A Recycling Bin and a Revelation

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

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

"Since I died," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The 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.

What We Learned at Birthing Class

Have you ever seen a really, really graphic childbirth as you're wiping sleep from your eyes at 9:15 on a Sunday morning? We're talking full frontal, close-up, can't-eat-for-four-hours graphic. No?

We have. Welcome to birthing class. And welcome, yet again, to parenthood.

We spent the Sunday of our Memorial Day Weekend learning about how to have a baby. Instead of doing weekly classes for a month, we opted to jam it all into one eight-hour marathon session -- a decision I highly recommend. Aside from being the only of the seven couples to bring our own pillows (thanks, Internet, for making us look stupid), we actually had a great time. Yes, it may be partially because we're both kind of nerds and we love to learn new things, but mostly it was because it was super helpful.

What specifically did we learn? Here are a some things that stood out:

Well, as mentioned above, we learned that childbirth is really, really graphic. Now, we knew this, of course, but I suppose I just wasn't sure how graphic we were talking. I will now happily take the advice of a couple friends who are already dads to, "Stay at the top of the bed. Whatever you do, stay at the top of bed." Done and done.

Of the seven couples, we learned that only four knew the gender. For some reason, I expected that to be much higher. Maybe six couples. Maybe even all of them. But perhaps it's not quite as obvious of a decision.

I learned it's pretty cool to be called "one of the dads."

We learned that a sense of community is incredibly important. We read a lot. We talk to friends who already have kids. We talk to our mothers. But we don't know many people who are going through the same exact thing we are going through at the same exact time. It made us feel so much better to hear other people ask questions about epidurals, breathing, and poop.

Even before we get to the big event, we learned that we need to start doing yoga and meditating. We're using a midwife and we're going to try to keep things natural, so staying calm and relaxed are of utmost importance. Speaking of relaxation, we learned that Lamaze is crap. It's a method of breathing that doesn't encourage release or downward motion, which are both fairly important when you're trying to squeeze eight pounds out of, well, you know what.

We learned that most babies are born at 41 weeks and that most due dates are a week early. (Bridget may have known this, but a lot of this stuff was completely new to me.)

We learned that the water breaks early in only about 10-11% of births. (Bonus: Also, it's waters break (with an "s"), which was new to me.) I thought this was like 98%. Seriously, every movie I've seen for the last 20 years that involves childbirth involves some new dad slipping on his wife's water. Stupid Hollywood and its dramatic lies.

We learned that labor usually starts at home -- and lasts for quite a while. Maybe it's just me, but I had this image of rushing home from work, grabbing the packed bag, and driving on two wheels down side streets to get to the hospital. Not so much. It's apparently far, far less dramatic and involves hours of pre-labor and early labor. (Oscar, I imagine, will be quite helpful during this time. <-- Sarcastic.)

We learned a whole lot more, too -- including how to breathe, how to properly massage a woman in labor, and the importance of being a positive Dad. I really can't imagine a more productive use of eight hours (especially on a lousy day) as you're preparing to have a bundle of joy.

And I suppose I should get used to the graphic images. I learned they are part of parenthood.