Why I'm Choosing a Word Instead of Making a Resolution

Oscar and I haven't always been buddies. In fact, when we first met, relations were downright icy. I didn't really like dogs and he didn't really like some dude getting lots of Bridget's attention.

But in April of 2011, we became best friends. That spring, after about a year of dating, Bridget went to Australia and Fiji for two weeks, which meant I was responsible for Oscar. I had to walk him, feed him, and pick up his poop. I called it my Oscar immersion.

Fast forward 2.5 years and I just had the same experience with Annabelle. Sure, I'd changed diapers, fed her, and generally learned how to be a Dad from September 4 - December 23, but when Bridget went back to work that Monday morning, all baby eyes were on me. For the last two weeks, from 9-5, I had to do it all myself. (Well, mostly myself; I had help with milk production.) My sole purpose in life was making Annabelle smile more than she cried.

Now, Annabelle is officially turning into a daddy's girl. These two weeks changed everything. I know I can take care of my daughter on my own. I've successfully completed my Annabelle immersion.

As I thought about these two experiences, that one word stuck in my head: immersion. It's going to guide me in 2014.

Back in April of 2011, I had some fears about the whole Oscar experience. I'd never cared for a dog on my own and had this image in my mind of Oscar ripping off a small child's leg at Fresh Pond while I watched in horror. Dog catchers. Paramedics. Lawsuits. Blood everywhere. That, of course, didn't happen. (In fact, Oscar's most aggressive move is barking at the doorbell.)

A couple weeks ago, going into the Annabelle experience, I had the same fears -- not of her ripping off a child's leg, but of me doing something horribly wrong. Broken bones. Hours of crying. Poop on the ceiling. And all of that, again, of course, didn't happen. (She did pee on me several times, but that's cool.)

I realize, in hindsight, that the fears were unfounded. But it took really dedicating myself to something to know for sure. The Oscar and Annabelle immersions both gave me a newfound confidence that changed the way I interacted with both of them.

So why not get immersed in more things in 2014? Instead of making a resolution that I'll undoubtedly ignore in a month, I'm going to try to change my mindset. Think about it: Will I really stop eating ice cream at night? (Not likely.) Will I really go running four times a week? (Doubt it.) Will I really learn how to play the guitar? (No.)

That doesn't mean I won't have goals or strive for success; it just means I'm going to try to take a deep dive into what I'm doing and be more present. Right now, I'm one of those people who is always thinking about my next step. If I'm at the gym, I'm thinking about the groceries I need. If I'm walking to work, I'm thinking about that project I need to finish. If I'm reading a book, I'm thinking about the next one on my list. Instead, I should be thinking about my body's response to the exercise, my foot against the pavement, and the words on the page.

I hope to apply this idea of immersion to everything this year -- new skills, new books, and new ideas. Will it be challenging? Yes. But it seems like a great place to put my energy for the next 12 months. Plus, there's no way I'm giving up ice cream.

Including Oscar ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

The 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.

When Girl Meets Dog

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

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

"Never?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our entire pack is listening ...

The Science of Bridget Bombs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Joy of Becoming an Old Couple

It's hard to pinpoint the exact moment. It might have been a year ago. Could have been a few months ago. Maybe it was Thursday night or Friday night.

No matter when it happened, it's true: Bridget and I are officially an old couple.

Why did I call out Thursday night? Bridget and I went to go see The Head and The Heart in Boston on Thursday. (You may not know the band, but they are definitely worth checking out at the link above.) It was, in a word, a young crowd. As we waited in line outside The Royale, it was abundantly clear that we were two of the few people that could drink during the show. We may also have been two of the few people born before 1990. This was, for a moment, depressing.

Why did I mention Friday night? After getting home from a long week of work, where were Bridget and I at 7 p.m. on Friday? A bar? A lively Cambridge restaurant? On the road for a weekend of craziness and debauchery? No. Try napping in bed with Oscar so we could make it out to a friend's place for a couple hours later. Again, for a split second, this was depressing.

Then at work this week, I was chatting with a few of my colleagues. One, an intern from Northeastern, talked about how she'd gone out at midnight the weekend before. Out at midnight? Don't you mean home by 11:30? Other younger, cooler colleagues nodded their heads and talked about how Boston bars should serve alcohol until 2 a.m. and close at 3, rather than just closing up shop at 2. What's the difference? I was in bed three hours ago anyway! De - press - ing.

Now, people who know me are probably not surprised by any of this. In fact, many of them have probably stopped reading, thinking, "Well, no shit, Briddon. You've always been an old man." And, to a degree, it's true. I've always believed those sage words from Ben Franklin: "Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise." In short, I'd rather be up at 6 a.m. than midnight.

Bridget doesn't necessarily subscribe to this same magazine of life. When I first met her, she was a bit of a rabble-rouser. She stayed out late, went out for dinner, like, three times a week (!), and slept in on weekend mornings. Heck, I think she even went dancing every once in a while. Dancing!

The casual observer, then, might say that I changed Bridget, that I aged her. But I don't think this is completely true. I think, and here's the drum roll to the big line, couples make each other old. I also think this is a good thing. It's not even a little bit depressing.

Instead of going out every chance we get, we pick and choose our spots and make them count. We don't typically deal with hangovers, which means we fill our weekend days with stuff like working out, early mornings at Fresh Pond, and nice dinners. And, to be honest, it's way more fun than going out until 2 a.m. It makes us feel more accomplished, more intelligent, and healthier. It makes us feel, well, better.

Plus, be honest: Who has the energy to be young anymore? It sounds exhausting ...