Christmas Classics? Bah Humbug

Happy Holidays!

It really is the most wonderful time of the year, isn't it? People are nicer, commutes are easier, and we're all pretending the brutal, interminable chill of January and February will never happen. Yay! Christmas!

One of my (and maybe your?) favorite things about the holiday season is the Christmas classics. Frosty the Snowman, Rudolph, the Grinch. I have fond memories of cold nights, hot chocolate with plump marshmallows, and hearts growing three sizes.

As I've gotten older, these classics aren't really must-see TV anymore. Sure, if I'm home with my mom and sister for the holiday, we might relive a half hour of magic, but mostly, I've moved on. That is, until it was time to introduce them to my own children. And this year, with Annabelle at the ripe old age of 3, I couldn't wait to share the joy.

It, um, didn't go well.

Maybe it's because she is too young. Maybe it's because I sold them too hard. Maybe it's because these classics are a little (or a lot) stranger than I remember. Here's how three attempts went down:

Attempt #1: The Grinch Who Stole Christmas: Obviously, I'm talking about the cartoon. That creepy Jim Carrey-led abomination has no place in this house. Ever. Anyway, Bridget was putting Belle to bed one night last week and I flipped on the TV. I saw that this delightful Dr. Seuss tale was just starting. Like any 3-year-old, Belle loves any excuse to stay up, so she was more than happy for me to rush her downstairs to visit Whoville. Three minutes later, as the Grinch started plotting the end of Christmas with Max, Annabelle said, "Daddy, I don't like this." "What's not to like?" I replied. "It's the Grinch!" She thought about it. And then thought some more. And then she thought of something she hadn't before ... Just kidding. As soon as the Grinch threw Max over the sleigh and it nearly fell on the poor dog's head, we were on our way back upstairs. Attempt #1: Fail.

Attempt #2: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer: It's tough to catch these classics on live TV, but the world of Hulu, Netflix, and YouTube make life a lot easier. Last Sunday afternoon, after my fantasy football team let me down, we decided to give this claymation classic a shot. We lasted a few more minutes than we did on Attempt #1, but that was about it. The problem? Rudolph's Dad. And, frankly, Santa. They're jerks until the end of the hour and little girls don't like jerks. "Let's watch Frosty," she said. Attempt #2: Fail.

Attempt #3: Frosty the Snowman: This was a disaster from the first 30 seconds. The kids are wearing totally weather-inappropriate outfits (not a good example for a girl who hates wearing a coat) and the magician with the enormous chin is just a dick. "I don't like him," Annabelle said. Neither do I, Annabelle. Neither do I. Click. Attempt #3: Fail.

Sure, I might reintroduce these classics in a year or two, but to be honest, I'm in no hurry. So what's the solution? Right now, there are two:

1. The Snowy Day, a new special on Amazon based on the book by Ezra Jack Keats. Laurence Fishburne, Boyz II Men, and a plot line that promotes diversity and inclusion? Yes, please. If you have little ones, this is well worth the 38 minutes.

2. Snowflake Day, Season 4, Episode 5 of Daniel Tiger. No matter the question, with a 3-year-old, Daniel Tiger is almost always the answer. We've watched this no fewer than 75 times in the last three months. And, I tell ya, Daniel saves that damn play every time.

If you know of other (good) holiday episodes aimed at little ones, I'm all ears.

And if you've made it this far, thanks for reading. I've really enjoyed writing this blog for the past few months and look forward to sharing more stories about our two little roses in 2017. Have a great holiday!

Six Questions with Annabelle

As soon as Annabelle turned 3, she started saying some pretty hilarious things. She could obviously talk before then, but she really turned up the funny meter starting last September.

Sometimes I capture some of her better one-liners on Facebook. From October 12, for example:

Me: "Are you excited to go to the new library?!"
Annabelle: "Yup! I'm going to get some books!"
Me: "Oh yeah? Which books?"
Annabelle: "I'm going to keep my pants on when we get inside."
Me: "Okay. Hmm. Yeah ... good."

Or this one from September 30:

Me: "Annabelle, can you please eat your ravioli? Please?"
Annabelle: "If you put more cheese on it, it'll help me survive."

These conversations, of course, are curated for social media. I cut away the chaff and harvest the (witty) wheat.

But what if I just left the camera rolling? What would come out? I came up with six questions last week and this 150 seconds is the result:

Hopping on the Potty Train

This is going to be awkward.

There’s really no way around it, because people don’t typically talk or write about bathroom activities. And, frankly, we probably shouldn’t. What happens behind closed doors, in this case, should stay behind closed doors. Like Vegas. Just without the fun and hangovers.

But as a Dad of two daughters, one who is now (somewhat) successfully trained, potty training has been a pretty eye-opening experience. And that, after all, is what this blog is meant to chronicle.

So let’s start at the beginning — changing diapers. I dreaded this before having children because I’d never changed a diaper before. But this is one of the biggest misconceptions about kids. Changing diapers, in reality, is no big deal. Take off the dirty one, clean things up, put on a new one. Not a big deal. Takes like three seconds.

Most importantly, the parent is in control during a diaper change.

Now, to potty training, which is a disaster of epic proportions and the absolute worst thing about having a child. It wasn’t even that bad with Annabelle (and, if we’re being honest, Bridget did 85% of the work here), but it was still awful. My mom tells me I was awful about it, too. I don’t think I was actually trained until I was 4, which, apparently, is late. Whatever. It all worked out.

Back to Annabelle. The constant fear that she’d pee on everything. The horrible days when she had to poop, but wouldn’t admit it and just wanted to “stay home all day” for unrelated reasons. The time we stopped at a shady rest stop on the Mass Pike because she had to “go real bad,” but it was just a false alarm. The coaxing, pleading, and urging to “just push” behind closed doors. (Told you this was going to be awkward.) Potty training is frustrating, tiring, and anxiety-inducing.

And, again, she did really well. We went pants-less for a week or so, had a few accidents, had to bring in the Miralax, but she learned pretty fast.

Now, she’s, mostly, a pro. She gets up on her potty herself using one of her trusty stools, does her business, and washes her hands. (Flush and wash and be on your way! Thanks, Daniel Tiger.) She's  even great in public (including the men’s room, when necessary), which I learned after four visits to a recent Starbucks bathroom in an hour one day a few weeks ago.

I’d certainly never wish for my darling daughters to grow up faster than they are. But I would trade all the fantasy football championships in the world for Aurora to be potty trained right now.

Then again, I’d probably never again get the chance to go to a Starbucks bathroom four times in an hour. And that would be a tragedy.

You Like Sports, Right?

I love sports. I play them, watch them, and fantasize about them. I love the drama, the excitement, the stories, the teamwork, the leadership, the winning, and the losing. Love, love, love. In fact, "love" may be the wrong word. It's not quite strong enough.

I idolize sports. There, that's better.

Sports, in all forms, have been an enormous part of my life for as long as I can remember. Quite possibly, more than anything else, they've made me the person I am today. It should come as no surprise, then, that I want my daughters to love sports, too.

But what if they don't?

It's a real possibility. Consider a recent conversation I had with Annabelle:

Me: "Annabelle, do you want to play soccer or take dance lessons?"

(Bridget and I figure we'll start with one activity and see how it goes.)

Annabelle: "Dance lessons."

Me: "Right, but soccer is awesome. You get to kick the ball, run around ..."

Annabelle: "I want dance lessons."

Me: "Are you sure? I mean, soccer is so universal. It's really cool."

Annabelle, now laughing: "Dadddd! Dance!"

Me: "Okay, okay ..."

And then we both laugh and I die a little inside. Her first dance class was yesterday. I'm told it went well.

I have nothing against dance, of course. But dance, and I hope this is okay to say in 2016, isn't a sport. Yes, yes, it's hard. Yes, there are competitions. But it's not a sport. It's a vigorous activity.

What I'm talking about is stuff like basketball, soccer, or even running. I'd totally settle for Annabelle and Aurora loving running because I could do it with them.

But what if running can't even make the cut?

I've tried — and continue to try — on numerous occasions to get Annabelle to love sports. She knows our favorite team ("the Cuse!") and loves watching college football with me on Saturdays. Sort of. After five minutes, watching college football devolves into her jumping from the ottoman to the couch again and again and again ... "Honey, look at that catch!" She looks. And shouts: "He made it!" Back to jumping.

I even trained her from a young age, putting on sports whenever she'd cry late into the night. One of my happiest moments in my first year of parenting was a three-week-old Annabelle sleeping on my chest as I watched the Iron Bowl. (Maybe someday she'll know what that is?)

This isn't a gender thing, either. It is 2016, after all. Girls are just as likely as boys to become superstar athletes. (I wrote a bit about gender equality in my first post to this blog.) But I can't lie and say I don't get jealous when I see my friend's son, clad in a football helmet and goalie gloves, cramming as many sports as possible into a given Sunday afternoon.

Annabelle is only 3, so there's plenty of time left for her to develop a life-long love of sports. She could be a great shortstop, a shifty point guard on the court, or an all-state hurdler. Or maybe all three! And obviously, no matter what she chooses, even if she hates sports, I will love her and support her completely. But I would really would prefer she love sports more than life itself.

As for Aurora? Well, she can't really crawl or walk yet, so we'll be watching lots of football later today.

"Honey, look at that catch!" She'll stare. And I'll hope.

Saying 'Goodbye' to a Best Friend

Dear Aurora,
   You'll never remember yesterday, but I'll never forget it.

Saturday, November 19, 2016, will always be just another day for you--a day filled mostly with napping, eating, smiling, and pooping. (To be fair, at eight months old, that's most of your days.) Saturday, November 19, 2016, will never be just another day for me--it was the day my best friend was buried.

Chances are, Aurora, you'll have a best friend someday. Chances are, you'll laugh, play, grow, and cry with her or him. But the chances aren't good, I'm afraid, that this person will be as wonderful as Andy Marble. (Or, as many of us know him, just Marble.)

Your Mom and I brought you to a funeral yesterday mostly because of feeding logistics, but also because we thought you might add a little joy, a few smiles, to a very sad day. You took a little nap during the service, so let me share part of the eulogy I struggled to deliver in front of an overflowing room of Marble's friends and family:

In 30 years of knowing him, I've honestly never heard a negative word uttered about him. I bet you haven't either. Take five seconds, right now, and think about it. Think about all the words you've ever heard to describe Marble. Everyone, absolutely everyone, liked him. 

People were drawn to him for many reasons. Three things stand out, I think: His passion, his easygoing demeanor, and his toughness. 

Let's start with passion: A lifelong learner, this is someone who read the Guinness Book of World Records, from cover to cover, at the age of 8. More than simply curious about the weather, he gave many of us in this room the daily forecast over the intercom in middle school. Driven to succeed, one night, before law school, he brought his LSAT Review book out to the bar. (The ladies stayed away that night; no one cared.) And, maybe above all other passions, sports -- both playing and watching. He was a gifted athlete, especially in baseball where he was a T&G All-Star, and he loved college football more than you love pretty much anything. 

Easygoing? With Marble, your preference was, almost always, just fine with him. He was always up for anything, patient with everyone, and handled good news and bad news with equal grace. That attitude came with a unique kindness, too. Even at the end, as he laid, in pain, in a hospital bed in his parent’s living room, he said, “Thank you” after a nurse increased his medication and “I’m sorry” after a particularly loud sneeze. 

Lastly, toughness, or, as Marble liked to say, intestinal fortitude. He was sacked more than any high school quarterback, maybe ever. And he got up every time. As recently as a year ago, his calloused hands were shooting 100 3-pointers before work to sharpen his basketball skills. And, sadly, as recently as a couple weeks ago, he was rating his searing, non-stop pain as a "6" on the pain scale. He didn't say 6 to be macho. He said 6 because his 6 is our 12. He said 6 because he knew there was room for the pain to grow. He said 6 because, frankly, he didn't want people to make a fuss about him and he believed someone else needed help more than him.

Sounds pretty great, doesn't he, Aurora? And he was. I'm really sorry that you and your sister didn't get the chance to really get to know him, but rest assured that I'll tell you lots of stories -- about the first time we hung out, banged heads, and retreated to our mother's legs; about the time we created fictitious blackberry companies while we gorged ourselves in a berry patch; and, when you're older, about the time he introduced some of my college friends to something called Yucca.

As I mentioned, the room was very crowded. And many people shared their condolences with me, knowing how close Marble and I had been for the last three decades. Those wishes were kind, thoughtful, and humbling. But I'll be okay. I suspect his other friends will be okay, too. (Together, we all lit up Marble's Facebook Memorial Page like a Christmas tree of stories and memories.) I'm sad and I will be for a while, but he and I packed a lot of life into the last 30 years, especially the first 15. He made me who I am today and his wisdom will ring in my head forever. I consider myself lucky.

But now, his beautiful wife, Paola, needs the support. (By the way, Aurora, I hope someday you find a love like they had.) Now, his parents and brother need the warm thoughts. (By the way, Aurora, our family will always love you as they loved Marble -- intensely and unconditionally.) Returning to a "normal" day-to-day life after something like this is a tall order. (You can go here or here if you want to help.)

No, Aurora, you won't remember yesterday. You won't remember the tears, the stories, the tears, the laughter, or the tears. But you did your job of creating some smiles. And on a day like November 19, 2016, a smile goes a long way. So, thank you, for being adorable, sweet, and happy yesterday. I really appreciate it.

Love,
Dad

Discussing Tuesday's Election with a 3-Year-Old

"Do bad guys win sometimes?"

It was one of those moments when you could see the words physically leaving someone's mouth. Together, the five words and the question mark hung in the air. For a while.

As far as conversations with 3-year-olds go, this was pretty deep. Sure, we talk about "good choices" and "bad choices," about right from wrong, and about the importance of preseason college basketball rankings, but this was a new category. Deep, important, lasting.

Like most everyone who reads this blog (I suspect), Tuesday night wasn't what our house expected. What seemed like certain victory around 6 turned into doubt by 8, disbelief by 10, and sleep-stopping anxiety by 12. We woke up early on Wednesday in a hazy stew of uncertainty, anger, and sadness.

Annabelle, on the other hand, woke up with a smile, concerned mostly about what dress she was wearing that day. (That, you may know, is a typical conversation in our house.) She and I had talked a little about the election (Tuesday, on Facebook, I shared Annabelle's somewhat guided sentiments: "Trump's a bad guy), but she's 3 and we're still working on learning the days of the week.

"Is it Tuesday?" No. "Thursday?" No. What's in between Tuesday and Thursday. "Tuesday ...?"

Anyway, Bridget and I told Annabelle that Trump won and Hillary lost, but it didn't seem to affect her much. Why would it? After all, she's 3. But that's the tricky thing about dealing with a 3-year-old. You really don't know what is going to stick. For example, putting her shoes away when she gets home just isn't happening despite 181 (and counting) reminders. But her "bad choice" of coloring on a chair with a pen has stayed with her for more than a year.

So, I thought we needed to talk more about Tuesday and what had happened. Annabelle put on a somewhat fancy princess dress, gathered her favorite pink wand, and we, along with Aurora, headed out for a walk to our local bakery. (Annabelle, by the way, really likes cookies.)

We brought the double stroller, but, as usual, Annabelle wanted to ride on my shoulders. It hurts my neck sometimes, but, like any Dad, I'd let her ride on my shoulders while I ran a marathon if she wanted.

"So, Annabelle. The election was last night and Trump won. That means Hillary lost. That's why Mom and I are a little sad today."

Annabelle: "Did we vote for Hillary?"

"Yes."

Annabelle: "Then why did she lose?"

"Well, because more people voted for Trump. Actually, that's not quite true, there's this thing called the Electoral College ... let's just keep it simple, yes, more people voted for Trump. So he won. That's how elections work. But, listen, you have nothing to worry about, princess."

We walked into the library to return a couple books and the conversation drifted to other things. We played a riveting game of "I spy with my little eye," made faces at her sister, and argued about the best episode of Doc McStuffins. (Ben/Anna Split is the obvious answer.) She used her wand to spread some magic dust on her sister and point to her favorite trees.

We passed the town hall where we voted the week before, which triggered a memory for Annabelle.

Annabelle: "Why did Trump win? I want Hillary to be President."

"More people voted for Trump, hun ..."

Now, I'm not suggesting that she really understands what happened. She doesn't know the difference between Trump and Hillary, Democrat and Republican, or the economy and climate change. (For parents who have children that do know those differences, I'm sure this was a very difficult week.) But this seemed like a good opportunity to explain to Annabelle that A) you don't always get your way in life and B) only you can control your reaction to that disappointment.

We gathered some treats at the bakery and headed down the hill for home, with our cookies, wand, and Bridget's ice coffee (a requirement) in the top of the stroller. I asked Annabelle if she wanted to talk any more about Trump and Hillary.

Annabelle: "I don't like Trump. He's a bad guy."

"Yeah, I mean. He's said some bad things. He doesn't seem very kind or empathetic, does he?"

Annabelle: "No. But bad guys win sometimes. Is that right, Daddy? Do bad guys win sometimes?"

After several thoughtful seconds, I answered.

"Yes. But good guys, and good girls, win sometimes, too. That's just how it works. All we can do is try our best, be nice to other people, and things have a way of working themselves out. We didn't vote for Trump, but lots of people did and we need to try and understand why so we can move forward together."

I was afraid I'd lost her. "Does that make sense, Annabelle?"

Annabelle: "Yes. Okay, wand, please."

"What?"

Annabelle: "Wand, please." She pointed at the wand in the stroller.

"Here you go, princess. I love you."

That was the end of the election discussion. And that was just fine. Quite frankly, I would much rather talk about wands anyway.

Failure to Make the Braid

Annabelle dressed as Elsa for Halloween. If you have a daughter, there is nothing surprising or interesting about that sentence. (She's adorable, though, isn't she? I mean, look at that smile. That pose! What a cutie!)

Because she was Elsa, Annabelle needed something, something I, as her father, am totally unequipped to provide to her. I could handle the dress, the Frozen-themed trick-or-treating pail, and the shoes. But the braid, well, that's not my area. And not just any braid--an Elsa braid.

Look at this thing:

How would I ever be able to do that? It's insane. 

Let's not get ahead of ourselves, though. Let's stick with a basic, run-of-the-mill braid. That should be easy enough, right? Wrong. It's impossible. Impossible? You're being dramatic. I am not being dramatic. I cannot do it. Period.

Being able to do Annabelle's hair (and some day Aurora's, if she gets any) is important to me. Like any father of daughters, I see the commercials and the all-star dads doing all sorts of elaborate things (like using a vacuum) that put the rest of us to shame. I picture myself in that Dad's shoes, coolly crafting the perfect 'do.

But then I try. And it goes horribly wrong. More on that in a second. 

Ponytails were challenging, but doable. Here's a picture of my first one. (The mustache binky is a bonus.) I figured out that technique because it's really just brushing hair and wrapping an elastic. If you've wrapped up a bag of chips, you can do a pony tail. 

And so I thought the transition to braids would be possible, even easy. I asked Bridget to show me how to do one. Her ninja-liked hands moved no fewer than 70 MPH, I blacked out, and Annabelle had a braid. Not good. So I asked her to show me again, slowly. And she did. Three strands of hair, over, under ... then I lost it again. 

I figured she was just making it look too complicated, that if I got my hands on the hair, it'd be easy. (You know how women complicate things, right? Right?!) Anyway, that wasn't the case. I somehow managed to get the small strand of hair in my ring finger (an accomplishment, I thought!), but it was all downhill from there. I was all thumbs and quickly called an audible: "How about a nice pony tail, Annabelle?"

I stood and watched on Halloween night as Bridget did her (winter) magic. (The braid was quite good, but we never snapped a photo of it.) And now here I am. One or two mornings each week, Annabelle will request a braid and I have to tell her that I can't do it, that we'll have to wait for Mom, who, by the way, has almost 30 years of braid-making experience.

On a unrelated note, headbands are awesome, aren't they? Maybe Disney should go with a headband for their next princess. Until then, I am a man defeated. Stupid Disney.

The Unexpectedly Scary Story of Aurora

“Was I in the box?”

Annabelle has asked that question no fewer than 50 times in the last six months. We pause for a moment every time before we answer. “No, hun. You were born two weeks late. Aurora was in the box only because she came to meet us early.”

The box is an incubator, of course. Aurora spent 12 days in the NICU in Cambridge — 12 long, frustrating, hopeful days — before she came home. She got excellent care, plumped up like a champ, and hasn’t returned to the hospital since. But it made us realize how difficult the second time around can be sometimes. How certainty and confidence can turn to chaos in a moment. How scary having a baby can be.

Like most experienced parents, we were pretty sure of ourselves going to our second set of pregnancy appointments. (It was challenging to get to that second set of appointments, but that’s a story for another time.) Bridget was putting on weight in the right places, had some unique cravings, and felt pretty tired. We had been here before. Every appointment with the OB followed the same general structure:

“Feeling good, Bridget?”

“Yup, I think so.”

“Any questions?”

“No, not really.”

Done. In fact, while I made sure to attend every appointment when Bridget was pregnant with Annabelle, I skipped a few with Aurora. I was there for the important ones — hearing the heart beat for the first time, the ultrasounds, any time we did have questions — but Bridget went solo on the mundane visits.

But then things took a scary turn.

Around 30 weeks into the pregnancy, Bridget’s blood pressure started to rise. A lot. She was swelling up, too, in a way that didn’t seem normal and had headaches and flashing lights in her vision. She called the doctor, who told us to come in and then to get ourselves to the hospital, fast. Scared and nervous on a cold February night, we made our way to the hospital and up the elevator.

But then Bridget’s blood pressure went down. They told us to sit tight for a bit, fed us, and we joked about how we managed to get a date night out of the chaos. We went home, breathing a collective sigh of relief.

We lived life gingerly in the coming weeks, nervous that something else would happen. We took things one day at a time, excited to see 31 weeks, 32 weeks, and 33 weeks in the rearview mirror. Bridget kept going in to get her levels checked and we kept crossing our fingers. Bridget’s swelling continued, but since she was pregnant (that’s what happens, right?), we didn’t worry too much.

Then came Monday, March 7. Bridget got a call early in the morning about her protein levels. She was off to the hospital again, telling me on the way that they were worried about pre-eclampsia. While she rushed to Cambridge, I rushed to Google and then jogged down Mt. Auburn Street to meet Bridget. We held hands as she laid in another hospital bed, happy to hear that the baby was doing fine.

Bridget was sick, though, they said. The baby would really have a tough time going through a typical delivery, so the word “C-section” hit our ears for the first time. The word “emergency” was whispered, too. I can’t imagine what went through Bridget’s racing mind, but she somehow found the wisdom and calm to make the difficult decision to go into surgery.

I sat in the hospital room by myself in my oversized scrubs while they prepped Bridget. I stared at the wall with tears in my eyes. I hoped. I’ll never forget the 10 minutes of waiting that felt like 10 hours.

I walked in, smiled at Bridget, and said empty positive things that people say in those situations. I was scared. She was scared. This was our second time around with this baby thing, but it felt much, much different and, well, terrifying. We squeezed the life out of each other’s hands until we heard the first cry, which was loud and wonderful.

Aurora, who hadn’t been named yet, was very little, but she was also very healthy.

Which brings us back to the box. At 4 pounds and 8 ounces, Aurora was far from the smallest baby in the NICU. We counted our blessings, knowing that other Moms and Dads had much longer roads ahead. And we were thankful to live where we did, in a place where our harrowing adventure was “just another day” for the healthcare team.

Annabelle visited her sister in the box and asked a lot of questions, of course. “Why is she in there? Can I touch her? Why not? Will she always be in there?” And because she’s at the age when she repeats things, she’ll almost certainly ask again, “Was I in the box?”

And we’ll pause again. And then we'll
answer her.

Seven Months-ish

Everyone says the same things about having a second child:

• “Parents are way more relaxed about them …” 
• “They don’t get as much attention as the first child …” 
• "Parents don’t worry as much about germs, colds, and scrapes …” 

Everyone says these things because they are true. At least that’s what Bridget and I have found. We know what we’re doing (sort of) the second time around and it’s virtually impossible to provide the same attention when there’s a toddler running around the house. We do our best and we love our little Aurora more than words could describe, but we’ve failed her in one critical area:

Monthly milestone stickers.

Those big, colorful sticky numbers you put on a baby’s onesie. You know the ones. You carefully place the number on the baby’s stomach and then take at least 7,500 pictures trying to find the perfect one to share on social media. Is she smiling in this one? Is the light perfect in that one? What if we sat her in that enormous chair? Could we hang her from the ceiling?

(On a related note, it's always interesting see the number of "likes" decrease over the months. The one-month photo: 100 likes. The three-month photo: 30 likes. The seven-month photo: "Ugh. You again?")

Sure, we’ve taken Aurora’s first six pictures – one per month – but we’re nowhere near the right day. Like, not even close. The one-month photo (somewhere close to April 7) wasn’t bad, but it was all downhill from there. The two-month photo was a week late, the three-month photo was two weeks late, and the four- and fifth-month photos were essentially in the same photo shoot. The seven-month photo, now 16 days late, will materialize any day now.

For Annabelle, we took the photos on. the. exact. day. We may have even tried to do it at the exact time of her birth, just so we could capture the exact moment when she went from an eight-month-old to a nine-month-old. (Such things are very important, you know.) Why was it so important to take the photo on the exact day? Who knows? I forget what life was like with one child just like I forget what life was like before children. (Well, I remember, but it seems like someone else’s life.)

Whatever the reason, we found it to be really important for Annabelle. And now, before the Internet and God, I’m writing that we can do better. We must do better! We have five more chances with Aurora. Five more opportunities to capture her completing a big monthly milestone. We are going to take photos 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12 on the 7th of every month. Let’s do this!

Now, if I could just find Aurora. She was just here a minute ago …

300 Apolitical Words on the Election

Donald Trump is a disaster. He's a thin-skinned, egomaniacal bag of hateful wind who capitalizes on people's fears and anxieties. No matter your political leanings, he is the wrong choice for any elected office in the United States, including hall monitor at your local high school. Frankly, I wouldn't trust him to walk my dog or separate my recyclables.

Hey! The headline said this post was apolitical. That means non-political, dummy. Those 60 words are full of political opinion. 

Yes, that's true. I could argue, of course, that this election goes far beyond politics. I could argue that Trump is such a steaming pile of baby diapers that those 60 words were more about good vs. evil than anything else. Instead, I'll just say that the 300 apolitical words on the election start ... right ... Trump sucks! ... now:

Annabelle and Aurora have no clue that one of the most important presidential elections of my (and probably your) lifetime happens in just a few weeks. They don't know who Donald Trump is. They don't know who Hillary Clinton is. They sure as heck don't know who Gary Johnson is. (This is particularly true for Aurora, who, at seven months, doesn't know much of anything yet. She's especially ignorant about third-party presidential candidates.)

They don't know and they don't care.

But I do. As you can clearly see from my first paragraph (which I won't repeat in any way for the rest of the post), I have opinions about the race. Most people do. But this race and this hopeful outcome means more than just who will sit in the Oval Office.

It means hope and opportunity -- for every little girl.

I'm sure you've heard this line of thinking before. I'm not breaking new ground here. But it's pretty amazing when you stop and think about it. Not even 100 years ago, women couldn't vote. Now, one is poised to become the most powerful person in the world. It's groundbreaking, ceiling-shattering, and, well, just great.

Women can do (and have done) almost anything men can do. Go to space? Check. Take out the garbage? Check. Be the sole breadwinner in a family? Check. Play professional basketball? Check. Be President of the United States? Not yet.

Rah, rah, feminism. Blah, blah, you're just saying this because you have two daughters instead of two sons. 

Absolutely not. I'd feel just as strongly if I had boys, dogs, or cats. (Note: I hate cats.) When I see that electoral map under Annabelle's paint brush in the photo above, it gives me hope that someday she'll be looking at a TV screen filled with blue and red with her name on the ballot. Is that likely? Of course not. Is it possible? Check.

Also this:

Dress-ing to Excess

Lately, no matter what we're doing, Annabelle needs to wear a dress.

Going grocery shopping? Dress. Going to the playground? Dress. Going out back to splash around in the pool? Dress? Taking a tub? You guessed it.

Okay, so that last one is an exaggeration, but not by much. For the past several weeks, Annabelle, my "this T-shirt and shorts are fine, Dad" girl, wants nothing to do with any article of clothing unless it's a dress.

This is challenging for me. Why? Mostly because dresses are not practical, at all. It's like driving a minivan around a city.

Like a lot of males (not to generalize, but I'm going to do just that), my feelings on outfits are as follows: Wake up, wear something, stay in said something until something dictates a change (playing a sport, going out for a nice dinner, going to bed, etc.). That's about it. I would never just change in the middle of the day -- especially not if I were wearing a perfectly good, weather-appropriate outfit. Why not? Because I'm not insane.

Annabelle, on the other hand, revels in such insanity. Take the 60-second video below, for example. Somehow, by some miracle, we coaxed Annabelle into wearing a T-shirt and pants because it's fall and it's no longer 80 degrees outside. Then, less than an hour later, this happened:

See what I'm dealing with? How do you reason with her? I'll give you three chances to guess what she was wearing soon after I hit the "stop" button on the camera.

The other problem with this whole "wearing dresses all the time" thing is laundry. Only a few dresses will work, as you know if you have children. Annabelle has 20 dresses, but 17 of them are "ugly" or "not cute" or "too stripy." (I'm fairly certain that last one isn't even a word.) That means we wash three dresses constantly. And, if we do an outfit change like in the video above, we have twice the amount of laundry.

The whole situation, as you can see, is wildly out of hand. If you have any suggestions, I'm all ears. Yell loudly, though. The washing machine is loud.

It's a Girl ... Again

I was pretty certain we were having a boy. I'm not sure why, exactly, other than having one of those gut feelings you have at big moments in your life. Maybe they'll call your name as the winner. Maybe that's the phone call about the dream job. Maybe, or certainly, in this case, I was expecting to hear we were having a little Mike.

I didn't hear that, though.

"Those three lines," said the ultrasound technician. "It's a little girl."

And I was deflated -- absolutely, honest trust, deflated. I wanted a boy. What man doesn't, right? Let's be honest here. When we think of a Dad and his son, we think of sports, camping, shaving ... my chest is sticking out as I type these words. Man-to-man talks, secret handshakes, first beers. Who wouldn't want that?

I faked a smile as I looked at Bridget, my wife. "Oh, that's so exciting! Another girl! Sisters ..."

Annabelle was two-years-old and our 20-week-old fetus (who would become Aurora) would be sisters. We had already decided we'd stop at two children, so this was it. Two girls. No boys.

"Are you sure you're happy? I know you wanted a boy," Bridget said.

I swallowed hard.

"I did," I said. "But really, what Dad doesn't want two girls?"

And like that, after about 30 seconds, it all went away. Saying that sentence out loud -- and realizing how true it was -- changed my outlook. It has stayed changed since. Did I swallow my feelings? Will they surface on some rainy Tuesday when I'm 45? I doubt it.

The thing is, all that stuff I wrote in the fourth paragraph (sports, camping, shaving) are outdated. They're from the 50s. Sure, the bond between a Dad and a son are unique and wonderful. But so is the bond between a Dad and a daughter. Or two daughters. Or three daughters. Girls play sports, girls go camping, and girls, God willing, can be President of the United States. Girls like beer, too. And secret handshakes.

At a bachelor party a few months later (by this time, Aurora was three-months-old; she's six-months-old now), the all-male cast were saying what you'd expect when the topic arose:

• "Dude, go for one more. You have to get back in there."
• "You have to get back in there ..."
• "You want a boy. Everyone wants a boy." 

I did. But now I have two girls and I wouldn't change a thing ...

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It's not all fun, of course. Raising two girls, or tending two roses, in this case, is hard, frustrating, boring, fun, hilarious, and scary. That's what this blog will be about, the ups and downs of raising Annabelle (3) and Aurora (six months). About a year after Bridget and I stopped writing A Joint Account, I've decided I miss this creative outlet. Plus, it's a good way to remember these sleep-less, frustrating, wonderful days. 

Whether you are a Dad with two daughters, a Mom with three sons, or you wouldn't want kids in a million years, I hope you'll read along. And maybe even share and comment here and there. I can certainly use all the advice I can get.