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 ...

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. 

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 ...

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.

Debt Free in 2013

Last weekend, Mike and I went out to dinner to celebrate a momentous occasion. Tucking into a plate of tater tots at Cambridge Common, we smiled goofily at each other, utterly giddy at what we'd just accomplished. You see, we had just reached a major life milestone shared by many people of our generation.

What could it be you ask? Did one of us get a big promotion? Did we buy a home? Did we hit the lotto?!? No, friends. It was better.

We paid off all of our student loan debt.

I know, I know. Not really that sexy. But work with me here. Mike and I will never have to write another check send another electronic payment to chip away at the debt we acquired getting the degrees that are now 10+ years old. We no longer have to pay thousands of dollars of interest to a bank. WE. ARE. FREE.

How did we get here? It started, as most things in our life do, with me getting a little obsessed. You see, after an expensive 2012 (our wedding, other peoples' weddings, vacations, kitchen island, not sticking to christmas gift limits, etc.) I started to take stock of our financial health. With no big expenditures on the horizon, what was the best thing to do with the little bit of extra money we had in our accounts at each month's end? Sock it away in an emergency fund? Save or invest it so we could buy a place? Contribute more towards our 401ks? Open up Roth IRAs? Start a college fund for our future children? Go on another vacation? Buy even more Apple products? Up Oscar's treat budget? The options were overwhelming.

My first thought was to see a financial panther planner. And we still may at some point. But I felt like I needed to get a hold on our basic financial strategy before I went to see someone who will likely just want me to invest my money. So I did a lot of Googling. And looked at savings interest rates. And retirement calculators. And home prices in our area (which was painful to say the least). And college costs in 2033 (perhaps even more painful). But none of that gave me any direction of what to do when. Then I went to brunch with a friend who mentioned she was attending a financial planning class based on Dave Ramsey's philosophy about paying off debt. And I was intrigued. So, I ran home from brunch, downloaded his book on my Kindle, and read it straight through.

You see, while I don't think Dave and I would get along personally (socially I suspect he leans further to the right than I'm generally comfortable with), we do have a shared hatred of debt. And paying interest. So his philosophy really appealed to me. You can read about his 7 Baby Steps here.

He outlines a clear plan to what he calls "Financial Freedom." Doesn't that have a nice ring to it? His path to this financial freedom can be a bit extreme, so I can't say we are following his plan to the letter. BUT, we did take one big step which put us in position to make the big student loan payoff. We sold Mike's car. And we took that money, and some savings, and we made the last payments on our loans. We decided to prioritize paying off debt over everything else. And I gotta say, it feels good.

Next step for us is paying off my car, which we are hoping to do in the next 6 months. Turns out you have a lot more money when you aren't making two student loan payments each month! Then, once we are completely debt free (in 2013!) we'll start our emergency fund and then start saving for our own little house or condo (Well, maybe. But that is a debate for another blog post. Is buying a house worth it anymore?)

It feels really good to be digging our way out of debt. And it feels even better to have a clear plan. So while 2013 won't be as exciting as our 2012, I think it will set us up for a better future. So here's hoping the sacrifice is worth it. I think it will be.

I Sold My Car Today

For the first time since I was 16, I am officially carless. There's not a single piece of heavy machinery registered under the name "Michael Briddon" in the state of Massachusetts. No, sir. No ride. No wheels. No whip.

I sold my Nissan today at 10:30 AM as part of our new plan, hatched by my beautiful wife, to pay off all of our debt in 2013. This chunky transaction is going to help me annihilate the rest of my college and graduate school loans. In a word: Boom. In four words: Take that, higher education.

What's amazing is how fast it all happened. On Tuesday, Bridget suggested a creative, aggressive financial plan she'll be discussing in an upcoming post. On Wednesday, we had a family meeting. On Thursday, I agreed.

And just like that, we committed to becoming a one-car family.

We opted to go to CarMax, which I highly recommend if you are looking to get rid of your vehicle. It took exactly 74 minutes from the moment we walked in the door to the moment we walked out with a check in hand. We met with a nice guy named Rob, someone drove my car for two miles, and we left with 500 dollars more than I expected. (They even returned the Explosions in the Sky CD I'd left in the player.) It was that easy.

As we drove away in Bridget's, er, our, car, I expected to feel a moment of panic. Didn't I just give up my freedom? What if I wanted to drive across the country next weekend? What if we got a huge fight about turning the cable off and the only escape was the open road? None of those thoughts, though, gave me pause. Instead, I was excited about paying off my loans and taking another giant leap toward a better financial future.

Plus, there were these reasons:

• We live in Cambridge and every mode of public transportation is minutes away on foot. 
• I was really sick of moving my car for street cleaning. (I'll never forget the day I came home and panicked because I thought our cars were stolen. Two hundred forty bucks later, I had them both back. It wasn't the best night of my life.)
• I don't have to pay an excise tax anymore. I don't really know what it is anyway. Do you? I mean, sure, I could Google it in a few seconds, but I'd rather just be ignorant on this one. Stupid excise tax. 

Are there risks with having only one car? Sure. It could break down. We could get in an accident. We could both want it some Saturday afternoon. But I think the benefits far outweigh the detriments and it's the right decision in the long run.

Just don't tell 16-year-old Mike. He'd think it was a dumb idea. 

Flower Power

Often bright. Typically colorful. Usually aromatic.

And always effective.

Flowers, for whatever reason, are the secret to a woman's heart, affection, and, most importantly, forgiveness. I can't say I understand it. To me, it's sort of silly. The process is typically the same:

• You present the flowers.
• You get a hug and a kiss.
• The flowers just sit there for a week or two.
• You throw the flowers in the trash.

Wouldn't women rather have something more practical like an iTunes gift card or a fantasy football team? Something that brings joy for more than a fortnight? 

I bought Bridget some flowers the other day. You can see them right over there. They obviously weren't very expensive, but they made Bridget really happy. I suppose it's because there wasn't really any reason for me to buy them. I was at work and decided to walk home on my lunch break with some flowers. After all, it's the thought -- those moments of complete surprise -- that really stand out in the long run. She had this big, old smile on her face when I walked in. And she has a really pretty smile, so that was nice. But it made me think two things:

1. Why flowers? What the hell is the big deal with flowers? Naturally, I went to Google to find out. I found a study that explained flowers make women more receptive to romance. In a nutshell, the study (from France, of course), said women were more likely to accept an invitation to a date if flowers were in the room. Eh. Good, I suppose, but that didn't really get at the root of my question. What was it about flowers that made women so happy? I found another study -- filled with three experiments -- that showed flowers really do make people happy. Yet another study, this one at Rutgers, said there were three possible theoretical explanations: a simple learned association, flowers could be part of an evolutionary response promoting food search, or flowers are specially evolved human sensory mood enhancers. (Put on the lingerie and turn out the lights!) Although not very romantic, it seems there's a lot out there to explain this flower phenomenon.

On to the second thought that crossed my mind ...

2. Why don't I buy flowers more often? I suppose every woman probably asks this of her mate. It only costs somewhere between 10 and 50 bucks, and the warm feeling lasts for weeks. Just buy me some more damn flowers, right?! Well, the thing is, that would really cheapen the whole thing. It would become expected. So, I'm sorry, dear Bridget, you won't be getting flowers every week. But from time to time, they'll show up at your doorstep. It'll (almost) always be a surprise. Because I think is that's spontaneity, that sporadic show of emotion, that makes flowers such a powerful force. It's either that or the food search thing ...