Who Will Annabelle Marry?

Taking a break from words this week, I convinced Annabelle to sit down for another edition of "Four Questions with Annabelle." (Her publicist is kind of a nightmare.)

After a couple warm-up questions, we get her thoughts on love and, gasp, who she thinks she'll be marrying:

Nailed It: A Mani & Pedi Adventure with a 3-Year-Old

Toward the end of a Friday off with my two adorable and exhausting daughters, Annabelle asked me to paint her nails. It seemed like a reasonable request. Her sister was upstairs napping and it was a perfect excuse to spend some time on the deck on a picture-perfect spring afternoon.

Then she said the five words that put the fear of God in every Dad: "Do it like Mom does."

I wasn't exactly sure what that meant in this case; I just knew that I wasn't capable of it. Still, with pink nail polish for the hands (endorsed by Anna and Elsa, of course) and blue nail polish for the feet (endorsed by Olaf), we headed outside.

"You need a paper towel," she said, just as I was about to make the first stroke.

"Right, right," I said. "Thanks." Duh.

I started with the hands. Slowly. Carefully. Delicately.

"Why are you making dots?"

"Dots?" I said, clearly on the defensive. "What do you mean? Oh, the way I do it. Well, I want to make sure I don't make a mistake. What does Mom do? Does she do, like, brushes?"

"Yeah."

"Well," I said. "Here's the thing: Mom is really good at some things and Dad is really good at some things. But sometimes we're both just ok at some things. It's kind of just the way it goes."

Not my most eloquent moment of parental wisdom, but pinkie nails on feet are really, really small and take a lot of concentration. I had finished the feet and I was feeling pretty darn good about myself. I was headed for the hands.

"Do you paint your nails, Daddy?"

"Ah, no, not really. I mean, I never have. It's not really my thing."

"Why not?"

"Boys don't really do that very much," I said, thinking about immediately about gender stereotypes. "There's nothing wrong with it if boys do it, though. It's totally fine. They just tend to do other things. Like think about some of your friends at school who are boys. What do they do? What do they like?"

"Firetrucks," she said, as I touched up the ring finger. "And firefighters. And belts."

"Belts?"

"Yeah, to keep your pants up," she said. "Different colored belts."

A bit confused, we both sort of said "Hm" and moved on to the final part of the adventure: the sparkles. I did not know about the sparkles. I soon learned it was one of the hardest parts. It was like seeing a giant hill at the end of a half marathon or a boss asking you late on Friday to squeeze in a few hours of work over the weekend.

"The sparkles, right," I said. "Which, um, which ones do you want?"

She pointed to the pink snowflakes (obviously, Frozen) and I maneuvered my much-too-large fingers into a tiny plastic carrying case, extracting one snowflake at a time until I had 10. I'm pretty sure I blacked out and then, somehow, they were all on her fingers, as I quickly captured in the photo above. (They obviously fell off 10 minutes later, but whatever.)

Annabelle looked at her fingers and toes and smiled.

"I can't wait to show Mom," she said. "I love my nails."

Me, too, kid. Me, too.

Tom Petty and the Three Rules for Handling a Public Meltdown

I've always loved Tom Petty's music, especially his songwriting. He's one of the few artists that I liked when I was 15 and still like 20 years later. To quote the immortal Office Space, I celebrate the guy's entire catalog, including the 1976 tune, "Breakdown."

One lyric from that song has always stuck with me: "Breakdown ... go ahead and give it to me ..." (If you know the song, you're probably hearing it now.)

What does Tom Petty and the song "Breakdown" have to do with a poorly timed temper tantrum?

For me, a lot.

For some reason, every time Annabelle has a public meltdown, I immediately think of "Breakdown" and replace it with "Meltdown." "Meltdown ... go ahead and give it to me ..." I'm not sure why, but it brings me peace, makes me feel strong, and makes me smile a little. It also reminds me of the three rules I follow whenever I face a public meltdown:

1. Keep your voice low and firm.
2. Never, ever make eye contact with other parents. (Pretend you're a man at a urinal.)
3. Talk about it after. 

So, this week, I found good ole' Tom coming into my mind as we left daycare on Thursday afternoon. I could tell Annabelle was tired as we walked out, which means she was already close to the edge. I floated the idea of stopping at Wendy's, which was met with great enthusiasm.

"Okay, just put your card on," I said, referring to her trusty white cardigan sweater. "It's cold out there."

"No."

"Hun, come on. It's not warm out at all. You're going to be cold."

"Daddy, I don't want to put it onnn ..." The "on" dragged a bit and had a sniff of a whine in it.

"If you want to go to Wendy's, put on your card," I said, firmly, ignoring everything I know about the ineffectiveness of short-term incentives.

"Noooooo!"

We were now outside and the tantrum train had left the station. The tears started to come as we walked by her teachers and friends into the parking lot. The long, heaving sobs. The plentiful tears. The continued yells of "No!" If you're a parent, you've been there. If you aren't a parent, you've seen them. I was facing a standard 3-year-old meltdown. Still, I persisted.

"Annabelle, please put it on," I said, remembering my first rule.

Meltdown, go ahead and give it to me. 

"No!"

At this point in a tantrum, fully engaged, I often draw on another lyric from the song: Meltdown, it's alright ... it's alright. 

"Please," I said, my eyes firmly locked with Annabelle's, remembering my second rule.

"No. I don't want to! The cold never bothered me anyway," she said, quoting Elsa from Frozen and reducing me to a puddle.

She finally relented and we got in the car with her tear-stained eyes. Following Rule 3, we talked about it a bit after.

"Why were you so upset, Annabelle? Why did you cry?"

"Because I was sad," she said. "And the cold doesn't bother me anyway."

Fighting through the cuteness, I reminded her of my (and Bridget's) first job: To keep her and Aurora safe and healthy. She smiled, said she was sorry, and, seconds later, was noting the yellow car that we had just passed.

Meltdown, it's alright ... it's alright. 

‘But You Like It, Right?’

I took 3-year-old Annabelle to her first soccer “practice” last weekend. By “practice,” I mean a big, open field filled with 15-20 kids running around with two coaches for 45 minutes.

I very much wanted Annabelle to like this practice.

Sure, we had some things going against us. Bridget was at a bachelorette party, so I had 1-year-old Aurora with me. The age range went from 3-6, meaning Annabelle was one of the younger kids there. Also, Annabelle had never played soccer in any way, shape, or form.

Here’s how it went:

10:57 AM: We arrive three minutes early, fresh off a successful dance class. (Annabelle likes dance.) As we get out of the car, I see three kids walk by with cleats and shin guards. Annabelle is wearing shorts that are too small and Frozen sneakers. Oh no.

11:00 AM: Practice starts. Two nice (and European!) guys introduce themselves and ask the kids to follow them to the middle of the field. Annabelle won’t go alone, so I tell her I’ll join her for “just a minute.” Meanwhile, Aurora is in a stroller by herself. For two minutes. Then five minutes. Then eight minutes. I could see the stroller (I’m not a psycho), but this obviously isn’t good. Big oh no.

11:08 AM: As the kids start their first drill—red light, green light—I tell Annabelle that I have to go get her sister. She insists on joining me. I return to the field carrying Aurora and holding Annabelle’s hand. Other parents look at their cell phones, sip handcrafted beverages, and chat about the weather. I, on the other hand, am sweating profusely under the 80-degree sun. “Let’s go find your ball, Annabelle.” We sort of participate in the drill.

11:15 AM: Water break. Yes! Annabelle drinks her water and I can finally get a bottle for now crying Aurora.

11:20 AM: I sit on the field feeding Aurora while Annabelle kicks the ball (all the kids still have their own ball at this point) around us. She smiles, laughs, and even responds to the coach. When he says “green light,” she kicks the ball as hard as she can and runs after it. My sports-loving heart floats.

11:25 AM: Aurora is fed and smiling (we’re still on the field) and Annabelle is getting even more excited. She’s even dribbling a little! “Way to go, honey,” I say. “I’m so proud of you!”

11:30 AM: Another water break. “Okay, only 15 more minutes, Annabelle. Are you liking it?” She pauses. And thinks. “Yes!” My heart is now in the clouds.

11:31 AM: “Okay,” says the coach. “We’re going to split into two groups and each group will use only one ball. Your team will defend a goal and I’ll defend a goal.” Annabelle, Aurora, and I make our way to Annabelle’s group. I move back 10-15 feet to pretend I’m on the sideline.

11:34 AM: The coach starts dribbling. “Go get it, Annabelle,” I say. “Go get the coach!” Instead, Annabelle runs to me. Much bigger kids (with cleats and shin guards!) chase the coach. One kid falls over and starts crying. Annabelle is near tears. Disaster.

11:36 AM: The coach starts dribbling again. Annabelle stays by my side. “Don’t you want to play? Go play with the kids,” I say. She does not. She starts complaining about being too hot and the wind, of which there is none.

11:39 AM: “Honey, just give it a try,” I implore, pretending my arm is not about to fall off from holding a writhing 21-pound baby for 30 minutes. “See if you can get the ball.” No. She begins crying. I feel like a bad father. Visions of Texas high school football run through my head: I don’t want your life, Dad! Snapping back to reality, I tell her to just watch. She sits and picks grass.

11:43 AM: Annabelle tells me she wants to go home. “Practice is almost over, hun,” I say. “Just a couple more minutes.”

11:45 AM: Practice mercifully ends. The coach gives everyone a high-five. Annabelle seems to enjoy this interaction. We go to the car.

“So,” I say to Annabelle, “did you like it? Should we try it again?”

“No.”

“Maybe just one more time? It’ll just be me and you next time,” I add. “No Aurora.”

“Okay,” she says, clearly just wanting to end the conversation.

“But you like it, right?”

I’m still waiting on an answer.

The Joy of Waking Up at 3:14 AM

Like the memorable line in the story of The Grinch, it started out low and then it started to grow.

"Mommy ..."

I looked at my Fitbit watch through one very bleary eye.

3:14.

"MOmmy ..."

Maybe it's a dream. Maybe this isn't real.

"MOMmy ..."

Maybe she'll go back to sleep?

"MOMMY!"

I was up. Bridget, who conveniently is a very heavy sleeper, was dead to the world in a small ball on her side of the bed. I stumbled over Oscar on my way to Annabelle's room. I realized it was Wednesday and I had to get up for work in a few hours.

"What is it, hun? Are you okay?"

"I want to sleep in your bed," she said.

"Sorry, kiddo. You sleep in your bed. Why do you want to come with us?"

"I don't know."

Let's pause here for a second. This, traditionally, has been the tough part for me. My darling daughter has woken me up in the middle of the night for no good reason. I'm not happy. I'm someone that likes/needs a good night of sleep. And, unlike my care-free 3-year-old, getting back to sleep in the middle of the night isn't quite as easy for me as it used to be.

So, how should I respond? In the past, through different tough stretches of sleep deprivation (we've had our share), I've been frustrated, stressed, and annoyed. I hate to admit it (although that's part of what this blog is for, to be transparent), but I've patted her on the head and rushed back to my warm bed. I've stomped back into our bedroom room so that my sleeping beauty of a wife (and she is quite beautiful) can share my pain. I've waited out the "Mommys" or Daddys" until silence returned to the house.

This time, I took a deep breath and counted to four.

"You can't come in our bed, but what if I lay with you for a few minutes?"

"Okay," she said.

I climbed in, put my arms around her and pretended to close my eyes. Then, she put her arms around me and I smiled. I looked at Annabelle and had one of those "she's going to be 16 in like two minutes" moments. Then, two more thoughts: Why do I avoid this stuff sometimes? It's just one night of sleep, you wimp! We laid together for about 10 minutes and I asked if she was okay. She nodded her approval.

"Sweet dreams," I said.

"Sweet dreams, too," she replied.

I crept back into bed, read for a while, and eventually fell back asleep. It took a while and I was pretty tired when I woke up around 6 and told Bridget what she missed. She said she was sorry she slept through it.

Secretly, I'm not. And I hope it happens again tonight.

'She Probably Won't Be a Star Soccer Player'

It was a throwaway line, really. One of those things that someone adds to the end of an explanation as a way to lighten the mood. It was harmless.

"She probably won't be a star soccer player."

Our pediatrician, whom we love, said this about Aurora at her one-year checkup. I'm not sure I'll ever forget it.

Aurora, that sweet little set of cheeks up in the photo, has always been a little behind. She was born six weeks early, sat late, crawled late (really just started!), and will walk late. Probably.

We knew this was a possibility and maybe even likely because of Aurora's prematurity. We assumed she'd catch up by the one-year mark because that's what everyone said at the time. She hasn't. She's close, but she's still a bit behind.

"Yes, she has something we call low muscle tone," the pediatrician began. "It's not bad or anything. She'll be fine. It's just that she probably won't be a star soccer player."

I didn't tell Bridget at the time (still haven't actually, so she's probably just learning this now), but that moment was one of my toughest thus far as a parent.

The truth is I don't need Aurora to be a star soccer player. I mean, I'd like her to be because I love sports and soccer. (I've written about this before.) But if she never kicks a ball into the back of a net, I'll be just fine.

What bothered me the most was that there was a door that might be closed to her.

I'm not naive enough to think my daughters will be the best at everything they do. Or even the second best. They'll be good at some things and not so good at other things, but I want, more than anything, them to have the opportunity to try to be the best at everything. I want them to be able to put their minds and hearts into something and succeed at that thing.

That attitude may seem selfish and perhaps a little bit callous, depending on the reader. That is not the intention. I realize that some kids never have that chance to walk across a soccer field or any field, for that matter. Some kids are born with physical or mental limitations. Some develop those limitations as they grow.

Aurora may develop limitations, too. In fact, there's a chance she'll never catch up. That reality is unlikely, but it's possible.

And that's one of the hardest things about being a parent. You have this thing (or things) that you love more than you could ever imagine and, for a lot of their lives, you're stuck on the sidelines watching and hoping. You have no control.

Understanding and embracing that lack of control is something I need to work on as a Dad. So what if she won't be a star soccer player? Maybe she will be! Or maybe she'll at least be an average soccer player. But if not, she'll be a great painter. Or a talented writer. Or a curious scientist. Or a captivating teacher.

One thing I know for sure: She'll be something. And, no matter what, soccer star or not, I'll be on the sidelines cheering as loudly as I can.

The Right Response to 'Dad, My Tummy Hurts.'

Annabelle wasn't feeling well. Her "tummy hurt a lot."

It was my job, on a recent weekday off from work, to figure out exactly what that meant. I found it incredibly challenging. And I'd love some advice on how to get better at it.

First, the tummy situation.

Annabelle had gone to bed not feeling her best, so we expected she might wake up at less than 100%. We were right. Bridget and Aurora were off at a physical therapy appointment (more on that next Sunday), so it was up to Dad to figure out the next step.

Is she really fine? Do I call the doctor? Do I take her to urgent care? With a 3-year-old, I learned, those questions are really hard to answer.

"Annabelle, do you think we should go to the doctor?"

"Yes," she said.

"Are you sure? The doctor isn't fun, you know. It's not like Daniel Tiger. It's a lot of waiting. Are you sure you have to go?"

"Yes," she said. "My tummy hurts."

"A lot or a little?"

"A lot."

"So on a scale from 1-10," I began, "with 1 being no pain and 10 being so much pain, what would you say you are?"

"Yes."

At this point, I figured the smart thing to do was to at least call the doctor and explain the symptoms. They'd help me. So I called and left a message for a nurse to call us back.

In the hour between my initial call and the nurse's call, as you might guess, Annabelle started to feel a lot better. Her tummy was "fine and didn't hurt much anymore."

"Are you sure? We can go to the doctor and get it checked out," I said.

"No, I'm okay." (That's when we snapped the picture above.)

The nurse called and I smoothly explained the situation:

"So, I think, basically, um, I think we're fine now. I called because my 3-year-old said her stomach hurt a lot and she was having some issues yesterday. She's had some symptoms (sparing stomach-related details here) in the last couple days, but says she really feels much better. I just didn't know if I should bring her in or not bring her in or what ..."

"Okay," the nurse said. "You just want to look out for (stomach-related details) ..."

"Great, thanks," I said. "Hey, listen, I'm not sure if you can help me, but do you have any advice on how to reason with a 3-year-old? She's a really good communicator, but it's not like she can rationally think about whether she should make a trip to the doctor. I feel like I'm flying blind here."

"Yeah, that's tough," she said. "The FACES pain scale is a good tool. Maybe try that."

The nurse was incredibly nice and helpful, as nurses tend to be, and I thanked her for her advice. Now I'm wondering if you have any. Annabelle, aside from pneumonia and a two-day hospital stay a couple years ago, has been a pretty healthy gal. I realize that won't always be the case and I'd like to get better at knowing when to choose option 1, 2, or 3.

Any advice on how to respond to 'Dad, my tummy hurts'?