The Absolute Worst Thing about Having a Baby

There are so many wonderful things about having a baby. Teaching your baby. Hanging out with your baby. Smiling at your baby. (As Bridget and I experienced for the first time this week, your baby smiles back sometimes, too.) Aside from the sleep deprivation and the occasional crying fits (hers not mine), it's pretty much the best thing in the world.

But there's one thing, one stupid orange and black thing, that stinks about having a baby: You're forced to like Halloween.

Look, I hate Halloween. Maybe it's because I think most costumes are ridiculous. Maybe it's because I dealt with the crowds in Salem when I lived there. Or maybe it's because I detest those chewy, synthetic, disgusting candy corns. More than likely, though, it's because Halloween is the dumbest thing ever. And now because I have an adorable daughter who will look cute in any costume in the store, I have to paste a fake, wide smile on my face this October 31.

My history with Halloween, from what I can remember, started when I was around 10. It was really my peak. I dressed up as Mac Tonight, the moon-faced guy from the McDonald's commercials of the 1980s. My mom outdid herself and sewed the costume, adding in cotton where my head wouldn't reach in the moon. I remember parading around our school and everyone laughing at me. It was a good laugh, though, because I won the contest. (I think I won movie tickets or something.)

Fast forward to my senior year of high school. My go-to outfit was a white T-shirt and warm-up pants, so clearly I wasn't going to put much effort into Halloween. And sure enough when the night of October 30 rolled around, my buddy and I grabbed a couple sheets, cut a few holes, made the word "Boo" out of tape, and went to school the next day as "We really couldn't care less" ghosts.

I still liked all the candy at this point, though.

College was more of the same. People were plotting weeks in advance about their ingenious, creative costumes. They made multiple trips to iParty to make sure they had the perfect shade of black or the exact amount of blood. I made sure my Hawaiian shirt was clean and my stupid bucket hat was still in one piece so I could go as "Fun island guy." Aside from the adult beverages, I don't recall much fun.

Since then, it's been one train wreck after another. Caramel apples falling off sticks. Lame parties. Navigating through tens of thousands of drunk college students in Salem. And like most adult males without children, my attempts to engage a costumed youngster in conversation as I handed him or her a treat have been forced and awkward. As I hit my late 20s, I decided to just turn off my lights on Halloween and avoid the whole thing. No tricks. No treats. Boo humbug.

But now, this year, with my little ladybug or pumpkin or bumblebee or walrus or whatever staring up at me, I need to make sure she has fun. Before I know it, she'll be 4 and it'll be princess time for a few years. Then it'll be fairies. Then ballerinas. And then, sometime in the distant future, she's going to come downstairs in a tight-fitting outfit that's supposed to be a nurse, a cop, or a devil. And I'll flip out.

But hey, at least then I'll have permission to hate Halloween again. Until that happens, I'll have a huge smile on my face. Happy freakin' Halloween.

Kindling in Harvard Yard, or How We Really Met

Earlier this week, on the 4th, in fact, I was chatting with Bridget's good friend, Laura. We sat out on our deck, sipped beer, listened to Bruce Springsteen (well, we should have been) and talked about meeting and falling in love. Not us, of course. Just the idea. (Bridget was inside booking our latest vacation.)

Laura told me the story about her parents and how they fell in love. In a nutshell (and forgive me if I'm butchering this at all, Laura), her parents, both starry-eyed singles at the time, were both on a cruise somewhere in Europe. It was the last night of the trip and, as luck would have it, there was one bottle of champagne left on the ship. They both reached for it at the same time, locked eyes, and said, "Well, we might as well drink this together." A  Transatlantic, long distance relationship ensued and decades later, they are still together today. Wonderful, right? Sweet, wholesome, and warm.

It got me thinking about the beginnings of me and Bridget and, well, it's not very good. It's actually fairly clunky. This stinks because people -- and our children will, at some point -- ask, "How did you guys meet?"And up to this point, we tell some variation of this:

Bridget and I worked together, but didn't really know each other. Then she worked remotely for a bit, got a new job, and lived in Baltimore for a few years. So you could say, we'd heard of each other, but that was it. In 2010, we started chatting at our mutual friend Kate's birthday party in Salem and realized we got along pretty well. Then, taking full advantage of the romance of technology, we started Facebook chatting, texting, and dating. Romantic, right? Not so much. Clunky. Pretty lame paragraph if you ask me.

And I've decided it's time to officially change it. To what, you ask? To Kindling in Harvard Yard!

As we started dating in the summer of 2010, we realized we both liked to be outside and we both liked to read. Our weekend afternoons quickly became filled with slow, slightly awkward walks down Oxford St. with our Kindles in our hands. We'd sit for hours and split the time between reading, talking, and people watching. (Our book choices were and are always quite different -- she recently polished off 50 Shades of Grey in about 45 minutes and I just finished a great baseball read called The Bullpen Gospels.) Today, we share many hobbies -- running, blogging, drinking good wine, eating good food, to name a few -- but Kindling in Harvard Yard is still our favorite. And really, as I thought more about it, that stands out as how we really met and how we fell in love.

So the next time someone asks -- or the first time I tell my son or daughter about it -- I'm going to take a page out of Laura's parents' book. (Pun not intended. Okay, maybe it a was a little ...). Here goes:

"You see, son, we were both walking around Harvard Yard one sunny, Saturday afternoon. Then, out of the corner of our eyes, we saw a single Kindle resting on a purple chair. We both thought it was ours, so we reached for it at the same time, locked eyes, and said, 'Well, we might as well read this together.' And the rest is history ..."

Yeah, I like that much better.

Advil and The Jagged Corners of Freeze Pop Wrappers

I'm reading back through our first week of blog posts (thanks to you for reading and commenting!) and I'm realizing a theme is developing. Bridget and I have a lot of fun, don't take ourselves too seriously, and enjoy disagreeing on various things. These things are all true. They are not, however, the full story.

We're also very much in love. ("Awww!" or "Vomit!" -- it's really up to you.)

But how did it happen? When did like turn into love? Have you thought about this question in your own life? When is the exact moment you fell in love with your husband, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend, or fiancé? For us, that's easy: Advil and the jagged corners of freeze pop wrappers.

First, the Advil or, in other words, why Mike fell in love with Bridget. For our first weekend getaway, Bridget and I went to gorgeous Boothbay Harbor, Maine. (Seriously, it's really nice.) We arrived in the seaside town, and prepared to eat lobster, drink a lot of wine, and take awkward pictures of ourselves (see example below).

As we made our way through the first bottle of vino before heading to dinner on that first night, I rummaged through my stuff to find my Advil. (I really hate hangovers.) To my dismay, I'd forgotten it at home. "Shoot. I forgot my Advil," I said. On cue, Bridget says, "Oh, I brought some. I knew you'd want it." Boom. In love. Right there.

Second, the jagged corners of freeze pop wrappers or, in other words, why Bridget fell in love with Mike. Bridget loves frozen treats. A lot. Like, so much. You might think you understand, but you really don't. She eats popsicles as if she's sitting on the sun and can identify ice cream flavors by touching them. So, of course, she loves freeze pops. (Who doesn't? Am I right?)

Early on in our dating lives at my old apartment in Salem, I offered Bridget a freeze pop. She obviously accepted. As I brought her a red one (her favorite flavor), I bit off the top of the wrapper. Then, before handing it to her, I bit off two pieces from either side so there was no chance she could cut her mouth on the plastic. She smiled from ear to ear. Boom. In love. Right there.

And two years later, we can both look back and immediately pinpoint those two moments that changed our lives forever. And for the record, I still bite the wrappers and she still brings the Advil. It really is the little things, isn't it?

So, what about you? Have you thought about it? What's the moment that turned like into love?