22 Reasons Why I Love Father's Day

I'm not big on holidays. On the whole, they are stressful, outdated, and commercialized. And Halloween is just damn silly.

But for two years now, I've loved Father's Day.

I know what you might be thinking: You're a Dad. Of course you love Father's Day. You're so selfish. Go mow the lawn. 

But I love Mother's Day, too. In fact, I love any day that celebrates our little family, which, of course, includes Oscar's birthday. (He'll be 9 (in dog years) and 63 (in human years) next month.)

On this Father's Day morning, I thought it would be a perfect time to share 22 reasons why I love today:

1. Annabelle slept through the night last night, which was the first time in two months. (What a gift!)
2. It's a holiday that doesn't require gifts.
3. It's a chance to scroll through our growing collection of Daddy-Daughter selfies.
4. It's a chance to remember last week's nap in Aruba, the best one of my life. (See the picture at the bottom in the middle.)
5. It's the best thing Richard Nixon ever did. Richard Nixon? Yes, he officially signed the holiday into law in 1972. 
6. It's another morning of waking up to a beautiful wife.
7. I get to hold my daughter's hand. (That's a treat every time.)
8. I get to try to put my daughter's hair into a ponytail, which is really, really difficult.
9. I'll spend a few minutes remembering the moment I became a dad.
10. The quiet time of typing this blog post while listening to a conversation about when it's appropriate to use the potty. (You should have to pee or poop; we don't just flush the toilet.)
11. No chores for Dad.
12. Oscar, tired from a week at the kennel, lying down under my chair.
13. This commercial showing new dads hearing the big news.
14. Annabelle. Slept. THROUGH. The. Night.
15. Hearing Daddeeeeee when I woke up.
16. Constantly hearing the most innocent, carefree laugh in the entire world.
17. I get to watch the final round of the U.S. Open this afternoon.
18. Knowing that I'll totally be watching Frozen this afternoon. And being totally fine with that.
19. That laugh again.
20. I get to drink a bottle of the best beer in the world.
21. I get to try to be a better dad than I was yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that ...
22. I have the most wonderful daughter in the world.

Happy Father's Day. Enjoy every moment.

The Best Parenting Book I've Read

In a world of 140-character tweets, six-second vines, and snapshot #TBTs, I still think there's incredible valuable in immersing myself deep in the pages of good book. ("Pages" is a loose term, as I switched to a Kindle about five years ago. Tradition, smell of books, feel of the paper, blah, blah. Get with the times, dinosaur. Kindles are better.) My mostly non-fiction reading diet consists of sports, history, and business books, which probably doesn't come as a surprise if you know me. Those things are pretty much my jam.

But a couple years ago, I added another genre to my list: baby books. Or, rather, parenting books. I read, mainly, to educate myself and I had an awful lot to learn (I still do, in fact) about what I was in for as a Dad.

And just recently, I finished the best book I've read about parenting and kids: Overwhelmed: Work, Love, and Play When No One Has the Time. 

Before I get to why that one stands above the rest, here's a short list of five others I've read:
The Happiest Baby on the Block: Pretty much required reading for new parents. You could just look up the 5s and probably get the same benefit, but it does provide confidence about how in the world you're going to calm the tiny screaming monster in your arms. I read this one four months before Annabelle was born.
Be Prepared: A Practical Handbook for New Dads: Good tips for new dads in a short, practical format. I actually referred to this one quite a bit during the early days.
Dude, You're a Dad. Horrible. I'm not even going to include a link. Don't waste your time.
Dr. Dan's Last Word on Babies and Other Humans: Weird, at times, but oddly comforting, too. It made me realize I was probably going to be okay. And so far, I have been. Our pediatrician (who we like an awful lot) recommended this one, so it was a must-read.
Do Fathers Matter? What Science Is Telling Us About the Parent We've Overlooked: I had such high hopes, but it turned out to be dry, lifeless page after dry, lifeless page. Some bright spots here and there, but a big disappointment.

After that last one, I took some time off from the baby books for a while because they were starting to repeat and contradict themselves. Books on similar topics tend to do that. But I picked up Overwhelmed, by Washington Times reporter Brigid Schulte, and was hooked from Page 1.

The basic idea of the book is that we're all too damn busy to focus on the most important things in our lives -- that parents, in particular, have very little leisure time. The author weaves engaging narratives and fascinating studies, and provides practical guidance on how we can lead better lives as parents, partners, and workers. The idea of working in pulses to stay productive has already helped me a great deal.

I highlighted several passages in the book (which I can reference easily with my Kindle) and one really stuck with me. The author is talking about her husband, an NPR correspondent, being on assignment overseas in a tough area. She writes: "In my world of crashing deadlines, teacher phone calls, late Girl Scout forms, forgotten water bills, kids' stomachaches, and empty cupboards, all I could think was: Man, all he has to do every day is go to work."

All he has to do every day is go to work. I remember feeling like that.

In truth, I read Overwhelmed because that was how I've felt lately. Annabelle still isn't sleeping well, work is stressful, and breaks are few and far between. This is particularly scary because Annabelle is still an only child and is a smiling ball of fun 90% of the time. What happens if and when we have another little one? What happens when Annabelle turns 13 and hates me?

After I tell a tale about getting up five times in a night, thrown up on, or worse, my friends who aren't parents often ask me, "How do you do it?" Like most parents, I answer, "You just do it." But "it" is really damn hard sometimes. It's hard to convince your child to eat a healthy meal. It's hard to sleep with a foot in your ribs. It's hard to explain why 40 degrees is too cold to go outside. It's hard, and I know I'm incredibly fortunate to lead a somewhat privileged life.

I did my best to put things in perspective as I was reading the book, but it wasn't until the end when it really hit me: "Recognize that children do, indeed, grow quickly. And that the moment to stop and notice and enjoy is now. And now. And now."

So that's what I'm going to go do. Right now.

Do You Miss Your Old Life?

It's a simple question, really.

"Do you miss your old life?" Someone asked me that this week and I froze.

Do I pine for the days when I could do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted? Do I wish I could go out every weekend, drink delicious Dogfish Head beer, and not worry about what the next morning might look like? Do I yearn for the time when my primary responsibility didn't involve a precocious, stubborn, willful little red head?

It's a simple question. But it doesn't have a simple answer.

I've actually been thinking about this question for quite a while -- almost two years, actually. At first, I didn't because I thought it made me a bad parent. You've been blessed with this wonderful miracle. How dare you ever pretend it never happened?! But then I realized it was normal to think those things, even healthy. If you never talk about the things that are really on your mind, what kind of a life is that?

Fatherhood, as I've chronicled on this blog, is wonderful. Mostly, I present the lighter side of things here and on social media. Pictures of a smiling Annabelle. Memorable moments by the ocean's edge. A family relaxing in the backyard.

I post those things because I think they are probably more enjoyable to see and they are the way I want to remember the early years of Annabelle's life. It's certainly not to fool anyone into thinking our lives aren't filled sometimes with stress or challenges. But who wants to look at pictures of incessantly runny noses? Or a video of a tantrum caused by a lack of pretzels inside the bag of Chex Mix? (Obviously, I didn't just come up with that example on my own.)

This week, or the past two weeks actually, have been especially challenging because Annabelle will no longer sleep in her crib. We're trying lots of different things, including crying it out, which is absolutely brutal. She just cries and cries and cries. And the second you start becoming immune to the sobbing and screaming, you think you're a horrible person because you're letting your adorable child go through it.

Shudder.

So with those experiences fresh in my mind and, well, ongoing, I figured it was a good time to pony up and answer the question: Do I miss my old life?

First answer: Sometimes.

I mean, how couldn't I, right? How couldn't any parent? Before baby, you had lots of free time, more disposable income, and more control over your life. You slept well almost every night and actually looked refreshed from time to time. During certain moments, like when I was lying on her rock-hard floor at midnight on Tuesday begging her to "just close her eyes," it's impossible not to miss it.

But if there was a way to go back and make the decision again, I would absolutely take the same path. I would take it 100 times out of 100 opportunities.

Why? Mostly because one big hug, one care-free minute of laughter, or one "I love you" trump anything I've ever experienced. Just one of those things is better than 50 amazing nights out at a bar, a European vacation, or a game-winning shot in a local hoops league. Call me a sap, but that's how I really feel.

So, my final answer: I miss moments of my old life. But I couldn't imagine not living the one I've chosen.

Going Postal

Bridget and I stood over Annabelle with hopeless, distant looks in our eyes. I let out a deep sigh. She shrugged. And we both did everything in our power to avoid the awkward gazes of the sympathetic people who tiptoed around us.

There, on the stone steps of the post office in the middle of town, Annabelle was throwing her first public tantrum.

She's thrown mini tantrums before. I mean, she'll be 2-years-old at the end of the summer. There was the time in the car when she lost her mimi (pacifier), the time when she was too tired to be at Assembly Row, and the time she did NOT want to come inside to eat dinner. But this one, oh boy. This one.

It's still hard for me to believe that the perfect, adorable, cherubic angel in the picture above is capable of anything other than sunshine and rainbows. She's too sweet, right? Other kids throw tantrums, but my daughter throws kisses and flowers.

Right.

We went to the post office because we needed to get little Annabelle a passport. We're off to Aruba for a much-needed vacation in the near future and she'll be leaving the country for the first time. (By the way, I got my passport when I was 30. Crazy, right? Or maybe embarrassing.) Getting a passport means getting a public photo, which Annabelle hasn't done before.

Simply put, it didn't go well.

At first, the two female employees brought out a stool on which Annabelle was supposed to sit. No luck. Annabelle reached for Bridget while I filled out the annoying paperwork. Then the tears started. Then the yelling. And the uncontrollable, "No, no, no." 

"Maybe you could just hold her," said the first woman, who we'll call Beth, as I came over to help.

We tried that and it looked like we'd found a solution. Hooray! Not too bad!

"Oh, this is the new camera. I'm not sure how it works and I can't click the button," said a suddenly unhelpful Beth. "I'll need to get Alice." 

As Alice (or whatever her name was) came over, Annabelle's tantrum started to gain momentum. Bridget tried to soothe her. I tried to just get it over with. Annabelle tried to run away.

"See if you can hold her, Dad, and keep your head out of the picture," said an increasingly annoyed Alice.


Finally, mercifully, Annabelle stopped crying for 10 seconds and I extended my daughter while arching my head as far back as it would go.

"I can still see your arm," offered Alice, "but maybe this will work." (One of the outtakes is right over there.)

After a couple signatures, some stamps, we were done. But that's when Annabelle's real meltdown started. It's impossible to know why, exactly,, but my guess is that it was a combination of being tired, being forced to do something against her will, and being 20 months old. The crying, wailing, sobbing, and screaming reached a crescendo as Annabelle wriggled out of Bridget's arms to lay down on the cool, concrete steps of the post office.

Finally, after a couple minutes of awkward glances and the public embarrassment came and went, we scooped up Annabelle and put her in her car seat. She was asleep 30 seconds later.

Ah, well. At least she got the tantrum out of her system for this year. That's how it works, right?

Seven Things I Learned During My Three Days as a Single Dad

Bridget went to New York City for a short business trip this week. Such a simple, innocuous sentence, but it carries two huge truths with it:
1. It was the first time Bridget spent a night (two, actually!) away from Annabelle.
2. It was the first time I had to hop in the saddle as a single Dad.

We'll be focusing on No. 2 here.

To make a long story short, everything went fine. No fires, no tantrums, no uncontrollable sobbing. There was an incident with poop on the floor, but that was thanks to our furry first born, Oscar. He's such a delight lately.

Anyway, although everything went fine, I did learn quite a bit during my Tuesday-Thursday stretch as single parent. In fact, I counted seven new bits of education:

1. A bag of Russet Gourmet Dark Potato Chips makes a fine dinner. No cholesterol or preservatives. Hand cooked in 100% pure peanut oil. Pure peanut oil, folks. Pure! It's basically the same thing as a well-rounded meal of chicken and vegetables. Just check out these Amazon reviews! Also, stop judging me. We have six more things to discuss.
2. It's really, really hard to put a toddler's hair into an elastic. Up above, you can see my best attempt. It was actually my eighth attempt that morning, but who's counting? This falls into the "why didn't someone teach me this before she was born?" category with the fruit cutting. 
3. Grandmothers are life savers. Annabelle still goes to daycare in Waltham, which is down the treacherous, traffic-filled Route 95. Driving into the teeth of the Boston commute wasn't much fun (for me or Annabelle) every morning, but Grammy/Mimi, who works in Waltham, was kind enough to bring Annabelle home so I could work a full day. Yay, Mimi! (I suppose I already knew this truth about grandmothers, but a reminder never hurts.)
4. Apparently, grilled cheese on a hamburger roll is an inappropriate lunch. "On a burger roll? The people at daycare are going to think we're hobos," said Bridget, when I informed her of my culinary offering for our toddler. "Other people bring, like, gourmet meals." Well, excuse me. I'll have you know she ATE THE WHOLE THING.
5. Reality almost never mirrors your expectations. Whether your vision of the future is positive or negative, it probably won't happen. I had premonitions of "Mama! Mama!" at 3 AM and they never came to fruition. There are tons of biases that can help explain my fears, but I prefer the simple words of Mark Twain: "I've had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened."
6. Baa Baa Black Sheep has some questionable lyrics. I sang it about 40 times in three days and, after a while, you start to get suspicious. Turns out I'm not alone here.
7. Single parents are my heroes. Seriously. My three days were fairly easy, but I honestly can't imagine doing everything all the time. Diaper change? It's you. Throwing food and won't eat? You're up. Sick and needs to go the doctor? Yep, you're on call. Whether you are a single mom or a single dad, you're doing a hell of a job and I bow down to your grit and determination.

If you need me this weekend, I'll be drinking beer and watching The Masters. I think I've earned it.

My Life as a Chopaholic

Before Annabelle was born, I spent more time than I’d like to admit practicing skills I’d need to care for her. Bridget and I attended a day-long parenting class and attended a baby expo that is cleverly named Drool. Bridget had quite a bit of experience with babies, so it was all review for her. But for me, who hadn’t babysat a day in my life, it was all new. And scary.

I learned how to support a baby’s head, change a diaper, and swaddle a newborn. (I never quite mastered that third one.) I learned how to feed, how to soothe, and how to bathe. The instructors were kind, patient, and supportive.

But no one, not one person, mentioned the task that would consume most of my time as a new Dad: chopping fruit.

I have chopped so much damn fruit in the last 19 months. Like, a ton. Do you ever wonder how much money you’d have if you never spent a cent in your life? What would that pile of cash look like? That’s the way I think of the fruit I’ve chopped. If it was stacked up in a big pile, I’m quite certain it would equal the snowbank in my backyard that won't officially melt until June.

I’ve chopped a LOT of fruit.

The reason, of course, is simple. You cut fruit so that your baby is less likely to choke on fruit. Tiny, bite-sized morsels make it easier for her (or him) to swallow bites of nature’s candy. This is especially important when the baby doesn’t have teeth, but it continues after chomper growth, too.

What I didn’t realize about the fruit cutting (because, again, no one had the decency to mention it) was that not all fruits are created alike. Some are easier to chop into tiny bits than others. Some keep better than others. Here's a quick sampling (from best to worst) of the fruits Belle eats on a regular basis:

• Grapes. Grapes are sturdy and need just one clean chop to split into digestible chunks. Quick, easy, efficient. If my chopping life focused solely on grapes, I’d be a happy man. (Maybe I'd even turn into this guy someday.) But sadly, that's not my reality.  
• Bananas. Easy, right? Easy to chop, mushy. A piece of cake. But bananas turn brown very quickly when you cut into them. They don’t keep well. Plus, what are you supposed to do with the strings? Include them? Just eat them yourself while you’re cutting? That’s gross. 
• Watermelon. Fairly easy to cut, but it never holds together very well. Plus, it can get mushy. Not one of my favorites. 
• Blueberries. Ugh. Blueberries are so tiny and it’s hard to cut more than one at a time. Plus, blueberries take more concentration than the rest, which can be a big challenge on a few hours of sleep.
• Strawberries. The bane of my chopping existence. Strawberries are oddly shaped, have inconsistent textures, and have the stupid stem on top. Plus, they often have non-ripe spots or overly sweet spots, which you feel bad giving to your kid. I always start by cutting off the top and then experiment with different techniques of chopping lengthwise or widthwise. I typically end up just diving in and doing unique cuts, which is time-consuming and generally awful.

Annabelle is getting better now. She can eat a banana by herself, but I fear that the cutting is just getting started. We’ll want her to try new foods and I’ll need my trusty cutting board and knife to make it happen.

Just wish me luck when pomegranate seeds are her new obsession …

Trouble in Sleep City

I’m surprised these words on this page.

I do my best to set aside some time to write a blog post each week. It’s been a great way to keep track of Belle’s first 18 months. I’m certain Bridget and I will read this blog fondly in the future – and I hope Belle will, too. Plus, I love to write, so this blog has been something of a win-win.
But this week … man. Man, oh man.

Now, nothing dramatic happened. Everyone’s (mostly) healthy, work was fine, and the weather is finally getting better. But this week, in the spirit of Sesame Street, was brought to us by something called the 18-month sleep regression.

Perhaps you’ve never heard of such a thing. I certainly hadn’t until very recently. But it’s not too difficult to understand if you break it down. The first part, “18-month,” refers to the age of our adorable little nugget at the top of the page. She’ll be 19 months next week. (Aside: When do I stop counting the months? Can I just say she’s 1? I’m starting to feel pretentious.) The second part, “sleep regression,” refers to forgetting how to sleep. And, well, it’s awful.

For the most part, Annabelle has been a pretty good sleeper. After six weeks of life, she was getting about 4-5 hours of solid sleep a night. And, with a few bumps in the road, it’s been fairly smooth sailing since then. I know that’s not the case with all babies. I’ve talked to Moms and Dads who have struggled with sleep issues from the moment their baby arrives:
“We woke up 9-10 times every night for the first year.” 
“She’s 10-months-old and she hasn’t slept through the night yet.” 
“I honestly didn’t get more than four hours of sleep at a time for two years.”

To those parents, I say, “You are far tougher than I am.” Of course, it’s unlikely that those parents are still reading at this point. I imagine they closed the browser while muttering curse words about me after the “Annabelle has been a pretty good sleeper” line.

Even so, this week has been absolutely brutal. What used to be a few quick books and a kiss on the forehead has become 90-120 minutes of “Please, please go to bed.” What used to be a 6 AM wake-up cry has become 11:30, 1:30, and 3 AM wake-up cries. Wednesday night/Thursday morning was the worst, when Annabelle woke up at 1:45 and kept us up the rest of the night.

I realize it’s just one week, but when you wake up to face the day after only a couple hours of sleep, it doesn’t matter if the night before was restful or brutal. (At least it doesn’t matter for me.) It’s almost impossible to perform at your normal level. You're irritable. You can't physically smile. You start to question the cuteness of puppies. You secretly hope we get another blizzard ...

And the worst part of the week? We’re not sure when this is going to end. The 18-month sleep regression, unlike others, involves some personality. So in addition to growing, teething, and developing, Annabelle is exerting her independence and showing how she can be defiant. It makes me shudder to think of the teenage years.

So is there anything positive? Any light at the end of the sleep-deprived tunnel? There are two, actually. One, it’s all part of the parenting deal. This, too, shall pass, as all phases do. We signed up for this and in a weird way, we like it. It’s like earning a badge of honor. And two, on Wednesday night/Thursday morning, when she screamed at the top of her lungs at 1:45, she also yelled something new:
 “Dada!”

And that was pretty neat …