured the attention of millions around the world. There's a Reddit page dedicated to Serial. There's a Twitter account. There's even an entire Slate podcast about the podcast. Yes, a podcast about a podcast. Crazy. The New Yorker called it the podcast we've been waiting for. 

Whether it's the dawn of a new Golden Age of radio is up for debate, but it has certainly started the trend of binge listening. I kept trying to convince sometimes stubborn Bridget to give Serial a listen and, finally, after five weeks, she gave in. She was caught up on all the episodes 48 hours later. Another colleague at work had the same experience. Once you start, it's pretty damn hard to put the earbuds down. 

As a former journalist, I'm thrilled about the attention Serial is getting. It's like we've gone back 100 years and people are crowding around their clunky living room radio to hear a boxing match. It's fantastic storytelling and serious reporting, and people are hooked.

If you aren't, what are you waiting for? Here's episode 1. I promise you won't be disappointed.

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.

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 ...

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.