Seven Things I've Already Learned about Fatherhood

I can now wear high, white socks. I can now use phrases like, "Money doesn't grow on trees" and "A little hard work never hurt anyone." I will now, without exception, eat all the end pieces and the leftovers no one wants.

I am officially a Dad.

I've had my shiny, new title for all of 11 days, but I've already learned a few things. I still have about 174,893 things to figure out, but after almost two weeks as Annabelle Grace Briddon's father, I am certain about these seven things:

1. Parenting is pretty natural. In other words, I'm not nearly as bad at this as I expected I would be. I know how to change a diaper, hold a baby, and turn crying into quiet. (Not every time on that last item, but I'm getting there.) Everyone said that you just kind of figure it out. Everyone was right.

2. My pinkie finger is very important. If you put your pinkie -- nail-side down -- into a baby's mouth, she sucks on it and, subsequently, stops crying. So far, anyway. For whatever reason, this little secret didn't appear in any of the baby books I read. When one of our nurses showed me how to do it, I felt like I was being invited into an exclusive club.

3. I would be screwed without my wife. This isn't a new fact, but it's become very apparent in the past couple weeks. Bridget, a seasoned babysitter, has cared for a lot of newborns in her life and appears to be really good at all this complicated stuff. Diaper change? Eight seconds. Breastfeeding? A natural. Explosive diarrhea? Handles it with a smile. She more than makes up for my 10-thumbed hands.

4. Poop smells. Several times, I read that breastfed babies don't have stinky diapers. That is, excuse the pun, a load of crap. It is not pleasant.

5. Your body can adjust to anything. I really enjoy sleep. The thought of a soft, delicately braided hammock gently rocking on a cool summer evening is downright sexy to me. I used to average about 7-8 hours of snoozing every night. Now? Well, if you're a parent, you know it's sometimes half of that. Or a quarter. Or some other tiny (and ungodly) fraction. But, so far, both Bridget and I are holding our own. I've even worked out a few times in the past week. (Or maybe I dreamt that ...)

6. Apps can be wonderful things. I love apps. I'm constantly looking for new ones and touting the value of my favorites to friends and family. Yes, they can be a giant waste of time, but the right ones, like Baby Connect, can really improve the quality of your life. Baby Connect tracks feedings, dirty diapers, doctor visits, and everything else related to our bundle of joy. It's a data lover's dream. In the last five days, I know Belle has gone through eight diapers, nine diapers, eight diapers, seven diapers, and 10 diapers, respectively. And now you know. Neat.

7. There's no word for how much you love your child. The English language just doesn't have one. Dozens of times every day, I'm experiencing emotions I've never even imagined. I know this is mushy and all that, but it's true. When she sleeps for an hour on my chest. When she opens one eye, but not the other. When she kicks me while I change her. It's, well, like I said, there's no word.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go buy some socks ...

The Story of Belle's Birth

I couldn't say "thank you" because I was trying too hard to swallow my tears. It didn't matter. They kept coming. And slowly, softly, between small sobs, I pushed out the words several seconds apart "thank" ... "you." Thank you to everyone in the room who was excited for us. Thank you to Annabelle for being healthy. Thank you to my wife for her amazing display of strength and courage.

It took 13 hours to get to that "thank you." And here's how it all happened:

At 9:30 PM on Tuesday, Bridget started feeling something in her stomach as she bounced on our exercise ball. (The induction was scheduled for Friday and she was doing everything she could think of to go into labor.) "I don't know," she said. "It's like bad cramps." In classic, clueless fashion, I jumped off my chair, "Is this it? Is it go time?" "We'll see," she said.

In the next 30 minutes, the cramps quickly turned into contractions. Six minutes apart. Then five minutes. We found our trusty Full Term app on our iPhones so we could be track the contractions to the second. "What about Oscar?" I asked. "I ... don't ... know," Bridget said, in between deep, pained breaths. "We should call my sister."

At 10:30 PM, Bridget's sister, Alanna and her boyfriend, Blake, came by to get Oscar. Alanna is a nurse. Blake rents cars. You can imagine who struggled more with Bridget's state. "Um, shouldn't you guys be in the hospital? I'd be in the hospital," Blake said. "Seriously. Now." (In Blake's defense, if Bridget wasn't my wife and I was in my mid 20s, I would have been scared out of my mind, too.) We waved goodbye to Oscar and placed our first call to the hospital to let them know labor was starting.

We sat down on the bed and thought about sleeping, but Bridget couldn't lay down for more than 30 seconds at a time. The contractions hit the magical 4-1-1 number -- four minutes apart, one-minute long, for one hour. Just before midnight, we called the hospital again. "I think we need to come in," I said to the midwife. She agreed, but only because Bridget hadn't felt the baby move in a while. We drove through a quiet Harvard Square and made our way to Mount Auburn Hospital in Cambridge. As we walked up to the door -- the wrong door, more on that later -- I had three overpacked bags in tow. (Just then, I realized I was probably jumping the gun with the bags, but it was too late.) We went into the triage room and the midwife examined Bridget. She confirmed we were in early labor and the baby was fine. "You can stay here, but I recommend going home to try and get some rest," the midwife said.

At 1:30 AM, now on Wednesday, we were back home. And to paraphrase Ron Burgundy in Anchorman, "things escalated quickly." Bridget's pain went from unbearable to searing. (I never realized how hard it would be to watch someone you love in excruciating pain.) We had seen a seemingly realistic labor video in our birthing class with a man gently comforting a moaning woman. That wasn't us. Every few minutes, Bridget would try to hold a wall, bend over a couch, or lean on a chair. Nothing worked. Another phone call to the hospital (they asked us to try a bath before coming in) and an hour later, the pain hadn't subsided. Then Bridget threw up blood several times. "Yeah," I said, seconds later, during my 3 AM call to the hospital, "we're going to come in now."

Exhausted, we made our way back to the hospital at 3:30 AM. Deserted roads made the ride easy, but not knowing the location of the emergency entrance made things difficult. Bridget used all her strength to get the front door, which was locked. I hit the intercom. "Hey, can you let us in?" I asked in a panicked voice. The response: "Who's us?" Right. Of course. I'm an idiot. "Me and my laboring wife." They came right up and we hustled into the hospital. This time, upon examination, the midwife knew we were serious. Without getting into too much detail, Bridget went from two centimeters to nine centimeters in two hours. That's intense.

Bridget gritted her teeth for another hour before she decided an epidural was the way to go. (The baby wasn't in perfect position, so it was either an epidural or approximately three more hours of blinding pain.) Mercifully, we slept (or tried to) from 5:30 to 7:30 AM. After two more quick exams and two more hours, it was showtime. With a midwife, a nurse, and a paramedic student (he needed to see a birth to get his certification) surrounding her, Bridget pushed for the first time at 10 AM. Along with the team, I cheered, coached, and urged. (For the record, I kept my eyes on the top half of the bed.) Thirty minutes of pushing. Forty-five minutes. One hour. Then, at 11:01 AM, after one big push, we held our breath and waited to hear that important first cry. There was some meconium in the womb, which gave us a moment of panic. (Apparently, it can get in the baby's lungs and cause problems.) Then, all of a sudden, "Waaaaaaaaaaah!" We breathed a sigh of relief and the nurse put Annabelle Grace Briddon on Bridget's chest.

A beautiful new baby. An exhausted, tough-as-nails new mom. And one teary-eyed dad. "Thank you."

Why Having a Baby is Like Fantasy Football

It's almost here.

By "it's," of course, I mostly mean Wednesday, the day Bridget will be induced. We are over-the-moon excited, nervous, and ready to "get that baby the hell out of Bridget's belly." (Her words, not mine.) But by "it's," I also mean the beginning of fantasy football, which officially kicks off on Thursday with the start of  the NFL season.

Now, at a quick glance, these two things -- babies and fantasy football -- are quite different. One is a pooping, drooling mess that changes your life forever. The other is a baby.

But seriously, they are quite different. One is an actual human. One is fake. One is doted on by parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and friends. The other is, in many people's opinions, a giant waste of time. One is the continuation of evolution. The other is grown men eating chicken wings, drinking beer, and throwing things at computer screens.

So, yes, these things are very, very different. But as Bridget and I get ready for a life-changing week and I start adjusting lineups in my two fantasy leagues, I'm realizing these two things can be quite similar. Here are five ways:

1. Research is critical. I've read a handful of baby books and spent several hours on ESPN.com. I've learned about colostrum, stork bites, and speedy wide receivers. I've learned a lot about kneecaps -- babies are born without them and an injured one can ruin a season. Will every bit of reading I've done pay off in either situation? Probably not. But I feel a lot more confident knowing that I've prepared as much as I can.
2. You have no control. At the end of the day, however, all of the research in the world isn't going to change reality. We will be frustrated with our baby at 3 AM and have no idea what to do, and someone on my team will get injured. (Thanks for already taking care of that, Le'Veon Bell.)
3. A name is important. I've already written about the process of naming our daughter. I'm quite certain it's the most important thing you do before your child is born. (Installing the carseat is probably a close second.) Our daughter will have her name forever, so we hope we've picked a winner. Naming your team -- in my case, Texas Forever -- can have a big influence on your season. Do you go with humor? Something like Little Lebowski's Urban Achievers? Do you highlight a star player? Maybe Tom Brady's Bunch? Either way, it's not a decision one should take lightly.
4. It's easy to get frustrated. One more touchdown. One more reception. One more yard. If you've ever played fantasy football, you know there's nothing quite like looking at your score on a Sunday evening and seeing that someone rushed for 99 yards or that a 80-yard touchdown catch got called back because of a phantom hold. Garbage! Similarly, I'm imagining, with constant crying and a lack of communication skills, the first few months of a baby's life will be challenging. The key to both situations, I believe, is taking it all in stride.
5. Winning is fun. As much as I try, I can't imagine the feeling I'll have when my daughter smiles at me for the first time. Or the joy that will infuse my body when she starts sleeping through the night. The first words, the first steps, the first goal she'll score in soccer. They'll all be huge wins. Beating a friend in an important fantasy football game is a great feeling, too. Even if it lasts for only a second, the jubilation of "my team is better than yours" is pretty damn cool.

Of course, I've never  actually won a league title. So here's hoping I'm better at fatherhood than I am at fantasy football ...

Due Date, Schmue Date

Bridget's due date was this past Thursday. Or it was Saturday, depending on whom you ask. Originally, her due date was August 24, but after our first ultrasound, it became August 22.

Either way, one thing is for certain: It really doesn't matter.

As a first-timer to this pregnancy experience, I assumed that a due date was pretty concrete. If not etched in stone, it was at least written in permanent marker somewhere. Underlined. In all capital letters. But as it turns out, I was dead wrong. In fact, only about 5 percent of babies are born on their designated day.

This statistic stinks. And it stinks for three reasons:

1. Due dates are a big tease. Think about the last big thing for which you prepared. Maybe it was a speech or a presentation. Maybe it was a wedding, a birthday, or an anniversary. Perhaps it was a vacation. Whatever it was, you set a date, said thing occurred on that date, and then you moved on with your life. That's not so in baby world. August 22 (or August 24) came and went for us. We had marked the date on our calendars, made sure our hospital bag was packed, and had our hands on the doorknob. (I've even been working on my sprinting, just in case.) But the hours, minutes, and seconds slipped by. And we waited. How are you feeling now?, I asked. How about NOW?

2. I like deadlines. As a journalist by trade, I'm accustomed to looking at the clock. You need 400 words in 25 minutes? You got it. Need a quote by 2 PM? I'm your man. Not surprisingly, this thinking crept into my daily life and I have a great respect for time. If I'm supposed to be somewhere at 6 AM, you know damn well that I'm going to be there. My daughter? She'll come when she's good and ready, thank you very much.

3. Poor Bridget. Bridget is a champ. She's a great sport and a tough cookie. In other words, she's not one to complain. But good God. This poor thing has endured 40 weeks of back-breaking, ankle-swelling, acne-inducing pregnancy. When I ask her if she's comfortable on the couch, she contorts her body into a pretzel and sheepishly nods her head. And yes, I know that millions and millions of women have gone through pregnancy and given birth, but the experience is different when it's in your living room and it's your wife. Yes, she'll make it and yes, she's had a fairly easy pregnancy. But, again, good God.

So, what's next? Well, we wait. Eighty percent of women deliver between weeks 37 - 42, so there's a good chance we'll fall in there somewhere. After that, if everyone stays healthy and we're still watching the clock, they'll induce Bridget when she hits 42 weeks. That means, like it or not, our daughter will meet the world by September 6.

Until then, I'll be singing along with Tom Petty, one of the greatest songwriters of our time:

Every day you see one more card 
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart 
The waiting is the hardest part ...

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.

A Review of Five 'Dad' Books

I read a lot. I read even more than that when I'm trying to learn something new. Learning to be a dad, then, meant it was time to get elbow deep in some literature about fatherhood.

As you might imagine, there are some clunkers and all-stars out there.

In total, I've read five 'Dad' books in the past couple months (I just started number six) and I thought it was worth a few minutes to share what I've learned (or haven't learned) from them. It might save some of you dudes out there some time when you start preparing for your little one. Here's my list -- complete with a letter grade for comparison:

The Happiest Baby on the Block: This, according to many new moms and dads, is the bible of baby. In a nutshell, you learn about the 5 S's (swaddling, side/stomach position, shushing, swinging, sucking) that can soothe your baby. Because we're still a few weeks away from our due date, I'm not sure how useful this stuff is yet. But, from what I understand, this will be the greatest book I've ever read. (That's obviously an exaggeration, but if it will help quiet a screaming child, I imagine I'll singing its praises to anyone who will listen.) The book isn't winning any awards for writing, but it was presented in an accessible, how-to format. Grade: B with potential for an A+

Be Prepared: A Practical Handbook for New Dads: A friend of mine passed this on to me with some names of other Dads already scrawled inside. Nice, right? It makes you feel like you're part of this welcoming community. Thanks again, Jameson, for the wonderful gesture. (Is it getting dusty in here?) The good vibes continued when I opened the creative cover you see above. This book was simple, straightforward, sometimes funny, and chock full of creative ideas to get baby to eat, sleep, and explore the world. I plan on keeping it close by in the next 12 months. Then, of course, I'll pass it on to someone else. (Where is that damn dust coming from?!) Grade: A-

The New Father: A Dad's Guide to the First Year: After reading hours of Amazon reviews, this seemed to be the best Dad book on the market. My view, in five words: Helpful, but a little weird. This is your typical month-by-month guide filled with nuggets of wisdom and tips. I really enjoyed the section about the first three months (that's where my head is now) and I can see myself grabbing this again when I'm lost in month four. However, the section on placentas had me scratching my head for weeks: "Whatever you and your partner decide to do, it's probably best to keep [what you do with the placenta] a secret -- at least from the hospital staff. Some states try to regulate what you can do with a placenta and may even prohibit you from taking it home ..." Wait, what? People take it home? Maybe I'm showing my naivety here, but, again, what? Grade: B+

Dude, You're a Dad: How to Get [All of You] Through Your Baby's First Year: This arrived in my in-box the day of Bridget's baby shower, thanks to my incredibly thoughtful sister. It was such a wonderful surprise. The book, on the other hand, was a bit cheesy. The author actually used the line, "Denial isn't just a river in Africa." Come on. I did, however, learn that babies are born without kneecaps. How weird is that? Grade: C- (but the gesture from sister was an A+)

Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Lead: Obviously, this isn't a traditional baby book. Far from it. But it should be required reading for any Dad who is having (or has had) a daughter. Written by Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg, this was a practical and often eye-opening read about women in the workplace. I didn't agree with all the advice (I think it's important to disengage from work), but Sandberg's success is clear and impressive. Her imagery of using a jungle gym instead of a career ladder is brilliant thinking. Surprisingly, this book may have been the best in terms of mental preparation. Grade: A

There are dozens more out there, but this list provided a pretty good starting place for me. Dads (or Moms), are there others you've read that have been influential in your parenting?