A Letter to My Daughter Before She's Born

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

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

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

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

Dear Baby, 

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can’t wait for you to get here! 

Love, 
Your Dad

The Greatest Idea Ever: Baby@Gmail.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, Mom, here are three reasons why:

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

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

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

Thanks, Gordon. I owe you one.

Are We Lame?

I sat outside with some friends on the Legal Seafood Patio after work on Friday. They made plans for the rest of their evenings -- some were heading to a bar to watch the Bruins game, others were off to celebrate a birthday at a Mexican restaurant -- and I sat there, wistfully. "Oh, cool, thanks for the invite," I joked.

The response from my friend, Caitlin: "Well, you're just going to go home and read with your wife anyway!"

Ouch. But she was right. (Well, she would have been right on most nights. Last night, we actually did go out for a bit.) The meaning of "read," of course, changes from time to time. We watch a few shows on Hulu, sit through an occasional movie, write blog posts, browse the Web, peruse magazines, and take online courses. And we talk a lot. But on most weekday nights (yes, including Friday), that's pretty much the routine.

My question: Are we lame?

We usually go to bed between 10-11 and don't exactly go nuts on the weekend. I remember talking to another friend of mine (this one, a younger female colleague) about the night they captured those assclowns with the bombs.

"Even we went out last night," I said to her the next day. "You would have been proud. We didn't even go out until, like, 9:30."

"What time did you get home?" she asked.

"A little before 12."

"That," she said, "is when I went out."

My question, again: Are we lame?

We still go to concerts, still hang out with friends and family, and still go out for dinners. But we don't really care for bars. The idea of going to a local alehouse in Boston until 2 AM (like the good, old days!) is about as appetizing as eating seafood from Taco Bell. Crowds? No, thanks. Loud music? We'd rather not. Dancing? Ha.

To be honest, I'm not sure I even remember what a hangover feels like.

My question, one more time: Are we lame?

Now, of course, this has a fair amount to do with our little bundle of joy. She's due in 14 weeks, but she's already changed our lives in enormous ways. There is a lot of "can't" and "don't" in Bridget's life now, including booze and her beloved soft cheeses. Last year's vacations included Ireland, California, Colorado, France, and Mexico. This year? A full month of unimaginable sleep deprivation here in lovely Cambridge. (Tickets, I believe, are still available if you want to join us.)

So yeah, reading through all of this before I hit publish, we do seem pretty lame. But doesn't everyone eventually get lame? And doesn't lame, eventually, just turn into happiness?

I hope so because I really do like reading with my wife.

The Day We Aced a Pregnancy Test

"Honey," yelled Bridget with a strange, high-pitched shake in her voice that I'd never heard. "Come here! Quick!"

Let me pause for a moment here. As a student of writing, I’ve been told several times that it's a cardinal sin to start an article (or even a blog post) with a quote. There’s no context and it leaves the reader guessing -- a big no-no. One former sports editor put it this way: "Unless Jesus Christ played centerfield, I don’t want to see a quote at the top of your story." One of my favorite professors in grad school: "You can start a piece of writing with a quote only three times in your life, so make them count."

I think he'd be fine with this being one of those times.

I ran toward the bathroom where Bridget waited with a white stick in her hand. Her other hand was over her mouth. It was shaking visibly. "Honey," she said, now in a hushed tone. "Look."  Sure enough, there were two tiny pink lines. Pregnant. Boom. We hugged, she cried (fine, we both did), and we looked at the two pink lines a dozen more times in the next two minutes.

We then started a game of asking "Are you okay? How do you feel?" back and forth. We really couldn’t think of anything else to do. What else do you do when you're that happy?

"Well," I said, "we should still go grocery shopping. We’ll need food."

We walked the short distance from our house and found ourselves at the Star Market around the corner. Together, we wandered aimlessly for several minutes. I picked up some cottage cheese and I hate cottage cheese. She stared at different brands of pretzels for 15 minutes. I got physically lost in the frozen food aisle. It was so real, so scary, and so exciting. Our lives had changed forever within 15 minutes.

Truth be told, we hadn’t been trying for very long. (And we realize how lucky this makes us.) As our friends and family know, we decided to live without much care for six months. We went to Ireland, France, San Francisco, and Mexico. We drank good wine and spent more than a few Saturday afternoons bellying up to our favorite bar (Cambridge, 1) in Harvard Square. We talked about having kids during those six months (we both knew we really wanted them), but like most things that don’t happen tomorrow, the reality seemed far away. We decided winter would be a good time to start.

November came and went, though. We had a glimmer of hope for a moment, but it wasn’t meant to be.

And then halfway through December, the 16th to be exact, those two fateful lines appeared. After the grocery store, we were off to run a 5K in Somerville, a holiday race we’d registered for months before. I don’t remember anything about the actual running of the race, but know that I felt no pain and ran faster than I had in a decade. I'm not sure my feet ever touched the pavement because I was running on air. I crossed the line in 21:31, a 6:56 pace, which, for me, is pretty damn good.

We followed that with brunch with friends. Between bites, we looked incredulously at each other. The look continued for the rest of the day, as we made our way to the New England Patriots game with our friend, Walter. We sat for hours in a misting rain, as we watched what was almost one of the greatest comebacks in regular season history. I cheered loudly, but it was mostly for our news and not the players. When we finally got home that day -- a very, very long day -- and went to bed at 2 in the morning.

"Is it real?" I asked.

"I think so," she said. "I really hope so."

"Me, too."