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'?

Five Useful Things I've Learned in Five Years of Marriage

Friday, Bridget and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary. And we celebrated with a frozen pizza, some asparagus, and a couple miniature Peanut Butter Cups. Take that, romance!

Before you call the Sad Police, we're doing a real celebration next weekend. No, not Paris, like the photo above, but some time away for just the two of us. At least that's the plan. Plans have a way of going awry when you have a young family and live in New England.

For example, we had planned a nice dinner out Friday night, but we ended up with the round cheesy delicacy (Newman's is actually pretty good, if you're in the market for one) because of the stupid snow. God, I hate snow. It's so stupid and awful.

Anyway, that whole "plans often go awry" is something I've learned several times in the last five years. But it's far from the only thing I've learned. So I thought I'd step back, take stock, and share five useful lessons from our first five years of marriage.

One note, before we dig into the list, is that we're admittedly early in our marriage, depending on your perspective. I don't pretend to know anything about being married for 10 years, 15 years, or 50 years. I hope to someday. But I do think I know a thing or two about being married for five years. So here goes:

1. Reactions are more important than actions. Bad things will happen in a marriage; they are inevitable. Milk will spill, diapers will blow out (if you have kids), and tragedies will sneak up on you. On top of that, there are things about your partner that will annoy you. One of you will be cleaner. One of you will like to sleep in. And so on. These things will happen and, mostly, they are beyond your control. But you can control your reactions. Those reactions, which are hopefully empathetic and compassionate, can go a long way toward making a marriage happy.

2. It's okay to go to bed angry, sometimes. I think we've all heard the opposite of this advice several times in our lives. Five years ago, I would have subscribed to it. (We can talk through anything!) Now, I think the advice is wrong and potentially harmful. Space is good sometimes. Sitting with your thoughts is good sometimes. Yes, you should always communicate, but not until both partners are ready to have a conversation.

3. Compliments are critical. More than likely, your spouse is the most important person in your life. That's certainly the truth for me. Your spouse's opinions, even if it's not always obvious, matter a great deal. And a thoughtful, well-placed, "Hey, you really look nice today" on a rushed weekday morning can make all the difference in the world.

4. It's important to try new things. We're all products of our lived experiences--this is the way my family does holidays, these are my favorite foods, this is how I spend my free time. Staying true to yourself is, of course, important, but marriage isn't a time for being stubborn or bullheaded. Had it not been for Bridget, I wouldn't like brussels sprouts, banana peppers, or yogurt. And I wouldn't love my dog, because I wouldn't have a dog. I've found that flexibility is better than firmness.

5. Marriage is hard. Duh, right? Well, maybe not. A lot of us (myself included) had a vision at one point that included finding the perfect person, building white picket fences, drinking lots of expensive wine, and letting the soft wind gently tickle your hair. So far, except for the first item in that list, that hasn't been my experience. (We are getting a new fence this spring, though.) Marriage takes time, effort, and attention. To me, it's like a big project at work. (Sorry, ladies. I'm taken.) If you ignore it or think someone else will handle it, it's probably not going to succeed. You need to work at it and nurture it. How? Communicate. Be spontaneous. Inconvenience yourself. Put in the time.

Above all, it's about picking the right person and then growing with that person. I'm so lucky I did. And that I am.

Nine Things I Learned During My Week as Solo Dad

Bridget went to Las Vegas for work this past week (at least she claimed it was work ... cough ... blackjack ... cough), which meant I was on my own with Thing 1 (Annabelle) and Thing 2 (Aurora) from Monday to Friday. It was challenging. It was also, by most measures, successful.

But yes, I'd lead with challenging.

Trying to balance work, daycare transportation, reading bedtime stories, potty duty, middle-of-the-night duty, dinners, lunches (why don't toddlers eat lunches?), breakfasts, meltdowns ... the list goes on ... is tricky. If you are a single parent, you are a far, far tougher person than I am. You, simply put, are better than me. But I digress.

Yes, it was challenging, but I learned some useful lessons that I thought were worth sharing. (You, of course, can be the judge of that when you get to the bottom of the list.) In no particular order, here are nine things I learned in my week as solo dad:

1. If you hear your child crying in the middle of the night and you wait several minutes, well, nothing will happen. You'll eventually realize it's all on you. I'm not sure why or how I thought Bridget was going to come to the rescue on Monday night, but, not surprisingly, she didn't.

2. It's incredibly challenging to get the appropriate amount of toothpaste on your toddler's toothbrush with one hand while she's holding said brush. Too little, there's no point in brushing. Too much, paste is everywhere. It was like watching water buffalo mate--or at least I think that's an apt comparison. I've never seen such water buffaloes mate.

3. If you break even the smallest routine, your senses are heightened. I love routines, but they were obviously in the trash this week. I found it exhilarating to eat dinner at 8:30 on Wednesday and take the recycling out to the curb well past 9 on Monday. (That sentence is lame, even for me.)

4. No matter how many times you explain to a 3-year-old why Mommy is away for work, it'll never completely sink in. I heard "Why is Mommy in Lost Vegas?" no fewer than 79 times.

5. No phrase is scarier as a Dad alone with two girls in public than, "Daddy, I have to go poo poo."

6. Grandmothers (and family support) are invaluable. This is obvious in theory, but it's super important in practice, too. Help with daycare transportation, starting dinner, and allowing me to indulge in a mid-week gym trip were just the bee's knees.

7. When one girl is crying really hard, the other girl will start crying, too. You just have to sit there and let the cries wash over you like a cleansing rain. They will eventually stop. Life will go on.

8. Cereal is okay for dinner. Multiple times.

9. Being a solo dad leaves very little time for hobbies, like blog writing, which means you sort of mail it in with a quick list of observations ...

March Sadness

One year, after Syracuse lost in the first round, I sat with my head in my hands, incredulous at what I'd just seen on the TV. I threw my hat across the room in disgust and proceeded to sulk for the next several hours. It led to a spirited argument with my girlfriend at the time. (It sounds like I used to be a real prince, eh?)

Another year, I took a three-hour lunch break (very unlike me) and gorged myself on bar snacks with a couple colleagues. I'm actually not sure I even went back to work that day.

March Madness is, perennially, one of my favorite times of year. I look forward to it, to dust off a well-worn cliche, like a kid looks forward to Christmas morning, consuming game after game, reading analysis after analysis, and feeling a special kinship with Joe Lunardi and his bracketology magic. Selection Sunday, and this isn't really an exaggeration, is basically a holy day for me.

This March, not so much.

In fact, between Thursday and Friday, the two most exciting days of the tournament (and maybe the entire calendar year), I watched exactly three minutes of action. And that's just because Bridget and I were out to dinner when the Kansas-UC Davis game happened to be on at a bar across the restaurant. This year, I hastily filled out a bracket a couple days before tipoff, closed my browser, and got on with my life.

Which leads to me a question: What the hell happened to me? 

Kids is the obvious answer. My attention, pretty much all of it, is elsewhere. Instead of watching conference tournaments, I was watching Doc McStuffins. Instead of Sunday afternoon hoops on CBS, I was swimming in what I can only imagine is an almost completely urine-filled pool with my now 1-year-old princess. Parenting ... it's fannnnntastic! (It is, really.) And that's probably part of the answer.

Another potential answer is that my interests have changed. It happens, right? Every morning, I open up my Timehop app on my phone and see what I was doing that day a year ago, two years ago, etc. But mostly and surprisingly, I've stayed focused on the same things. Sure, fads come and go, but things like podcasts, Bruce Springsteen, running, and college sports have been constants. This past week, no surprise, my Timehop was filled with status updates about brackets, images of mouth-watering adult beverages, and one word over and over: Cuuuuuuuuuse!

That leads me to the third potential answer to my bold question: Syracuse, my beloved Orange, didn't make the tournament this year. (The committee screwed 'em!) It's true that they are the one of the main reasons I follow college basketball, but, in reality, I love everything about the game. The passion of the players. The campus crowds. The rivalries. The iconic announcers. Together, it all warms my orange blood-filled heart.

So what then? Why don't I really care this year? I'm not positive, but my suspicion, though, to get a little emotional for a second, is that it's the first March Madness I've ever watched without talking to my childhood best friend first. More times than I can count, we filled out our brackets together, arguing about the strengths of the ACC vs. the Big East and trying to find this year's Cinderella story. We grew up playing basketball together and loved everything about the game -- playing it, watching it, dreaming about it ...

"It's getting a little dusty in here," as Marble liked to say, so I should probably stop. I just really hope I love the madness again next March. I'm pretty sure my friend would want want that.

A Second Chance at a First Piece of Cake

Annabelle hated her first piece of cake. It was a cupcake, actually. She looked at it, poked it a little, knocked it over, and started crying.

Fail.

For me and Bridget, mostly. We had been so excited about the experience. Our first baby! Her first piece of cake! It was going to be awesome!

But it wasn't. I'm pretty sure she didn't even take a bite.

Aurora gave us another chance, though. And man oh man, did she ever rise to the occasion. Sure, there was a little uncertainty, a little poking, a little thinking. But then it was on.

This is one of those moments when moving pictures are much better than words, so I'll let the next 2 minutes and 47 seconds tell the story:

In full disclosure, I ate the rest (most) of the piece after Aurora manhandled it. It was delicious, moist chocolate cake. No shame.

Our Little Shoplifter

Annabelle keeps a lot of things in her floral backpack. (Kids like to put things into other things, if you didn't know.) She fills her overflowing carrier with necklaces, stuffed animals, fake food from her play kitchen, tubes of ChapStick, original artwork, and crayons.

Oh, and stolen tubes of toothpaste.

We found that last item last Saturday night, as I was searching for a missing flip flop. I didn't think much of it until I went upstairs to talk to Bridget.

"That girl has everything in her backpack," I said. "I just found a tube of toothpaste!"

"Ha. Wait, what kind?," Bridget replied.

"I don't know, a kid one," I said. "Bubblegum princess, I think. You must have bought it for her at some point."

"No, I didn't," she said. "And we were looking at toothpastes yesterday in the drugstore."

Uh oh. Big uh oh.

The next morning, I approached Annabelle, who was busy at work with her backpack. I stooped down to her, looked her in the eyes, and held her hand.

"Honey, when did you get this toothpaste?"

"At the drugstore," Annabelle said. "Yesterday."

"Who paid for it?," I said.

"I paid for it," she said. "I got it for my sister."

I bit my lip. Hard. As you can imagine, the emotions were swirling at that point. She did something wrong because she was trying to do something nice. And at that moment, she knew she did something wrong, which is particularly tough for Annabelle.

"That's so sweet," I said. "But we can't take take things that aren't ours -- from stores or from other people. We're going to have to bring it back."

She stared at me, not really understanding. "Ok ..."

"Don't worry about it, honey," I said. "It's just an honest mistake. We all make mistakes."

So we drove to the drugstore, just down the street. It was early on a Sunday morning, so it was empty. Two women stood chatting behind the front counter. Annabelle and I walked over, hand in hand.

"Hi," I started. "So we got home last night and found this toothpaste in our backpack. We forgot to pay for it, though. We took it for our little sister and we're sorry."

The woman smiled, of course. "Ohhh, it's okay," she said to Annabelle.

"And we'd like to pay for it now," I added, thinking I was in an after-school special.

Annabelle handed the woman $20 and, as she did, I realized how easy it was to make the mistake. Transactions, nowadays, are a swipe of a card or a scan of an app. Why wouldn't she think she could just take it?

We left the store -- Annabelle clutching a bag with the toothpaste inside -- and went out to the car. We talked about feelings for a while and Annabelle said she felt "sad." I told her it was just a mistake and that we all make them sometimes. She said that, next time, she'd ask Mommy and Daddy if she wanted anything at a store.

Will the message stick? Who knows? Kids, especially kids that are 3 and curious, learn dozens of new things every day. This one seemed meaningful, though.

I didn't want to end the experience on a sad note, so we went up the street to the bakery. Annabelle picked out a cupcake -- a chocolate one with a snowman on top -- and paid for it, with a $5 bill.

The Four Stages of Watching Sports with Annabelle

Watching sports with Annabelle is a sport in itself. Or more of a game, really -- a game that ends the same way every time.

Every weekend, without fail, this happens:

Stage 1: The Decision  

Me: “Okay, Dad’s going to go downstairs watch a little (insert sport.)”
Annabelle: “I want to watch (insert sport)!”

Doesn’t matter what it is, as long as it’s TV. It could be water polo, actual polo, or the world paper airplane championships and Annabelle would be dutifully by my side on the couch. It’s usually basketball, football, tennis, or golf, but I get the sense that she doesn’t really care.

Stage 2: Choosing Sides

And within seconds of sitting down, this transpires:

Annabelle: “Are you rooting for the white team or the blue team?” (I’m making up the colors and the particular game for the sake of the story.)
Me: “Ah, the white team. I’ve always liked them.”
Annabelle: “Okay, I’ll cheer for the white team. … We don’t like the blue team, right?”
Me: “Well, it’s not that we don’t like them. We just like the white team more.”
Annabelle: “But we don’t like the blue team, right?”
Me: “Sure.”

She then announces to Bridget—or whoever is around—that we are cheering for the white team and that we dislike the blue team a great deal. Why we have to really like one team and really dislike another team is a mystery to me, but that’s fine. Point is, we’re cheering together.

Stage 3: Scoring and Jumping 

We then watch for, oh, maybe four minutes. Maybe five.

Then this happens:

Annabelle: “Is the white team winning?”
Me: “No, not yet. They’re down by 10.”

Thirty seconds elapse.

Annabelle: “Is the white team winning?”
Me: “Nope, still down 10.”

Fifteen seconds elapse.

Annabelle: “Is the white winning?”
Me: “Not yet.”

Then, the jumping begins. Annabelle, who is clearly not as impressed as I am about a well-run half-court offense begins jumping from the ottoman to the couch. Again. And again. And again.

Stage 4: The End 

Me: “Honey, I can’t see with you jumping everywhere.”
Annabelle: “Can we watch Daniel Tiger now?”
Me: “Well, let’s just watch this for a bit. I really want to see this game.”

Jumping. Jumping. Jumping. Jumping.

Annabelle: “Now can we watch Daniel Tiger?”

And then, usually, we stop watching sports. All four stages usually take about 15 minutes, sometimes 10, and I suppose I should get annoyed. I do sometimes, especially if Syracuse is playing or it’s close game in the fourth quarter.

Someday, I’m certain, we’ll watch a whole game together. She’ll sit with me, cheer for my favorite team with me, and ask a bunch of new questions. And a small piece of me with miss watching Daniel Tiger.

The Unexpected Benefits of Spontaneity

I am not, by any definition of the word, spontaneous. 

I find routines comforting, soothing, and downright enjoyable. I go to bed around the same time every night (and always read before I do), get up around the same time every day (and always feed Oscar first thing), and eat pretty much the same thing for lunch every day. Even on weekends. Speaking of weekends, my Saturday mornings consist of a trip to the gym, the waiting room at dance class, and a trip to the grocery store with Annabelle. Every. Saturday. 

Surprises? Shake-ups? Spontaneity? No, thanks. I'm good. (Let me take this moment to say, "Hands off, ladies. I'm taken.")

As boring as this may sound -- and I admit, after reading that paragraph above, I'm even a little bored -- my reliable ways make me a pretty good Dad to Annabelle, Aurora, and Oscar. (Yes, Oscar, too, because if dogs don't like routines, who does?) Kids like to watch the same things over and over, eat the same things over and and over, and read the same things over and over. They do better when they have set bedtimes, set activities, and set routines. 

Which brings me to the photo at the top of the post. It screams spontaneity and it makes me smile from ear to ear. 

Last Sunday, we got a bunch of snow. Maybe you remember. It was thick, wet, heavy snow and it fell for much of the day and into the night. We weren't sure what Monday was going to bring in terms of school, work, or commutes, so we mostly just sat, watched, and visited weather websites. 

Earlier in the week, the big snowstorm before the one we were watching, Annabelle had asked if we could make a snowman. Unfortunately that snow was light and powdery -- not good for making balls of snow. 

But Sunday, the snow was perfect. As we sat and ate dinner, Annabelle sensed it. "It's the perfect snowman making snow!" 

"Actually, it is. Maybe we can make a snowman tomorrow morning," I said, thinking we would have a delay.

"But it's perfect right now," she said.

She was right. But we were in the middle of dinner. We still had to do tubs. She hadn't napped. And then the routine of potty, teeth, and books, of course. Plus, her snow clothes were still wet from playing outside earlier in the day.

All signs pointed to no. But we went out in the cold, snowy night and it was amazing.

As you can guess from the photo, Annabelle was smiling and laughing from start to finish. She helped me roll the base, a generous middle, and the all-important top. We trudged through the backyard snow -- "hold my hand, Dad!" -- to look for the perfect sticks for the arms. We went inside to get the traditional carrot nose and settled on rocks (instead of blueberries) for the eyes. We finished things off with a blue scarf, thanks to Bridget's eye for fashion. And we took pictures of our new snowman, Oscar, gathering memories that we'll enjoy forever.

Does this mean I'm doing away with my routines? Maybe a new lunch this week? Doubt it. But I am going to try to be more spontaneous -- right now. 

Resisting the Urge to Compare

Annabelle is a really good jumper. Seriously. I’ve seen it. Once every month at her dance class, the instructors turn on the cameras in the room so the parents can watch their adorable little ballerinas. This month, as the parents looked on with smiles and awkward laughs, the girls did some jumping — over blocks, into squares, etc. — and Annabelle jumped far and high.

Farther and higher than the other girls, in fact. I know because I watched them, too. I had to see if Annabelle was a better jumper.

Why, you ask? Great question. I wonder the same thing myself.

If there’s one thing I would change about myself as a parent, it would be my tendency to compare my kids to other kids. Even if it's just for a split second. I can’t help it. Maybe you can’t either. If other kids can do something, I want my kids to be able to it, too. I want them to be as good or better at absolutely everything. The feeling comes, I assure you, from a place of intense love, but I wish I didn’t have it.

The feeling goes beyond dance class, of course.

We had a parent-teacher meeting at Annabelle’s preschool a few weeks ago to hear about how our 3-year-old was doing in the classroom. The answer: very well. Annabelle knows right from wrong, listens well (most of the time), helps other kids with their coats and shoes, and is “a leader in the class.” Bridget and I were all smiles, of course. “A leader,” I said. “Isn’t that great?”

But what if she wasn’t emerging as a leader? What if she kept to herself most of the time? Or had strong emotional reactions whenever she didn’t get her way?

Annabelle, of course, has her challenges. Like many of us, she’s pretty shy when she enters a room — especially if there are a lot of people in the room. She hides behind us, looks at the ceiling when she gets a compliment, and speaks very quietly when she’s talking to someone she doesn’t know. I see other kids (not many at the age of 3, but some) who speak clearly and confidently in new situations. And for that split second after I witness this, I wonder why Annabelle isn’t like that.

It’s that split second I want to change:

• That split second at a grocery store when I see a kid throwing a tantrum and I feel lucky Annabelle isn’t 
• That split second when I see Annabelle following other kids around the playground and wonder why they aren’t following her 
• That split second when other kids want to play soccer with their Dads instead of showing off their new dance moves 

Those split seconds have seeped into the way I see Aurora, too. She was a premature baby (six weeks early), so her development has been delayed here and there. She doesn’t crawl yet, for example. Other kids in her class are running around like their feet are on fire, but not our little munchkin. And I wonder, anxiously, when it’s going to happen.

Again, why? I’m bright enough to know that everyone moves through life at their own pace. Everyone is good at some things and not-so-good at other things. For example, I can dribble the heck out of a basketball, but I can’t stand on a pair of ice skates. I can turn a phrase, but I can’t make heads or tails of a geometric proof.

Now, I have a new challenge: Resist the urge to compare my daughters, to other kids and to each other. I found this article pretty helpful. It won’t be easy (I'm competitive by nature), but I’m going to start working at it and I’ll get better.

The obvious reality is that my daughters will succeed, fail, and succeed again throughout their lives. They'll be wonderful at some things and mediocre at others. They'll jump really high and really far and they'll fall — a lot.  And I hope those moments, the falls and the getting back ups, will be my proudest.

Annabelle's 11 Best One-Liners

Parenthood, despite all its challenges, is pretty damn awesome.

One unexpected benefit: Humor.  Kids are hilarious. In fact, lately, I find myself spending more and more energy trying not to laugh when Annabelle says something funny/inappropriate that I shouldn't encourage. For example: "Daddy, wouldn't it be funny if your head was a butt?!"

My little 3.5-year-old has been cranking out some pretty good one-liners for a while now, so I thought it'd be good to capture them all in one place. Here are 11 highlights from the last six months or so:

6:29 on a Monday night, after a long day at work:
Me: "I have a surprise ..."
Annabelle: "For me?"
Me: "For a big girl who has made some good choices lately ..."
Annabelle: "Me! I'm a big girl! I make good choices!"
Me: (Pulling a Curious George book out of my bag) "I got this for you at that store you love in Harvard Square!"
Annabelle: "Do you have anything else?"

6:37, that same night:
Bridget, singing along with Adele: "Hello. How are youuu?"
Annabelle: "You know, Mom, you can just listen."

7:13 on a Friday night (a moment of levity after a tough week):
Annabelle, grabbing her little toothbrush: "After today, can we start using my big toothbrush?"
Me: "Sure, sweetie."
Annabelle: "Because you keep using my little one ... and it's killing me."

6:31 on a Friday night, after a lengthy whining session:
Me: "I was talking to Uncle Walter today. He asked about you."
Annabelle: "What did he say?"
Me: "He said you need to start making better choices."
Annabelle: "I will never kill a skunk ..."
Me: "I'm not sure ... Ok. Good, good."

7:14 on a Saturday morning:
Me: "Annabelle, let's go potty before breakfast, ok?"
Annabelle: "Nooo ..."
Me: "Come on, hun. We all go when we wake up. Don't you have to go?"
Annabelle: "I'm astonished that I don't have to go!"

6:38 on Tuesday, November 8:
Me: "Annabelle, what day is it today?"
Annabelle: "Is it collection day?"
Me: "Close enough. And what do you think of Trump?"
Annabelle: "I don't like Trump. He's a bad guy."

12:28 on a Wednesday afternoon:
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."

7:17 on a Friday night:
Me: "Annabelle, can you please eat your ravioli? Please?"
Annabelle: "If you put more cheese on, it'll help me survive."

6:44 on a Saturday night: 
Annabelle: "Is my sister asleep?"
Me: "She is."
Annabelle: "Why don't fish have eyelids?"
Me: "It's time for bed."

6:03 on a Sunday morning:
Annabelle: "Is it fun to push kids into the fire?"
Me: "No ...what? God, no! Why would you ask that?"
Annabelle: "Witches do that sometimes, if you lose the breadcrumbs."
Me: "Oh, right, right. Hansel and Gretel ..."

11:24 on a Sunday morning, walking home from Starbucks: 
Me: You know, honey, I'm so proud of you. You're so polite when we go out and you make so many people smile. You're really a wonderful little girl."
Annabelle: (nods stares, thinks) "Um, squirrels climb on fences ..."

The Oscar's Share

Most everyone was happy when Aurora, now 10 months old, was born. Bridget and I were thrilled. Annabelle was excited and curious. Grandparents were overjoyed.

Oscar was not.

And really, it's tough to blame him. Once the focus of all our love and attention, our now 10-year-old Australian Shepherd hasn't had the best few years. For example, before Annabelle came along, he used to sleep in bed with us, claiming way too much space than a 45-pound animal needs. But when we woke up, we laughed, patted him on the head, and got him a treat anyway because he was "adorably incorrigible."

Now he sleeps somewhere in the house -- a chair, maybe, or a couch. Maybe the floor? Honestly, I'm not sure. We have babies, ya know?

Oscar has fallen down, down, down the totem pole, and it's really no one's fault. To think we could shower a dog with attention when two babies came into our house just wasn't realistic. Sure, we give him as much love as we can. He has a Christmas stocking, gets lots of exercise in our backyard, and eats, for some reason, organic dog food. (Really, Bridget?) But we also yell at him when he barks too loud, push him out of the way when he spends too much time sniffing one of his sisters, and wish he didn't smell so bad all of the time.

Sigh.

But, BUT, there is one thing that brings joy to Oscar's heart and is pretty darn convenient for us, too. I call it The Oscar's Share.

The Oscar's Share? In the world of wine and spirits, the angel's share, you may know, is the portion of the drink that is lost to evaporation during aging in oak barrels. (It is similar to the Devil's cut.) The Oscar's Share is the non-stop, often delicious supply of food scraps that find their way into Oscar's bowl (and, subsequently, his belly) because little girls aren't great at finishing their meals. Mostly, Oscar eats:

• Cheerios (so many Cheerios)
• Baby puffs
• Fruit, including strawberries, blueberries, oranges, apples (no, never grapes)
• Cucumbers
• Chicken nuggets
• Bagels
• Raviolis
• Macaroni & cheese
• Rice cakes with peanut butter

Other stuff, too, but that's Oscar's core people-food diet. (He hates celery, though. That's the one thing he won't eat.) And he always takes care of spills at a moment's notice. Simply yell "Oscar!" and he sprints into the room, waiting anxiously to see what treasure awaits. He gets a snack and we get clean(er) floors. Win-win. 

Someday, when the girls start getting a little older, I hope I can give Oscar more attention. I hope we take lots of walks in the woods and I learn to love the smell of wet dog again. Maybe he'll even sleep on the bed again someday. The truth is he deserves more than The Oscar's Share. 

Until then, though, I'd say he still has a pretty good life. And, my God, just so many Cheerios. 

Our 88 Minutes of Morning Chaos

Probably the worst part, as a human being, is saying "good job, buddy" to Oscar while I pick up his pungent poop as he kicks dirt in my face. There are other bad parts, of course, but that's probably the bottom.

How's your weekday morning routine? Stressful? Funny? Chaotic? I'm betting, like us, maybe a little of all three.

Ours typically gets going, for everyone, around 6:30, so that's where I'll start. I figure sharing this average Tuesday morning might help you, a reader, generate some improvement ideas for your routines. Far more likely, you'll compare yourself and feel much better about the way you do things.

6:30: With my eight-minute shower behind me, I'm dressed and ready for work. I'll get there 150 minutes from now. I pick Aurora out of her bed, snuggle her (the calmest moment of the next 88 minutes), and bring her to our bed so Bridget can feed her.

6:33: A light goes on across the hall. Annabelle is awake. Someday, she will hop out of bed and efficiently get herself downstairs. Now, mostly, as depicted in the photo above, she puts stuffed polar bears on her head and smiles.

6:37: Annabelle refuses to wear the outfit we chose together last night. "Okay then, this one or this one?," I ask, using the "choice" technique that has served us well as parents. "Neither." She smiles, realizing how smart she is. Then she cries because she only wants to wear tights, not pants. The only clean pair is too small, so we squeeze her into those. My blood pressure starts rising, but, thankfully she dresses pretty quickly.

6:47: Annabelle and I finally finish her trio of morning bathroom duties -- peeing, washing her hands, and brushing her teeth. (Did I skip something? No. I did not. This, for some ungodly reason, takes like 10 damn minutes. "Annabelle! Just use the hand towel right here!" Annabelle: "But my hands are really wet. I need the big towel over there." Adorable. Infuriating.)

6:48: Annabelle and I walk downstairs to get her breakfast. The conversation is the same every day: "Daniel Tiger or Doc McStuffins?" "Waffles or pancakes?" Two minutes later, she's eating a waffle and watching Daniel Tiger. Some days, she gets a full episode, about 25 minutes. Other days, if we're really behind, she gets a half episode. Choosing the episode takes a minute or two, which we don't have.

6:50: I sprint up the stairs to take over for Bridget, who is changing Aurora. This is challenging because Aurora won't stay still. Bridget hops in the shower, while I put Aurora in something that matches only if you squint really hard. Whatever.

6:53: I bring Aurora downstairs and plop her in her highchair to play with some toys. Some days, I sprinkle Cheerios in front of her. Other days, I forget. "Annabelle, eat your waffles, hun."

6:55: I start emptying the dishwasher. "Annabelle! Please eat your waffles!"

6:59: Eyeing the clock, I see we have 21 minutes until we have to leave. Leaving around 7:20 gets us to daycare on time, allows me to catch my train to work, and makes traffic somewhat bearable for Bridget. I sprint (never just run or jog) downstairs to get a couple frozen milks for Aurora's lunch and start defrosting them.

7:01: "Annabelle!! Waffles!! Crackers and sun butter for lunch?" She nods, never looking away from her show. (Yes, we'd prefer she read in the morning. Yes, we'd prefer she not stare at TV. But we also live in the real world, so take your judging eyes elsewhere.)

7:10: After making lunches and getting bottles together, I enjoy the aforementioned Oscar experience. I ask Annabelle to watch her sister while Dad runs outside for a couple minutes. Not sure if this is legal.

7:15: Annabelle's episode ends. "Okay, please turn it off, Annabelle. Please put on your coat and shoes." (I'll say this at least six more times until she actually does it.) Together, Bridget and I gather the lunches, ignored babies, and our own bags. We glance at the whiteboard in the kitchen that we may or may not have updated the night before. We have everything.

7:17: Annabelle still hasn't put on her coat. I race back into the kitchen to get water for Oscar and lock the trash so he won't get into it and eat garbage all day. I pat him on the head and tell him we'll "be right back."

7:20: With bags dangling from every available appendage, we limp-sprint out the door. Because it's winter in New England, we see there is ice on the cars. Crap, I think. I'm going to miss my train. 

7:24: We all leave the house (Bridget goes left and I go right) and I cross my frozen fingers that people let me into the line of traffic and we hit all the green lights.

7:33: Annabelle, Aurora, and I arrive at daycare. I drop off Annabelle (a quick hug and a kiss because, mercifully, she's good at drop offs now) and run across the center to drop off Aurora. I take my shoes off because it's a no-shoe zone. I plop Aurora on the floor or hand her to a smiling teacher, remind them that she needs X or Y, and kiss her on the head.

7:43: I check-in the girls on the computer system at daycare and sprint to my car. "Siri, call my wife!"

7:55: After chatting with Bridget about the morning, the issue du jour, the traffic, and how we can try to get out of the house earlier tomorrow (spoiler alert: we won't), I park at the train station and sprint, for the fifth time this morning, to the waiting train.

7:58: I grab a seat, look at the ceiling, and wonder if this is the train ride home get ready to face the day with energy, enthusiasm, and passion ...

Reconnecting with My Old Friend, Sleep

See that face up there? That big smile. Those impossible-to-resist-squeezing cheeks. Those two little teeth coming up from the bottom. Adorable, right? Thanks to my wife, we make cute babies and Aurora Quinn is in an especially fetching stage.

She's also entering a much more important stage: the one where she actually sleeps.

In her first 10 months of life, Aurora has been, to put it simply, a very lousy sleeper. On a scale from 1 - 10, she's been maybe a "3." Maybe. If we're counting napping, she goes up to a "4," but napping isn't nearly as important as the overnight hours.

She's always gone down pretty well at night, but staying down has been the problem. On good nights, she'd wake up one or two times (usually at 11 PM and then 3 AM) and on bad nights, well, we don't talk about bad nights. Suffice it to say that I screamed into some couch pillows on four separate occasions. (If you're a parent, you can relate; if you aren't a parent, you are either not reading this or probably taking a nap or doing something fun with all of your disposable income.)

We weren't ready for Aurora to be a bad sleeper, unfortunately, because Annabelle had been so good. She started sleeping through the night at six weeks and was a strong sleeper until the horrendous 18-month regression. The second child, everyone says, is easier. Well that's crap.

We did all the stuff you're supposed to do with babies, this being our second rodeo and all. We had a regular routine, and tried magic suits, sleep sacks, pacifiers, and anything else that would keep our sweet little angel down for more than three goddamn hours in a row. No luck. Bridget and I eventually developed a system where she would take wake-ups before 2 AM and I'd take them after. We both got up almost every night for weeks, then months. I woke up on the couch in the basement -- with Aurora tucked into a quickly shrinking Rock 'n Play Sleeper -- far more often than I woke up on my bed.

"It has to get better at some point, right?" I'd ask most mornings.

"Yes, someday," said my bleary-eyed beauty.

Parents who suffer from sleep deprivation, I heard once, fall into one of three categories: 1, This is fine; 2, This is tough, but bearable; 3, This is an unimaginable hell. We were firmly in 2, I think, but I felt like 3 on more workdays than I'd like to admit.

It's comforting that they're studying sleep deprivation in Dads now because it's tough. The worst part, for me, was that for days, weeks, and sometimes months on end, there was no light at the end of the tunnel. When we went to bed at night, we knew we were getting up very soon.

And then, this week, as 2016 turned into 2017, something happened. Sure, we'd had a few nights of success (6- or 7-hour stretches), but somehow, some way, the clouds parted and the light of good sleep has shined on our little one. She sleeps from 7:30(ish) - 6(ish) and we feel like we're walking on air.

As parents, we know nothing lasts forever. Bad phases are somewhere on the horizon. Heck, even last night wasn't great. But for now, goodness, would you look at that face ...

Because Someday She Won't Let Me ...

Annabelle, Aurora, and I walked to the bakery in the center of Reading last Wednesday. We do that most Wednesdays, the weekday I had off for a lot of 2016 thanks to my company's progressive paternity leave policy. And every Wednesday, we have a similar conversation about the walk to the bakery.

Me: "Annabelle, do you want to go in the stroller?"

Annabelle: "No."

Me: "Do you want to walk on your own?"

Annabelle: "No. I wanna go on ya head."

Me: "The stroller would make it much easier. Are you sure you don't want to get in there? It'll make us faster."

Annabelle: "I wanna go on ya head, Daddy!"

And on my head she goes. Well, on my shoulders, to be specific. And we walk the mile and change into town that way, with Annabelle bouncing around on my shoulders as I maneuver the sizable stroller through the town streets. Annabelle gets down, selects her cookies (or cupcake or, sometimes, on special occasions, both), eats said sugary treat, and then hops back on my head for the mile-and-change walk home. She gets off my head, climbs up the stairs, sometimes says, "My legs are so tired," laughs, and goes into our house.

And I let out a sigh of relief. My neck, almost always, hurts a bit afterwards. (It is, after all, a 35-pound weight jostling around on my neck for about 45 minutes.) My back is a little sore because I have to duck several times so Annabelle won't hit her head. There are several hills. On the way home, I'm usually balancing an iced coffee for Bridget, too, just to add a little icing to my sympathy cake.

Why do I do it? Bridget asks while I rub my neck after every walk. "Just have her sit in the carriage or walk ..."

My answer: Because someday she won't let me.

That may seem silly, but I think about it all the time. Annabelle is already 3 and has grown out of lots of things. She hasn't napped on my chest in years, rarely sits on anyone's lap, and actually kicks us out of her bed after we read her bedtime stories now.

So when she lets me do things, even things I don't necessarily like, I try to remind myself to enjoy every minute of them.

"Yes, I'll watch that episode of Doc McStuffins with you for the 83rd time ..."
"That puzzle again? Sure, of course ..."
"Okay, six more big hugs even though it's 45 minutes past your bedtime ..."

Because someday she won't let me. She won't let me watch TV with her. She won't want to do puzzles with me. She won't want me to tuck her in.

It makes me sad, but it's reality. It's part of parenting.

After more than three years of this parenting thing, I've learned that there are dizzying highs and gut-wrenching lows. There are joyful hours, frustrating minutes, and infuriating moments. And everything changes. Constantly. But, looking back, oddly enough, the moments that seem the worst at the time are often the memories that stick with you and make you smile. The diaper blowout that went, literally, everywhere. The tantrum in front of the post office. The dinner of four Cheez-Its, half a yogurt, and two candy canes.

Will my neck hurt for a while after our "walks"? Will my back be sore? Will my shoulders ache? Of course. So what? Hop on up, Annabelle. It's time to go to the bakery. And let's get moving because time is catching up to us ...