Folding a Onesie

I've been at my new job for almost nine months now. (The pay isn't great, but my colleagues are pretty awesome.) And as I've learned this "Dad" gig, I think I've done pretty well. I can identify different types of wailing, act mature during a smelly diaper change, and sit on a rocking chair with the best of them. I even sing sometimes.

But I am awful, just awful, at folding onesies.

The thing is, I never used to do the laundry. During "the great chore dividing conversation" after we got married, Bridget gladly took the reins on cleaning and folding our clothes. She was faster than me, had better fine motor skills, and actually found the task relaxing. I, on the other hand, took the more traditional options like taking out the trash, emptying the dishwasher, and cleaning up after Oscar.

Then Annabelle was born and I started doing some of Bridget's chores, including the hated laundry. (I quickly learned that there's absolutely no comeback to "Okay, you grow boobs and feed the baby next time." Whenever that trump card comes out, I put my head down and reach for the detergent.)

To be honest, I don't mind most of the laundry process. I love productivity, so the idea of completing a task appeals to me. I like separating the whites from the darks, lugging the IKEA bag down the stairs to the washer, and smelling the fluffy clothes when they come out of the dryer.

But then I realize it's time to fold -- and I cringe.

I start with boxer shorts and towels because they are the easiest. Then I move on to pants, which I can handle. But then things start deteriorating pretty quickly. Shirts and blouses never come out quite right. Socks never match. And then, for the love of God, it's time for the onesies.

Here, in alphabetical order, is everything in the world that's more difficult than folding onesies: Nothing. And here, in alphabetical order, is everything in the world that's easier than folding onesies: Everything, including applied physics and learning Mandarin Chinese.

Just look at the picture at the top of the post. What the hell is that? Why are the arms wrapped around the back? Why does the bottom look like a pair of pants? What am I supposed to do with the snaps? Now, you might think, Mike, you probably just folded a bad one for the sake of this blog. Wrong. I tried. Really hard. In fact, as I try to fold these absurdly small pieces of fabric, one of college basketball coaching legend John Wooden's famous quotes always rings in my head: If you don't have time to do it right, when will you have time to do it over? Now, I guess, John. Now I'll have to do it over!

Phew. Deep breaths. Count to 10.

I'll most certainly keep trying to improve, but in the meantime, please do me a favor: If you see Annabelle and she's wearing a onesie with odd wrinkles or uneven sleeves, don't say anything. Just know that it's not her fault.

Fantasy Fall: Annabelle Grace and Jimmy Graham

Both things started in the shower. For whatever reason, that happens to be the place where I come up with some of my best ideas. One day, bam, it popped into my head: We should name our daughter Annabelle Grace. Another day, bam, it came to me: I should take Jimmy Graham with one of my first three picks in the fantasy football draft.

These two things -- naming a daughter and drafting a fantasy football player -- may seem dissimilar. What does a three-month-old girl have to do with statistic-hungry junkies staring at professional football games every Sunday? At first glance, not much. But digging deeper, these two things eerily blended together to help me cross two things off my life bucket list this fall: Become a dad and win a fantasy football championship.

Let's start at the beginning. No, not in the shower, pervert. At the draft:

August 19: I'm always nervous at fantasy football drafts. When else is two hours so important to the ensuing four months of your life? If you draft a bad team, you're going to be on the losing end of games and trash talk until December. If you draft a good team, the sky is bluer, the sun is brighter, and the birds are chirpier. This year, though, I was more nervous than ever because Annabelle was due any second. She was officially due on the 23rd, but I clutched my phone during every pick of the draft waiting for Bridget to call and say, "It's go time." But the call never came and I stuck with my plan of drafting Jimmy Graham in the third round, a move that was maligned by my fellow draftees.

Week 1: With my arms filled with the best good luck charm in the world (a four-day-old baby), I won my first game of the season, 101.1 to 88.2. Jimmy Graham caught a touchdown pass. I had a good feeling.

Weeks 2 - 6: For some reason, I was positive Annabelle would be colicky. I'm not sure why, really. I just had this awful suspicion that she was going to be one of those babies that cried 10-12 hours a day and made bleary-eyed parents question everything in their lives. But colic never came. In fact, Annabelle started sleeping 5-6 hours a night by the time she was a few weeks old. She was happy and healthy. And in fantasy world, I was 4-2 and looking strong in the league. Jimmy Graham already had six touchdowns and was, by far, the best tight end in football.

Week 7: I was realizing that even with an "easy" baby (I hate that phrase), parenting was really hard. The days of coming home and relaxing mindlessly in front of the TV were gone. And then, out of nowhere, like the clouds parting after a rainy month, Annabelle smiled. That same week, inexplicably, someone offered me the most lopsided trade of the fantasy season: I gave up Marshawn Lynch to get Calvin Johnson and Eddie Lacy. Suddenly, my team, Texas Forever, was stacked.

Weeks 8 - 11: Annabelle was smiling, laughing, and generally being the cutest thing ever. Meanwhile, Jimmy Graham caught his 7th, 8th, 9th, and 10th touchdown passes of the season. I won four straight games and clinched the first seed in the playoffs.

Weeks 12 - 13: Going into Week 12, I was 9-2 and, seemingly, untouchable. But then I lost a game. Then another. And to make matters worse, Annabelle decided to start waking up at 1 AM, 3 AM, and 5 AM. Ugh.

December 22, Championship Sunday: After squeaking into the title game (despite a paltry 2.5 points from Jimmy Graham), I was nervous this past Sunday. My team was reeling and I was the underdog against a team that included Peyton Manning and Jamaal Charles, the two best players in fantasy football this season. When things started poorly -- Charles had a 30-yard touchdown run in the first quarter and Manning threw for 296 yards in the first half -- I got that sinking feeling: I was going to fall short again. But then, with Annabelle asleep in my arms and my Dillon Panthers T-shirt on, things started to turn around. One of my receivers, A.J. Green, scored a touchdown. Then he scored another one. And then, toward the end of the fourth quarter, Jimmy Graham caught a touchdown, his 15th of the season, and the tide turned for good. I pumped my fist in joy, waking up Annabelle in the process. Sorry, honey,  Daddy's just really excited. The 4 PM games started and everything clicked. A long run here, a touchdown there, and Texas Forever was on its way. By the time I went to bed Sunday night, I knew that trophy at the top of the page (and a nice $300 Christmas bonus) was mine.

Is it all a coincidence? Would I have won my first fantasy football title this fall if Annabelle was born last May or next February? Maybe. But I don't think so.

In the words of Coach Taylor, the greatest TV character of all-time: "Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose."