Our Baby's Name ...

A couple years ago, I met my friend, Rebecca, in Faneuil Hall for a cocktail after work. Instead of a white wine, however, she was drinking water and had big news: She and her husband, Chris, were having a baby! Like anyone would, I extended my congratulations and gave her a big hug. Then, like anyone, I asked about the baby's name.

"Oh, we're not talking about that," she said, in a uncharacteristically sharp tone.

Hmmm, I thought. That's odd. Rebecca is usually so kind and sweet. When my wife is pregnant with a baby, I'm going to tell everyone the name and get all sorts of opinions and feedback. 

As it turns out, as usual, Rebecca was much wiser than me.

When we started our baby journey back in December, Bridget and I jumped into the name conversation with both feet. Why wouldn't we? All of a sudden, you have this enormous privilege and responsibility to name another human being. You could pick something safe, like Michael, John, or Jennifer. Or something bizarre, like Apple, Suri, or North. (Honestly, is there anything worse than the Kardashians? Just go away.)

Before we knew if we were having a she or a he, we developed a short list of six male names and six female names. That, in itself, was a challenge. It's amazing how many associations people (including me) have with names. We had about 40 conversations that went like this:

Bridget: "What about Stephanie?"
Mike: "Nah, I dated a Stephanie."
Bridget: "If we can't use the name of girls you've dated, we won't have many choices!"
Mike: "This is fun. How about Ryan?"
Bridget: "No. There was a really annoying kid named Ryan in one of my English classes in college. How about Adele?"
Mike: "No, I'll just always think about that singer ..."

And on it went. Hours of this. But we finally settled on 12 names we both really liked. We then shared this list with our families.

Bad idea.

There were eye rolls. There were quizzical looks. There were snorts. There were quiet, almost inaudible noises. And there were comments:

• "Gray? You mean the color?"
• "You can't name it Natalie! I'm going to name my kid Natalie!"
• "How about Kathleen? That's a nice name." (Both our moms are named Kathleen, so this comment was shared no less than 314 times. In fact, Kathleen Kathleen Briddon was an actual suggestion.)

So when we found out we were having a baby girl in early April, we put the lid on the baby conversation with anyone outside of me, Bridget, and our dog, Oscar. (We trust him to stay quiet on the name we think is perfect and we'll share with everyone on our daughter's day of birth.) Actually, "put the lid" is not quite right. We slammed the lid. 

"Oh, we're not talking about that," we told our family and friends in an uncharacteristically sharp tone. 

That Rebecca. She's always right. 

The Crippling Thought of Toothbrushing

Today is exactly two months from our scheduled due date. Whoa. I realize, probably more than you, how quickly the end of August will come. But I haven't really freaked out yet.

Until today.

Sure, I've had thoughts of terror here and there in the past seven months. I wrote about some fears of fatherhood a month ago. And, as the due date nears, I still have lots of those thoughts. In no particular order:
What if the baby cries 24 hours a day?
What if Bridget and I never sleep again?
What if daycare prices go up even higher?
What if the baby gets hurt or sick?
What if I'm jogging with the baby and I somehow screw up the harness and she flies 20 feet in the air? 

Typical stuff (maybe save the last one), right? And these thoughts are all scary, but they are mostly fleeting. They rush into my head, pause for a split second, and rush out. And, usually, my thoughts return to positive things like the first time I meet my daughter, the first time she smiles at me, and the first time she says, "Daddy."

But today, for some reason, was different.

The freak out started innocently enough. I was brushing my teeth in my living room early this morning before our weekly visit to Fresh Pond. I was staring out the window at the dancing leaves and the bright sun. It was peaceful. The whirr of the brush (I have one of those neat electric toothbrushes) was the only sound I could hear. Because I use one of those electric toothbrushes, my mind tends to wander as I clean my molars and bicuspids. Thirty seconds went by, which meant it was time to move to the bottom right. Sixty seconds. Move to the bottom left. Then a crippling thought entered my mind:

How the hell do we brush the baby's teeth? 

I laughed to myself for a moment and then I realized I didn't know the answer. And I started to panic a little bit. Do they have little toothbrushes? Do I use my finger? How do I not know this? Do we use special toothpaste? Do we do it right away? (The thought that babies aren't born with teeth didn't occur to me at that moment.) Do we do it twice a day? When does she go to the dentist? What is she swallows too much toothpaste?

And, I thought, toothbrushing is just one of like 1,000 things. 

Slowly, my mind continued to unravel. The images attacked my brain and fought for attention. Diapers. Crying. Eating. Hot weather. Cold weather. The images came one after the other, elbowing for space in my head. Late-night visits to the ER. Oscar. Cribs. Strollers. Daycare. 

I finished brushing and stood paralyzed for five minutes. Sweat poured down my face. My stomach felt empty. I clenched my fists.

Then, slowly, I started to smile. I took a deep breath, pulled some clothes on, and got on with the day.

This parenting thing is going to be an incredible adventure. Two more months. Whoa.

The Power of a Good Deed

I did a good deed on my walk home from work today.

It was one of those, "Man, if I'm ever in that moment, I'm going to help" kind of situations. And, this time, I stepped up to the task. (Truth be told, I walked by at first and then turned around to help after about 10 seconds of deep thought.)

It doesn't matter exactly what I did or how much time it took; those details aren't important. In fact, if I told you, it would cheapen the act. That's kind of how those things go. As soon as the guy I was helping asked if he could buy me a beer or compensate me in some way, I said, "Of course not, man. Just pay it forward. Help someone else."

You might ask why I'm telling you this. Why am I writing this on a public forum? Do I want an award? A pat on the back? A parade? Do I want you to look at me differently the next time you see me and think, "That Mike, he's a good dude." No, none of those. (Although it would be cool if you think I'm a good dude.)

I'm telling you this because of the amazing transformation the moment had on my day and my week.

I've been stressed lately. We have to figure out how to pay for daycare. Someone stole my damn laptop. Our rent is going way up. Work is busier than ever. And, there's this little life-changing miracle thing that's about 10 weeks away. (I am, of course, incredibly excited about the miracle, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't petrified.) So, I've been stressed. And it's so easy to focus on those things.

You probably feel the same way. Some of you probably have way more stress and hardship in your life; some of you probably have less. That's how the world works. And most days, you probably come home from work and think about what went wrong. You think about the never-ending to-do list, the trip to the gym you'll definitely make tomorrow, or your awful commute. It can get easy to grow bitter and resentful and angry.

So, then, here's an idea that I'm going to try to make a habit in my own life: Focus on other people. Focus on helping others and, in the process, you'll help yourself. The high you get from lending a hand is far greater than the one you get from raising your own. (There's a cool TED Talk about how money can buy you happiness -- if you spend it on other people. Check it out.)

And, yes, this is a blog post about only one deed on only one day. Yes, I'm only 32. Yes, I still have a lot to learn. Yes, I still have a lot of hardships ahead of me. But isn't it better to approach all those hardships with a positive attitude and a focus on helping others?

I think so. I hope you do, too.

'Honey, When Did My Ass Get So Big?'

Dear God. How in the hell, male friends, do you answer this question? What should your facial expression be? How quickly should you answer? What exactly should you say? How should you say it?

Think about it for a minute.

That question, word for word, was posed to me last night when Bridget was trying on some new maternity clothes that she'd ordered online. (Big surprise.) She wasn't angry when she asked the question. It was more of a matter-of-fact comment with a quizzical inflection at the end. "Honey," she said calmly, "when did my ass get so big?"

I froze because, well, I'm a guy. And, mostly, I say dumb things. Like this, for example: My wife's butt is bigger than it was seven months ago. (Now, of course, I can't say that to her. She can read it and be okay, but I can't actually say it to her -- especially not in response to a direct question.) And frankly, why wouldn't it be bigger? She's about 30 weeks pregnant and is growing the most important little girl in the world. Stuff gets bigger when you're 30 weeks pregnant.

But, again, I can't say that her backside has grown by even a quarter of a centimeter in response to a question about it. That would just be  asking for a fight and a free pass to a night on the couch.

During Bridget's pregnancy, which has been filled with emotion, I've learned there are certain words that SHOULD NEVER BE USED. EVER. Whether I'm talking about her body, a Kardashian, a piece of fruit, or a steak, I'm not to mention:

• Big
• Fat
• Bigger
• Fluffy
• Plump
• Huge
• Wide
• Chunky
• Girth
• Thick

Ever. Under any circumstances. And I'm fine with that. Again, she's growing the most important little girl in the world, so she pretty much calls the shots. 

So, what did I say? Did I dig myself a grave? Will I be waking up on the couch? Thankfully not. "Oh, darling," I said. "It's beautiful -- just like the rest of you."

I've learned that word, that wonderful, three-syllable word, is a the perfect answer to nearly every pregnancy question. What will our daughter be like? Beautiful. How does that diaper bag look? Beautiful. Do you like this blindingly bright purple shirt? Bea-uti-ful. And it's all true. (Well, maybe not the diaper bag.) The curious thing about a pregnant wife is that she really does get more beautiful every single day.

So, if you need me later tonight, I'll be asleep in my bed. (I think.)

Someone Stole My Laptop

Someone stole my laptop computer on Wednesday. It sucked. Or, rather, it sucks, as I imagine I'll be pretty upset about it for quite some time. In fact, right now, as I type on a different computer, I can't help but strike the keys pretty HARD AS I WONDER HOW AND WHY SOMEONE TOOK MY DAMN LAPTOP.

I mean, who wouldn't be upset, right?

The laptop was a thoughtful gift (from Bridget), a nice piece of equipment (MacBook Air), and something with personal information and meaning (photos, documents, and passwords, for example). So I think I'm completely rational and understandably upset about the experience.

What happened? How did someone take it?

I was at a meeting in downtown Chicago on Wednesday afternoon that ended at about 4:30. I closed my laptop, put it in the sleek carrying case, and put it in my carry-on luggage, which was the only bag I had for the one-night trip. I said farewell to my colleagues, and made my way outside for the three-block walk for the train station. I bought a ticket, hopped aboard the crowded train, put my bag at my feet, and started looking forward to a quick dinner at Chili's because, well, I like Chili's. (Whatever. Don't judge me.) Stops flew by as my mind wandered to quesadillas and my iPhone. I checked email, scanned Facebook, and caught up on the day's news. All was well ...

As the last stop (the airport) neared, I double-checked my bag to make sure I had everything. I don't really know why I did, but I just like to be sure I was all set. As I peeled back the zipper, I felt my stomach drop. No laptop. I stood up, threw the bag down on the train seats, and rummaged around the inside. No laptop. I took out my shoes, my jeans, my shirts. People stared. No laptop. My stomach dropped even further.

I got to the airport and looked three more times. Maybe there's a hidden pocket. Maybe if I look once more. Maybe if I empty everything in the middle of the airport and pull my hair a little harder. Nothing. I called back to the meeting space and security was kind enough to check the room and the entire floor. Nothing. After a panicked call to Bridget, I was resigned to the reality: Somehow, someone reached into my bag when I wasn't paying attention and snatched my laptop. I had been, in the parlance of our times, "apple picked." Son of a bitch.

I called the police department, filed a claim, and settled in for the quick flight home. (Of course, it was delayed for an hour because of weather and then for 20 minutes at the gate when we landed because the universe is hilarious.)

When I finally got home, I was exhausted, annoyed, and, mostly, angry with myself. I was mad that I hadn't been more careful, mad that I hadn't been more vigilant, and mad that I was such an idiot. I changed my passwords, tried to erase the computer using "Find iPhone," and then sulked some more.

On Thursday morning, my thoughtful colleagues shared my disgust. One person put it well: "Yeah, I had a really expensive camera stolen one on trip. Afterwards, I wished there had been two of me, so I could punch myself." I huffed and puffed through the workday, and came home angry on Thursday evening. I'm never going to Chicago again. I really wish I had my laptop right now. God, I'm so stupid!

Then, as my pregnant wife walked in the door with a smile and Oscar put his head on my lap, it hit me: It's just a laptop. It's just a piece of equipment. It's just a thing. The really important stuff was right in front of me. And sometimes, it takes an awful event to make you realize just how lucky you are to have the life you do.

I'm going to do my best to remember that every day -- especially when the next bad thing happens.

P.S. Also, it's a good idea to have renter's insurance. Bridget's brilliance strikes again.

What We Learned at Birthing Class

Have you ever seen a really, really graphic childbirth as you're wiping sleep from your eyes at 9:15 on a Sunday morning? We're talking full frontal, close-up, can't-eat-for-four-hours graphic. No?

We have. Welcome to birthing class. And welcome, yet again, to parenthood.

We spent the Sunday of our Memorial Day Weekend learning about how to have a baby. Instead of doing weekly classes for a month, we opted to jam it all into one eight-hour marathon session -- a decision I highly recommend. Aside from being the only of the seven couples to bring our own pillows (thanks, Internet, for making us look stupid), we actually had a great time. Yes, it may be partially because we're both kind of nerds and we love to learn new things, but mostly it was because it was super helpful.

What specifically did we learn? Here are a some things that stood out:

Well, as mentioned above, we learned that childbirth is really, really graphic. Now, we knew this, of course, but I suppose I just wasn't sure how graphic we were talking. I will now happily take the advice of a couple friends who are already dads to, "Stay at the top of the bed. Whatever you do, stay at the top of bed." Done and done.

Of the seven couples, we learned that only four knew the gender. For some reason, I expected that to be much higher. Maybe six couples. Maybe even all of them. But perhaps it's not quite as obvious of a decision.

I learned it's pretty cool to be called "one of the dads."

We learned that a sense of community is incredibly important. We read a lot. We talk to friends who already have kids. We talk to our mothers. But we don't know many people who are going through the same exact thing we are going through at the same exact time. It made us feel so much better to hear other people ask questions about epidurals, breathing, and poop.

Even before we get to the big event, we learned that we need to start doing yoga and meditating. We're using a midwife and we're going to try to keep things natural, so staying calm and relaxed are of utmost importance. Speaking of relaxation, we learned that Lamaze is crap. It's a method of breathing that doesn't encourage release or downward motion, which are both fairly important when you're trying to squeeze eight pounds out of, well, you know what.

We learned that most babies are born at 41 weeks and that most due dates are a week early. (Bridget may have known this, but a lot of this stuff was completely new to me.)

We learned that the water breaks early in only about 10-11% of births. (Bonus: Also, it's waters break (with an "s"), which was new to me.) I thought this was like 98%. Seriously, every movie I've seen for the last 20 years that involves childbirth involves some new dad slipping on his wife's water. Stupid Hollywood and its dramatic lies.

We learned that labor usually starts at home -- and lasts for quite a while. Maybe it's just me, but I had this image of rushing home from work, grabbing the packed bag, and driving on two wheels down side streets to get to the hospital. Not so much. It's apparently far, far less dramatic and involves hours of pre-labor and early labor. (Oscar, I imagine, will be quite helpful during this time. <-- Sarcastic.)

We learned a whole lot more, too -- including how to breathe, how to properly massage a woman in labor, and the importance of being a positive Dad. I really can't imagine a more productive use of eight hours (especially on a lousy day) as you're preparing to have a bundle of joy.

And I suppose I should get used to the graphic images. I learned they are part of parenthood.

Six Things That Scare Me about Fatherhood

With about three months to go before our little girl's due date, I find myself increasingly petrified about this thing called fatherhood. Some of these fears, as you'll see if you read on, are completely irrational. Others are rational, or at least I think they are.

Now, deep down, I hope and think everything will be fine. But you know when you're not sure about something and your mind starts wandering? Like when you're waiting for a call about a job that never comes so you tell yourself it's because you had lettuce in your teeth. Or when your spouse doesn't call you back for an hour so you assume something amazingly horrible (like a fiery giraffe stampede) has happened. That's what my mind has been doing.

So, I figured, why not share?

Number 6: The baby won't like me. This one seems completely rational to me. I mean, some people just don't like other people. You don't like someone. Someone doesn't like you. It happens. So what if our precious little angel looks at me and says, "Eh, I'm good. You're kind of lame, Pops"?

Number 5: I'll become horrible at my job and my life because I'll never sleep again. Right now, we go to bed before 11 (yes, usually even on weekends) and I get between 7-8 hours of sleep. This solid sack time allows me to think clearly at work, find the energy to work out, and, on most days, enjoy the heck out of life. But what happens when those 7-8 hours turn into 4? Or 2? Or, good God, 0? I am certain those nights will happen and I'm worried about the results.

Number 4: I'll suck at changing diapers. Sure, I'll learn. We're taking the classes and all that. And 14-year-old babysitters have done this since the beginning of time, so how hard can it be? But, truthfully, I'm not very good at stuff like this. I'm terrible at folding clothes. I'm mediocre at ironing. I'm lousy at laundry. On the whole, arts and crafts have always been a struggle for me. What if my child gets a diaper rash because I screw up a change? (How does one even get a diaper rash? Oh, man.) Moving on ...

Number 3: My little girl will get my eyebrows. As you can see from that image up there (and if you've ever met me), I have some fairly serious eyebrows. I do some grooming here and there so they are suitable for the light of day, but they don't belong on a girl. Bridget and I often talk about what features each of us will hand down. Eyebrows, athletic ability, and ankles are usually the three hot topics.

Number 2: Oscar will eat the baby. We went to a concert the other night and came home to find Oscar had crawled into Bridget's bag (which was on a table), removed two apples and a bag of cough drops, and devoured said apples and drops. What if the baby gets something delicious like peanut butter on her hands? Will Oscar start licking and just keep going? Will he start nibbling the fingers and find himself at an elbow? He better not.

Number 1: Daycare costs will rise. I've already written about the horror of daycare prices today. But can you imagine if they go up? Like, a lot? Great, now I'm sweating profusely. Having ... trouble .... breathing.

It's cool if I crack a beer before 8 AM on a Sunday, right?