The Lab of Horrors

It'll all be over soon, I said to myself through gritted teeth. Just look away. Look away. Look away. Look away. It was like a mantra. I stared out the window down onto the late afternoon traffic in Davis Square in Somerville. The smell of rubbing alcohol hung in the air. I tensed my body from head to toe. I clenched my fists, curled my toes, and took in a deep breath. Look away!

Then slowly, calmly, the blood drained from Annabelle's left arm.

This past week, we had Annabelle's nine-month check-up. I'm happy to report she's gaining weight (17 pounds, 11 ounces), growing tall (28.5 inches), and developing normally. Overall, she's pretty darn healthy. And best of all, this time, after shots, shots, and more shots at her last few appointments, we were in the clear at this nine-month check-up.

Or so the nurse led us to believe.

We absolutely love Annabelle's pediatrician. She's smart, funny, and, as you might expect, wonderful with kids. But when she said, "Oh, and just some quick lab work before you go to test her iron," she was suddenly family enemy #1. Lab work? You mean today? Are you sure?

The relief and happiness from a great appointment already a distant memory, we clutched our post-appointment summary and somberly rode the elevator down to the second floor. A high school girl and Annabelle exchanged big smiles on the way down. Bridget and I stared ahead, wondering what the next 10 minutes of our lives would be like.

"Oh, a baby! She's so cute." The receptionists at the lab were all smiles, too. "Just sign that sheet and have a seat with the little one."

Look, no one likes lab work. No one likes giving blood. No one likes needles. As we sat patiently in the waiting room, I could feel the prick in my arm and the obligatory butterflies in my stomach. Poor Annabelle, I thought. She's going to be a puddle of tears. 

They called us to come in. Bridget and I had been handing Annabelle back and forth (she always likes the person who isn't holding her a little bit better), but I ended up with the hot potato. Together, we walked slowly down the hall toward a small room.

"Just go have a seat in the corner by the window," the cheery technician said.

"So, yeah, I'll hold her?" I asked Bridget, remembering that she had taken the lead with all the shots up until now.

"Sure, I mean, if you want to."

With Annabelle in my lap, I sat in the small, unforgiving grade-school desk, complete with the bar that came over the top of us. Annabelle banged on the desk as if it was her high chair, expecting another handful of Cheerios. The poor thing. She has no idea what's coming. This is awful. 

A collection of tiny needles and tubes sat to our left. The technician, a brunette girl in her late 20s named Becky, tied a tiny rubber band around Annabelle's left arm and searched for a vein. No luck. She tried the right arm. No luck. Back to the left. The chunky, 42-week-old arms were not cooperating. Finally, Becky found something.

"Hold on one second now," she said. "I just need to get my co-worker to help hold her down."

What's that now? Hold her down? Are we sawing off her leg after a Civil War battle? Hold her down?!

Another woman came in and immediately started bouncing around the room and smiling at Annabelle. She tried her best to distract us from the tiny needle that Becky held in her hand.

"Dad, make sure you have a really tight bear hug," she said. "Whatever you do, don't let go of that right arm."

Wait, what? This is serious. Are her arms going to flail? Is this a reflex? Is she about to lose it?

I hugged Annabelle as tightly as I could and stared out the window. It was over before I even knew it started. And Annabelle? Not a peep. She let out a quick yell when they withdrew the needle, but she'd already missed the action. They tied a neon green bandage around her arm, gave her a "Terrific Patient" sticker, and she was all smiles the rest of the afternoon.

Me? I'm still tense and nervous as I sit here writing this. It was a traumatic experience. And, well, I'm darn lucky to have a little daughter who will toughen me up a bit.

The Baby Boy Bias

Last week, during our family vacation in Seattle, a man approached me and Annabelle at the Chihuly Garden and Glass Exhibition.

"Hey," he said. "I saw you yesterday. I recognize your (San Francisco) Giants hat."

"Oh, yeah, right," I said.

"Yeah, you were reading to your son in the library. I wanted to yell, 'Go Giants,' but it was a library and all."

"Oh, it couldn't have been me then," I said. "I don't have a son. This is my daughter, Annabelle."

"Oh, right, whatever. Well, yeah, go Giants!"

Then he walked away. I chuckled at first, but then I thought, wait, no. No, dude. Not whatever. There's a big difference in what you just said. What if I walked up to you and said, "Excuse me, miss"? So, no. Not whatever.

Baby boy bias, that is, the belief that every father wants only sons and that every small baby who doesn't have super long hair and earrings is a male, is very real. I started experiencing it long before Annabelle was born and now, a full 9 1/2 months later, it's still popping up almost weekly.

It started about halfway through Bridget's pregnancy, when we found out the little bump in her belly was made of sugar and spice. I said I didn't care if it was a boy or a girl, and I meant it. But some of my friends didn't believe me. Come on, they said, you tell everyone you don't care because that's what you're supposed to say. But you want a boy, right? Everyone wants a boy.

But why? Why does everyone want a boy?

So I can teach him how to play sports? (Girls play sports.) So I can relate to him? (Dads relate to daughters.) So we can become best friends? (I fully intend to be best friends with Annabelle.) Because I rule over the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros and need a male heir to sit on the Iron Throne? (That's silly, but what a great season finale, right?)

Since Annabelle was born, things have gotten even worse with the baby boy bias. When he walk down the street, people ask about the "little guy's" name. In elevators, they ask us how old "he" is. And when Annabelle wears a blue shirt (like the one in the photo above)? Forget about it. The shirt might as well read: "100% Stud. Proceed with Caution."

Now, sure, I'll admit that Annabelle's gender isn't immediately clear. She's mostly just a squishy lump with a wispy head of hair and no teeth. But why does everyone always think boy first and girl second? Does she need to wear all pink all the time? Tiny, little pig tails? Or should we just get her high heels and a mini skirt, and teach her how to wear mascara?

We hope to have another child someday. And yes, part of me wants it to be a boy. I'd say just about 50 percent of me. The other 50 percent is hoping for another girl. Either way, if they are anything like Annabelle, they'll be absolutely perfect.

In the meantime, I'll just keep correcting people and hope the ripple effect will make people think twice before immediately fist-bumping my little slugger. (And by the way, girls hit home runs, too.)

The Importance of Grandmothers

My grandmother, Annabelle's great grandmother, died last week. As you can probably imagine, it's been sad. Nanny, as we called her, had lived a good life (she was 86) and had dementia for the last decade (so this was also a relief), but it was still sad to say "goodbye" to someone who meant so much to our family.

Annabelle, unfortunately, never got to meet her great grandmother. The closest they ever came was a glance into the open casket on Wednesday and the obituary that appeared in the local newspaper. (That their walks (or crawls) through life didn't overlap is really a shame because they would have enjoyed each other an awful lot.) And as I sat in the church on Wednesday, reflecting on the missed connection, I realized just how important my grandmother was to my life -- and just how important Annabelle's grandmothers already are to her life.

Grandmothers, as the cliche goes, spoil grandkids. They buy them unnecessary and extravagant gifts, let them eat chocolate for breakfast, and let them stay up way past their bedtimes. My grandmother did all that for me. Annabelle's grandmothers are already doing that for her.

But it's the other stuff -- the meaningful stuff -- that really sticks with you after a person dies. And as I gave the eulogy in front of family and friends on Wednesday, I couldn't help but remember my past and imagine Annabelle's future. In one section, I read:

I learned my right from my left, thanks to a really corny rhyme that I will most certainly remember until I’m old and gray. I learned that “driving, Michael, isn’t hard. It’s just the other people you need to look out for.” I learned that you should always care for your things, especially if it’s an imaginary (and priceless) glass factory that you own and operate with your grandson. I learned that there’s nothing quite like swimming in the ocean in the darkness on a warm night in York Beach, Maine. I learned that sometimes, if you’re Nanny, it’s okay to cheat at Scrabble. 

And it made me think of my mother, Annabelle's Nana. She's going to teach Annabelle corny rhymes, introduce her to the ocean, and, more than likely, run an imaginary seashell factory with her. She may even cheat at Scrabble, but she'd never admit to it. And the thought of all that made me smile.

In another section, I read:

I could go on with the stories and the memories. I haven’t even mentioned toy fire trucks, Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel, orange frappes, tea parties, or the best apple pie I’ve ever tasted. I’m sure that every person in this room has some memories, too. You weren’t as lucky as I was to be her grandson, but I bet she helped you become friendlier or braver or more adventurous. That’s what she did.

And it made me think of Bridget's mother, Annabelle's Grammy. She's already taken Annabelle to tea a handful of times and made sure Annabelle had the perfect outfit every time. She spoils her with adorable coats and hats, and probably sneaks her a taste of something sweet when she and Grandpa take Annabelle out to dinner. And the thought of all that made me smile.

Sure, for now, Annabelle probably won't remember most of this because she's still so young. These days, she splits her time evenly between eating, sleeping, and honking my nose. But she's growing fast. And the importance of her grandmothers will keep growing, too.

Together, they will help us teach her how to be kind, patient, and thoughtful. They'll teach her to be a good person. And they'll teach her how to enjoy life -- just like her great grandmother did.

Folding a Onesie

I've been at my new job for almost nine months now. (The pay isn't great, but my colleagues are pretty awesome.) And as I've learned this "Dad" gig, I think I've done pretty well. I can identify different types of wailing, act mature during a smelly diaper change, and sit on a rocking chair with the best of them. I even sing sometimes.

But I am awful, just awful, at folding onesies.

The thing is, I never used to do the laundry. During "the great chore dividing conversation" after we got married, Bridget gladly took the reins on cleaning and folding our clothes. She was faster than me, had better fine motor skills, and actually found the task relaxing. I, on the other hand, took the more traditional options like taking out the trash, emptying the dishwasher, and cleaning up after Oscar.

Then Annabelle was born and I started doing some of Bridget's chores, including the hated laundry. (I quickly learned that there's absolutely no comeback to "Okay, you grow boobs and feed the baby next time." Whenever that trump card comes out, I put my head down and reach for the detergent.)

To be honest, I don't mind most of the laundry process. I love productivity, so the idea of completing a task appeals to me. I like separating the whites from the darks, lugging the IKEA bag down the stairs to the washer, and smelling the fluffy clothes when they come out of the dryer.

But then I realize it's time to fold -- and I cringe.

I start with boxer shorts and towels because they are the easiest. Then I move on to pants, which I can handle. But then things start deteriorating pretty quickly. Shirts and blouses never come out quite right. Socks never match. And then, for the love of God, it's time for the onesies.

Here, in alphabetical order, is everything in the world that's more difficult than folding onesies: Nothing. And here, in alphabetical order, is everything in the world that's easier than folding onesies: Everything, including applied physics and learning Mandarin Chinese.

Just look at the picture at the top of the post. What the hell is that? Why are the arms wrapped around the back? Why does the bottom look like a pair of pants? What am I supposed to do with the snaps? Now, you might think, Mike, you probably just folded a bad one for the sake of this blog. Wrong. I tried. Really hard. In fact, as I try to fold these absurdly small pieces of fabric, one of college basketball coaching legend John Wooden's famous quotes always rings in my head: If you don't have time to do it right, when will you have time to do it over? Now, I guess, John. Now I'll have to do it over!

Phew. Deep breaths. Count to 10.

I'll most certainly keep trying to improve, but in the meantime, please do me a favor: If you see Annabelle and she's wearing a onesie with odd wrinkles or uneven sleeves, don't say anything. Just know that it's not her fault.

Three Things I've Learned from Girls' Weekend

I'm a bachelor this weekend. For 48 full hours, it's only me and my furry son, Oscar. I can watch as many sporting events as I want, go for a run whenever the feeling strikes me, and burp as loudly and as often as I'd like. Pretty cool, right? Especially the burping.

It is, as you might be able to tell from the excitement about bodily noises, my first bachelor weekend since little Annabelle joined our lives last September. Bridget and that cute redhead in the photo above are off with the Moynihan crew having a girls' weekend in New York City. Shopping, shows, shoes. Blech. No, thanks.

It's about 30 hours into this bachelor weekend and I've already learned three things about these rare events. In no particular order:

1. I really, really miss my wife and my daughter. I skipped home from work on Friday evening with the excitement of an empty calendar in front of me. I didn't have to worry about feeding Annabelle a pouch for her dinner. I could watch whatever I wanted before bed. And I could stay up doing whatever I damn well pleased until whenever I damn well felt like it.

I was tired from the long week, but started with an invigorating trip to the gym. Then, at 6:30, I was ready to really dive in, to live the care-free life I once knew and loved. And then I realized I wished Annabelle was around so I could feed her a pouch. (I ate a pair of Lean Pockets by myself instead. Sad, right? At least they had a pretzel crust!) And when I turned on the TV, I wished Bridget was there to tell me she was in more of a Mindy Project mood. (I watched a newer episode of The Simpsons, which is still a pretty funny show.) And then, about that do-whatever-I-want bedtime? 9:45!

2. I am incapable of "sleeping in." I'm tired. Even though Annabelle has been a pretty good sleeper in her first eight months, being a new Dad is the most exhausting experience of my life. Lately, she's started a new habit of waking up at either 1 AM, 2 AM, or 3 AM on most nights. (She's creative, so she varies the time from one night to the next.) So, as you can imagine, the prospect of actually sleeping in without a crying baby or an alarm to wake me was thrilling.

And as I noticed the light peeking in through the curtains and heard the sound of Oscar stretching from the bottom of the bed, I was about to pat myself on the back. Well done, Mike. You caught up on some shut-eye. You slept until … 5:41.

3. It's really important to have these experiences. So far, I realize I've made this bachelor weekend seem awful and lame. I assure you it's not. Friday night was incredibly relaxing, Saturday is a combination of a visit with the newly named Nana Briddon and a guys' night out, and Sunday will be filled with Oscar time and some prep for Bridget's first Mother's Day. It's exactly what I needed.

But that's not why it's important. Not the main reason, anyway. It's really important because it makes me realize how lucky I am the other 51 weekends of the year.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go watch a baseball game and burp at the TV.

The Not-So-Great Oscar Escape

It's funny when life throws you a curve ball. Actually, that's not always true. Sometimes the curve ball is scary.

This was one of those times.

I was walking home from work this afternoon and all I could think about was our bathroom. For the past two weeks, we've been waiting patiently for plumbers, tilers, and painters to rip apart our bathroom and then, hopefully, put it back together. As you can probably guess, it's been slow. In fact, we didn't have a toilet for most of Sunday. And today, Tuesday, they were supposed to be done. Hurrah!

So I had a little bounce in my step on the warm walk home. Thoughts raced through my head. Bridget, who gets home before me, hadn't called and I couldn't figure out if that was good or bad. Maybe everything was done and she was smiling peacefully on the couch? Maybe nothing was done and she was shaking her head in disbelief? I couldn't decide. I knew it was one or the other.

(This may sound a little dramatic, but we're exhausted. Getting work done on your apartment is frustrating. Getting work done on your apartment, and dealing with a baby and a dog is frustrating times seven.)

I turned onto my street and picked up the pace. It's done. It's not done. It's done. It's not done. Then I saw one of our neighbors walking down the street with her adorable daughter. I stopped to say "hi," mostly planning on just flying past to get home to find out if I could use the toilet.

"Hi," she said. "We found Oscar today."

"Hi … what?! Did you say you found Oscar? What do you mean?"

"He's okay," she continued. "He's home. But we found him at the top of the street."

I had no idea what she was talking about. My mind couldn't make the transition from the bathroom. "Oscar?" I asked. "Wait, our dog?!"

"Yeah, but he's okay. He was at the top of the street and he seemed scared. I recognized him and thought he was yours, so we started calling to him and he eventually came."

"Oh my god," I said. "Thank you so much. I don't even know how to start thanking you. Do you know how he got out?"

"I think went out the door when the plumber was there," she said.

"Oh, no. Again, thank you so much. I'm so relieved."

I ran upstairs, saw Bridget with a smile on her face (the bathroom was done) and told her the story. Like me, her heart sank. We hugged Oscar and realized how lucky we were. He tilted his head, wondering when I was going to feed him.

The whole episode, we realized, was our fault. Oscar had met the plumber before and the plumber said he'd watch him, but we took a risk. We took the risk because Oscar had been to South Boston, Vermont, and at a neighbor's place within the past two weeks because of the work on our apartment. We didn't want to send him away again. But we should have. And we're really lucky nothing happened.

Life, as John Lennon so famously said, is what happens when you're busy making other plans. If something had happened to Oscar, we wouldn't care about a bathroom, an apartment, or really much of anything. We'd be devastated. So, thank you, again, kind neighbor. And thank you to our wonderful neighbors downstairs who helped find Oscar.

Hug your pets. You never know when life might throw a scary curve ball.

A Post That Isn't About Annabelle

If you read this blog, you know I've written a lot about my daughter, Annabelle, in the last year. If you look at the photos on my iPhone, you'll find hundreds of Annabelle. Annabelle smiling. Annabelle crying. Annabelle eating. If you could somehow read my mind, almost all of the time, Annabelle would be there.

This, I'd argue, is understandable for a new Dad. And maybe even expected. I have a seven-month-old daughter who I strongly believe is the greatest thing that has ever happened.

But this post isn't about Annabelle; it's about her beautiful mother.

Two weeks ago, in the middle of possible first words, trying to discover new foods, and our first household sickness, Bridget and I celebrated our second wedding anniversary. Two years ago, on March 31, 2012, on a suddenly sunny day in Chatham, MA, I married my best friend and the most wonderful person I've ever known. We celebrated the anniversary with some small gifts and a nice dinner, but the day itself folded quietly into another exciting, stressful week.

And, well, that isn't quite fair.

A year of marriage is a big deal. Whether you've been married one year, two years, 10 years, or 30 years, each one presents its share of joy and sadness. New babies. Bad fights. Promotions at work. Expensive bills. Tropical vacations. Car accidents. They're all part of life and in just two years of marriage, I've realized just how important it is to have the right person by your side.

In a nutshell, I love spending time with Bridget. And as I listened to an old Freakonomics podcast about marriage this week, I was struck by just how important that sentence is. Here's an excerpt from the podcast:

We’ve moved to what economists would call consumption complementarities. We have more time, more money, and so you want to spend it with someone that you’ll enjoy. So, similar interests and passions. We call this the model of hedonic marriage. But really it’s a lot more familiar than that. This is just economists giving a jargon name to love. So you want someone who’s actually remarkably similar to you or has similar passions that you do. 

Our passions don't always align, but they often do. We love music, reading, traveling, Annabelle, and each other. More than that, Bridget makes me feel better when I'm having a tough day and keeps my ego in check when I think I've done something pretty special. She takes care of me, challenges me, cheers for me, and puts me in my place. And she does it all with a delicate touch. I admire and love her more today than I did two years ago. I can't wait to see what the next 60 years bring.

Happy second anniversary, Bridget. I love you so damn much. And, just because it will make you smile, here's a picture of our daughter inside a cardboard box: