Annabelle Goes to Market Basket

Every Saturday morning, I go grocery shopping. (Yes, of course this is the life I've imagined from a young age.) I almost always go by myself because I really like efficiency. A solo trip takes maybe 45 minutes. A trip with the two adorable, dawdling females in the family would take at least five hours.

But on Saturday, wanting to give Bridget a little time to herself, I volunteered to take Annabelle on her first big grocery shopping trip. 

Since we've moved to the suburbs, we've started going to Market Basket, which is just delightful. Good food, low prices, excellent customer service. The only problem is that it's really, really crowded -- especially on weekend mornings. 

This realization made me nervous as I loaded a somewhat fussy Annabelle, clutching a Curious George doll, into the car at 7:30 AM. Oh well. Off we went:

Parking lot: We pulled into the crowded lot and Annabelle immediately went into the seat in the grocery cart. This, I thought, was a good sign because Annabelle hates sitting in carts at stores. 

Aisle 1: We headed for the cheeses and yogurts, two popular items in our house. I grabbed a bag of shredded parmesan cheese. "Annabelle's!" Annabelle yelled, as she reached for the bag. I gave it to her. I grabbed some kid yogurts. "Annabelle's!" Annabelle yelled, as she reached for the container. This is going to be a long trip.

Deli: As Annabelle sucked down the blueberry yogurt, I saw a great opportunity for interaction at the deli: "Annabelle," I said. "Do you want to pick a number so we can get more cheese?" She smiled. She pulled number 9 and number 2 showed  on the screen, which gave us time for our first random conversation.

Kind woman #1: "She's so cute. How old is she?"

Me: "Oh, thanks. She's almost 2."

Kind woman #1: "Oh, and I love her Curious George doll. My daughter loves that, too. Where did you get that, sweetie?"

Annabelle: (Silence) 

Me: "We got that in Harvard Square. There's a really nice store down there ..." 

Aisle 4: With the deli, the longest part of the experience, behind us, I had high hopes we were on our way. But as we picked out some granola, I heard the dreaded sound: "Up! Up! Up!" I cringed. "Oh, you don't want to be in the seat anymore, Annabelle?" She started at me. "Up! Up! Up!" Crap. I pulled her out, carried her with one arm and steered the cart with the other. This is going to be a really long trip.

Aisle 10: As we picked up some pouches (one of which Annabelle devoured; her second "treat" of the trip), she had mercifully decided she would walk. "Just stay with Dad," I said, as I grabbed several bottles of addictive Polar seltzer water. 

Kind woman #2: "Oh, how cute. I love her hair."

Me: "Say thank you, sweetie."

Annabelle: (Silence)

Me: "Thanks. That's very nice of you. We like it, too!"

Aisle 12: We saw a huge display of Goldfish. "Fishies!" Seconds later, Annabelle was walking around with her own bag of cheddar fish, treat No. 3. Smiles followed us (mostly her) as we turned toward the busiest part of the store. 

The frozen section: In between fistfuls of fish, Annabelle started holding my hand as the cart traffic picked up. I ducked into the freezers to get some waffles and then some mini raviolis, which delighted Annabelle: "Daddy's IN there!" I grabbed some ice cream. "Daddy's INNN there!" She couldn't stop laughing, which means I couldn't laughing. 

Fruits and vegetables: Enough fun. The fruit and vegetable section is essentially a war zone in Market Basket. Determined suburban moms in workout clothes, dads with complicated grocery lists, young kids "learning how to steer," and older folks carefully finding the perfect tomato. Carts were everywhere. One hand on the cart, one hand in Annabelle's, we weaved and darted our way to nectarines, cucumbers, and crisp green peppers. 

Tired dude: "How old is she?"

Me: "Almost 2."

Tired dude: "Yeah, I have four-year-old twins, so I can't bring them grocery shopping."

Me: "Oh, god. That must be tough."

Tired dude: "Yeah. Yeah, it is ..."

With our cart full, we headed for checkout. I picked up speed as I grabbed Annabelle's hand. Then, suddenly, she pulled.

"Oh, no. I dropped my Goldfish, Dad," shouted a nice couple. I cringed and looked back. No Goldfish on the ground, so I quickly grabbed the bag, smiled at the couple, and headed toward checkout lane #8. 

I expected a mini tantrum because the cashier had to scan the Goldfish, but it never came. Annabelle even volunteered to hold my hand as we walked across the parking lot, something that has proved very challenging in recent weeks. Sure, she took off running when I put the cart back, but, all in all, it was a wildly successful trip. 

Total trip time: 70 minutes. But the extra 25 minutes were the best ones of the day. 

Where is the Baby Going to Fit?

We live in a 768-square-foot apartment in Cambridge. And, truth be told, we like it an awful lot. It’s located in between Harvard Square and Porter Square, and, for all intents and purposes, is surrounded by everything we need. We have lots of culture, great neighbors, and convenience around every corner. You want restaurants? A stone's throw away. Grocery shopping? Just down the street. Boston? Hop on the subway and I’ll see you in 10 minutes.

Despite everything our apartment has, it’s missing one important thing: space.

Now, babies, I hear, are small, which is good. But babies, I hear, need a ton of stuff, which is bad.

Why is this hitting me all of a sudden? We're just coming back from a trip to New Hampshire where we visited our friends, Dan and Steph, and their four-month-old bundle of joy, Landon. They live in 4,000-square-foot pad with guest rooms that are the size of our apartment. Their back deck may be bigger than our street. (I exaggerate, of course, but you see where I'm going with this.)

Now, we’re not materialistic people by any stretch of the imagination, but for the past couple years, we've been able to buy ourselves nice clothes and nice things. The trouble is we’re already out of room. Both our bureaus are bursting at the seams (literally, thanks to Ikea) and our closets are stuffed like a big ol' Thanksgiving turkey. Our spare bedroom? Think more Shawshank Redemption and less Downton Abbey. 

So where will baby Briddon's stuff go?

Last weekend, we went stroller shopping, which was actually pretty fun. Then we got to the part about having to fold it up and actually keep it in our apartment.

"And this just folds neatly like that," said the incredibly helpful saleswoman at Magic Beans.

"Right," I thought, "and then how do you fold that up because that thing will dominate our linen closet."

So what's the answer? Do we have to throw away a bunch of our things? Do we have to rearrange our apartment to make way for baby? Do we have to move? We’ve decided the answer to question No. 3, for now, is no. We like the city and we plan to stay here for at least one kid and maybe two -- assuming there is a two.

But I can’t imagine what life will be like a year from now. I look around the apartment and see adult things. We have candles and DVD players and speakers and picture frames and iPads. Will those be replaced by bottles and toys and dirty diapers and onesies? The answer, I’m realizing, is yes.

This, of course, will be a huge adjustment. The more I think about it, though, the less worried I get. Stuff is overrated anyway. Just please don't make fun of me if I wear the same outfit every day after August. The rest of my clothes will be in storage.

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."

The Science of Bridget Bombs

They lurk, quietly, around corners. They often show up in the kitchen, the bedroom, and the family room. And they show up night or day -- they can appear right when we wake up or, much to my delight, after three hours of shoveling.

They are -- drumroll, please -- Bridget Bombs.

What's a Bridget Bomb? Webster's Dictionary defines it as "a discarded collection of items owned by Bridget Kylah Briddon that is strewn about within a living space." In other words, bombs consist of wrappers, single slippers, dirty dishes, unmade beds, and anything else you can probably imagine. (A recent one is pictured above.) They are not so much fun -- for me, anyway.

Now, if you know me and Bridget, you know we're not all that similar sometimes. For example, on your average Sunday morning, I'll get up, go to the gym, take Oscar to Fresh Pond, and go grocery shopping before 10:30 AM. Bridget, on the other hand, prefers rolling over (sometimes twice!) and finding the cool side of the pillow.

Another example: When she cooks, Bridget uses as many pots and pans as possible, and makes sure to use the stickiest substances in each of them. When I cook, I attempt to clean the pots when they are still on the burner. (I sound fun, don't I?)

To put it simply: I'm the neat one. Bridget is the "creative" one.

So, these Bridget Bombs, you might imagine, are a huge, divisive issue. The thing is, though, they really aren't. And it's because of humor. As a married couple, there are many things we see differently, but they don't seem so bad when we add an element of humor to them.

In the early days of our marriage -- the first couple months, which many people say are the toughest -- we hadn't figured out this little trick. Instead, I'd come upon a Bridget Bomb and say, "Hey, can you clean this up? I'd rather not live in filth." Not surprisingly, this didn't go over so well. Now, I go around and make little explosion noises, which makes us both laugh a little. It diffuses the situation for both of us and, to be honest, I really don't know who ends up cleaning the bombs. It really doesn't matter.

Is humor the answer in every situation? Of course not. But sometimes a little alliterative name for an annoying habit can mean the difference between an argument and a smile.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I see a small explosion on the table behind me ...