Why I'll Miss Being Pregnant

I have been pregnant for 255 days. I know, it feels like much longer to me, too. With about 25 days to go, I've officially hit that point in my pregnancy when people stop looking at me like I am just another pregnant woman, and start looking at me like I'm a liability. They stare at my huge belly with a mixture of discomfort and terror, worried, I think, that I'll give birth right in front of them. I'm hoping this does not happen.

I'll be the first to admit that I was ill-prepared for this pregnancy thing. While I've never questioned our timing on actually having a child, I didn't realize how difficult it would be for me to adjust to having my body taken over by the miracle of life. Hormones are a powerful thing, and I underestimated them. I'm sorry for that, hormones. It will not happen again.

In fact, it took me about 20 weeks to really come to terms with the fact that there was a baby growing inside of me and that I better get used to it. I complained about my bad mood. I complained about not feeling well. I complained about all the pounds I was gaining. But now, 255 days into this thing, I've realized that I'm going to actually really miss being pregnant. I was standing in the kitchen at work the other day pouring my decaf coffee, and it occurred to me that in about a month I would no longer be pregnant. And it made me sad. Why, you ask? Well here are 4 reasons:

1. People love the bump. I was not prepared for the amount of goodwill that my massive belly would generate. I've gotten more smiles these past 9 months than the previous 31 years combined. Strangers come up to me to congratulate me and strike up conversations about motherhood. They stare at my bump with such glee that I feel like they can actually see my baby in there waving back at them. I also think it doesn't hurt that there is something innately appealing about a pregnant woman -- especially one who is 9 months pregnant -- waddling down the street. It must be like seeing a hippo in the wild. 
2. People encourage me to have two servings of cake. Let me preface this by pointing out that I realize that pregnancy is not an excuse to binge eat. And, for the most part, I think I've done a pretty good job of providing my baby with all the necessary nutrition to ensure she is as healthy as can be. However, I've found that all judging stops when a pregnant woman is indulging in something delicious. Just last night we stopped for ice cream at J.P. Licks and as I was frantically trying to combat the slow melting of my huge ice cream cone, a woman in line asked me what flavor the baby had demanded. The baby! Those babies are demanding little creatures. Always needing huge ice cream cones and two slices of cake. It will be a sad day when I can't blame my ice cream consumption on the baby. 
3. Very little is expected of me. I know a lot of women have a tough time coming to grips with the limitations of pregnancy. No heavy lifting, no horseback riding, no full contact sports, no hang gliding. I am not one of these women. It is a huge relief when someone offers me their seat, because, man, standing is tough when you are pregnant. And when my husband stopped asking me if I'd like to take Oscar out for his last pee of the night it was a momentous and glorious occasion. Going down two flights of stairs is tough when you are pregnant. Heck, just hoisting my massive body off the couch is tough when you are pregnant. So I'm totally on board with these lowered expectations of me. I love that when people see me slowly lumbering down the street on one of our family walks they are thinking, "Wow, good for that huge pregnant lady!" instead of, "Speed it up, fatty!"
4. Our baby will never be so safe again. Everything changed for me when I felt our baby move. And even though she spends most of her time now jabbing me in the ribs with one tiny body part or another, there is something so wonderful about knowing she is completely safe and secure in my gigantic belly. I don't have to worry about her being hungry, or wet, or lonely. I don't have to worry about where she is or what she's doing. For the last time, she is as close to me as she ever will be and there is something really sad about letting her into this big world knowing that she'll never be so well protected again. Just thinking about dropping her off at daycare is giving me hives. 

Six Ways Baby Training Has Transformed Me

All you high school heroes remember the agony of two-a-day workouts. Whether you played football, soccer, basketball, volleyball, or field hockey (lately, I love women's sports), you gutted out two tough sessions in the same day for several weeks. You ran. You lifted. You scrimmaged. You sweat. Basically, you pushed yourself beyond your limits.

I'm adopted that same mentality for baby training.

Baby training, especially during the past two months, has really started to transform me in significant ways. Yes, I'm stockpiling workouts (63 of the last 64 days, according to my Lift app on my iPhone) because I know I won't be able to exercise as much, but the training is about much more than physical activity. I've selected six scenarios, some slightly exagerrated for effect, to show how I've started to change. Using Old Mike and New Mike as the format will help make the comparisons easier. Here goes:

Scenario 1: I wake up after a bad night of restless sleep.

Old Mike: "This is going to to be the worst day of my life. (Sometimes Old Mike was dramatic.) I'm going to be inefficient at work and tired all day. I hate everything."

New Mike: "Yes! An opportunity to show that I can get things done with very little sleep! I'm going to have to get used to this. I'm going for a run!"

Scenario 2: A baby is crying in the apartment next door.

Old Mike: "Hey, good luck with that." (Slams window.)

New Mike: "Bridget, come listen! Do you think the baby is tired or hungry? That sounds like a tired cry to me. Can you believe we have only five weeks to go?"

Scenario 3: A baby is crying in a restaurant.

Old Mike: "Ugh. Seriously? They thought it was a good idea to come to this restaurant right now? Is Burger King closed? Awful."

New Mike: "Isn't that baby cute, hun? How old do you think she is? I wonder if our baby will like pasta. You know, I just read this interesting article about a baby's diet ..."

Scenario 4: We go to visit a friend's baby.

Old Mike: "I guess I'll hold him. I mean, will I break it? I mean him. I'm not really good at babysitting. What if he poops or something? Do I just give him back to you really quickly?"

New Mike: "Let's see if I can get him to stop crying. I really feel like I'm getting the hang of ... what do you mean other people want to hold him?"

Scenario 5: Oscar (our dog) stares at the stove with a tilted head.

Old Mike: "Get out of the way, Oscar."

New Mike: "Oscar, this is called a stove. S-t-o-v-e. Stove. A stove is a hot thing that cooks our food. Never, ever touch it because it's really, really hot. Ouch."

Scenario 6: A quarter mile from home, Bridget says, "I might be a little cold without a sweater."

Old Mike: "You might be? Do you know when you'll know for sure? Why didn't you think about this five minutes ago? Fine. I'll be right back.

New Mike: "Sure thing, sweetie. Do you need anything else? Are you sure you don't want a little snack? Watch how fast I can run."

Will New Mike stick around? I sure hope so. (I think everyone else does, too.)



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.