You'll always be my special big girl

Dearest Ava,
Your little brother arrives on Friday. We've been telling you you'll be a Big Sister for a while, and now that day is almost here. Before your brother arrives, though, I wanted to make sure that you always know how special you are to Daddy.

Someday when you're older and can read this blog, you'll see a lot of posts about how Daddy's life changed so much after you were born. You'll read about changing diapers, about all the pink stuff in our house, how Daddy worries about making sure he does his part to make the world a better place for you and Mommy. Maybe you'll laugh, surely you'll cringe, and you'll definitely probably think Daddy's a silly sap.

But I hope you'll read how I think you are the most amazing thing I've been a part of. I can't even explain to you how much you have changed me -- simply by being born.

I remember when we first brought you home from the hospital and how in awe of you I was. Mommy and I couldn't believe that we had made you, borne out of our love for one another. You would lay there in my arms -- sometimes awake, sometimes asleep -- and I would be hypnotized by you. Every yawn, blink of your eyes, wiggle or snuggle was a revelation. You had me instantly, completely, and forever.

As you grew, it seemed like every day was a new discovery. The first time you grabbed my finger. The first time you smiled at me. The first time you rolled over or held a toy or giggled or blew raspberries at Mommy and Daddy... they were revelations, "firsts" that seemed to happen at a breakneck pace. You were the most amazing, wonderful thing I had ever seen.

When you called me "Dada" for the first time, it melted my heart. When you crawled (and "butt-scooted") I cheered. When you stood up, I watched with equal parts joy and sheer terror. When you walked for the first time, I was so proud (and scared). When you learned to climb the stairs and ride your bike, I cheered again.

Now you sing and dance and play the piano and draw and run and laugh and make up stories... and so many other things. You're so smart and beautiful and funny and silly. I can't believe we made you.

It will probably be hard for you sometimes to be a Big Sister, knowing how long you got to be the only one. You'll have to share toys, attention, food, all sorts of things that used to be "just yours." You'll be mad, and maybe sad, and probably wonder if all the things that used to be just for you are now changed or gone.

They're not. You'll always have special Mommy-Daddy Hugs and Mommy-Daddy Kisses. You'll always have dance parties with Daddy. You'll always have bedtime stories and "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."

You'll always be my special big girl. And you'll always hear me say "Daddy loves you."

Love,
Daddy

My only prayer is, if I can’t be there/ Lord, protect my child

I've been reading about the new documentary film "Bully" a lot recently. And I've been wondering how a filmmaker could shoot a film like this -- which follows three kids being bullied and two sets of parents whose children committed suicide because of bullying -- without intervening.

Even though I've only been a parent for a short time, I've learned that standing idly by is not a luxury a parent has. Whether it's hovering anxiously while your child takes her first tentative steps or staying that extra second (or 20) in her day care room at dropoff to make sure she's happy, the idea that your child is unhappy or could be hurt (emotionally or physically) is unbearable. You just can't watch.

Now this is not -- in any way -- an indictment of the film's director, Lee Hirsch; on the contrary, his shining a light on bullying is incredibly important. In Massachusetts alone we've seen the positive impact of the Pheobe Prince and Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover bullying tragedies, both which spurred schools and lawmakers to take decisive action to end bullying. The "It Gets Better" campaign has been revelatory to many, exposing the harsh truth that -- pop culture notwithstanding -- being gay or "different" as a teen is a lonely and harsh existence for too many of our children. Hirsch's film and the "It Gets Better" campaign will hopefully be important building blocks in the effort to stop bullying in our schools and, maybe, our society.

What "Bully" has done is make me think of what would happen if that were my child. And they were different.

I'm hopeful for so many things for my daughter and my son-to-come (due in June). I want them to be happy. I want them to love and be loved. I want them to be healthy, to laugh, to sing, to dream... to be whatever they want to be.

Maybe they'll be scholars. Or singers. Or athletes.

Or maybe they'll be different. Maybe they like art and they're classmates prefer sports. Maybe they'll love books while others prefer video games. Maybe they'll be short and others tall, fat while others are thin, brunette while others are blonde. Or maybe they'll be gay.

Whatever they are or want to be, it will probably be different from their friends, classmates, neighbors, whatever. When I was a kid, I loved singing and acting whilst almost all the kids in my neighborhood were jocks (including my brothers). I wasn't fast or strong or, really, at all athletic. Sometimes, it didn't matter; but sometimes, it was everything.

For example, when I was in sixth grade, I was still singing soprano in the school chorus; I would have liked to played baseball for the school, but I wasn't good enough (I tried out). Yes, I was teased, even by girls. Not bullied like Pheobe, Carl Joseph or the kids in "Bully" -- not even close -- but I was made to feel different. I was lucky; my "being different" came down to something pretty mild compared to the pain and suffering of others. But that difference was, to my pre-teen self, everything to me. And it hurt. 

Eventually, I discovered that who I was and what I liked made me different, yes, but also made me unique and special. That made me feel good. It gave me confidence.. That confidence -- reinforced and nurtured by my parents, my brothers, my friends and teachers -- was what I needed to grow and become who I am today.

Someday, my daughter and my son may wake up and find out that they like (or are) something different from their friends and classmates. It might be a something small -- liking a different band or type of clothes -- or it might be something big -- being smart or short or gay -- that could make them a target for their peers.

I hope that they don't get bullied.

I hope that they can accept and celebrate their difference.


And that when I'm not there to protect them that they I have done everything I can to give them the confidence to be who they are. Being different is not bad -- it's what makes us great.

When she wraps her hand around my finger, it puts a smile in my heart

It's been a while since I had any new programming on this channel, so here's something I think about a lot...

Things you do that make me laugh:
- Your "magic trick"
- Nak-ey Bab-ey!
- Dance parties
- Surfing
- The toothbrush dance
- Bibi taste testing
- Changing Lulu's "stinky poop"
- Trampoline time

Things you do that make me smile:
- Singing along in the car
- Mommy-Daddy hugs
- Dress up
- "Reading" your books aloud
- Screaming "Daddy!" when I come home from work
- Correct me every time I call you "Baby" by saying "I'm not a baby... I'm a big girl!"
- Holding my hand when we walk

Things you do that make me happy:
- Everything

I love you, Baby Girl!

And so today, my world it smiles

In my office every year, there's a "Giving Tree" that has paper ornaments with wishes for gifts from children at a local shelter. The kids are as young as 1 year old and as old as 17, and the gifts range from a winter coat to blocks. Every year I go up and read the tags and try to pick just one, and end up with 3-4. And I always feel like it's not enough.

My heart literally breaks when I see the things that these kids ask for. Many are from broken homes, their young lives torn apart by parents, family members and guardians consumed by drugs, alcohol, abuse, violence... all the things that no child should ever have to experience, yet so many do.

I wish that these children -- or anyone -- never had to deal with these types of things, these horrors and abuses that force them out of the world of a child into one that is far crueler, far more desperate and far more dangerous than I have ever known.

But they do. And if a winter coat or set of blocks or toy kitchen or a Dora doll can provide these kids with a brief light, a small measure of hope, in what has been a hard life, then it's worth the sacrifice of a few dollars.

In this season of thanks, I am thankful that my parents raised me in a home where -- even if we couldn't have everything we wanted -- we had more than we need: shelter, food, clothes, and most importantly love and support. Showing me what a strong, vital marriage is -- hard work and selflessness mixed with equal parts passion and humor -- gave me the faith to believe that I find that, too,

I am thankful that I have two brothers who, being  fathers and husbands themselves, taught me that being a good husband and good father doesn't mean "giving in" to your spouse or "sacrificing your life." Instead, it means taking a leap of faith that giving yourself over to your wife and children will bring you so much more than you could ever have alone.

I am thankful that I have friends who know how vain, moody, and/or strange I can be... and still stand by me.

I am thankful that I have my amazing, kind, supportive and incredibly beautiful wife, who shows me every day what love is and what it can be, and how giving in to that love and returning it can bring you a happiness that is impossible to describe.

I am thankful that I have a happy, healthy, growing daughter who has taught me more about myself and the world I live in than any college course could ever do, challenging me to be a better man and make the world a better place.

But I am most thankful that I have been given so many blessings -- health, family, friends, love and security -- that many don't have. I am humbled by these gifts, and eternally grateful for all that I have.

Happy Thanksgiving, and God bless you and your loved ones.

On Penn State and responsibility

As you know from reading this blog -- and the title of the blog itself -- I am a dad. A new(ish) Dad. And I admittedly am learning on the job every day. Some of that learning is fun (Where are my daughter's ticklish spots? What's her favorite bedtime story?); some of it not so much (What are the signs of an ear infection? How do I sleep-train my daughter?)...

I can tell you one thing I didn't need to learn, tho. I didn't need to learn that a child is vulnerable, maybe the most vulnerable thing in the world. Vulnerable to sickness. Vulnerable to a new world that might not be fully be baby-proofed. And vulnerable to those who prey on them.

Those like Jerry Sandusky, the alleged pedophile at Penn State.

I tried to hold off writing this; I really did. I do believe in innocence until proven guilty. I believe in due process. But when a crime like this -- one so heinous that it shakes you truly to your core -- is alleged, I go blind. Blind to reason and justice and, frankly, logic.

Sandusky -- allegedly -- took advantage of young boys who came to his Second Mile charity foundation seeking guidance. Many of them came from single family or broken homes, looking for something or someone that would help them escape what I'm sure were awful situations. What they got was far, far worse.

They asked for help. Instead, they got a predator who was -- allegedly -- only too happy to take advantage of that need, that want, to feed his own sickness. To me -- again, if guilty -- Sandusky should go to prison for the rest of his life, where he will be subject to a Hell that monsters like him deserve. It's well known that child molesters and pedophiles are the most hated, most reviled, most ostracized members of any prison community. They are the ones that murderers, thieves and rapists look down. Men with no moral compass know a true monster when they see one.

But this is not just about one man who took advantage of children who were vulnerable. This is also about responsibility, more specifically moral responsibility.

There's no question that, when confronted by the reports that a predator was in their midst, using his position and influence in the football program and access to the facilities, the leaders in the Penn State community chose to bury the truth rather than confront it. The firings and resignations of the last two weeks -- academic, institutional and athletic leaders all have been dismissed, chose to leave or have been placed on leave -- are proof of that.

Many of these individuals claim that they "followed the rules" in reporting what they saw or what they knew to their higher-ups. That may be true, and -- legally at least -- was a responsible move.

But what about going further? What about realizing that a child often has neither the mental capacity to understand nor courage to report to an adult that another adult has taken advantage of them? Some children barely have the courage or smarts to tell a teacher when a classmate steals their pudding at lunch or hits them at recess, let alone that they have been sexually assaulted by someone they know and probably trust.

Now remember that, to many of these children, that adult was a "friend" who gave them gifts, took them on trips, and told their parents that he was "helping them to a better future."

So, confronted with an unspeakable crime, the coaches, administrators and leaders at Penn State chose to keep it in house. Take care of it their way. Not go to the police, protect the children, and stop a monster.

Those leaders, those pillars of the Penn State community, had a moral obligation -- as self-described teachers and leaders of men -- to report this and try to put a stop to it. And they failed.

And those children paid the price.

And when I die, and when I'm gone...

The title of this post sounds way darker ("dah-keh") than I intended, but I'm a slave to my "theme" (such as it is)...

There's this commercial that I'm sure most of you have seen where a Dad is using all sorts of web tools (Google, YouTube, Blogger, etc.) to document all these moments in his kids' lives, and it ends with him typing the line "I can't wait to show you these...", and it got me thinking.

What am I leaving behind for my daughter?

Not the obvious things -- money (hopefully), photos, our home, maybe a car, some personal possessions (jewelry, etc.) -- but things that are maybe more ephemeral, more intangible... like a better world, as much as I can. A legacy of trying to do the right thing. Of being a good person. Caring about the world I live in and my place in it, trying to make my corner of it a better place.

It's funny how these things seem "important" when you're young and single, but -- let's face it -- they're really not your primary focus. Or maybe not even secondary. You're young, just starting to figure out who you are and what kind of person you want to be, what kind of job or career you want, and how fast you can get there and how much fun you can have on the trip.

Of course, that all changes when you get "older." That word does not necessarily mean years, mind you; I know my fair share of 40+ year old men (and some women) still working out that "Who am I? What's my place? What are my goals?" stuff. And they have every right to take as much time as they need.

Because I sure did. I was 35 when I got married, and believe me (and I tell my wife all the time), I needed every one of those 35 years to get to a place where I was ready for my world to expand and become about more than just myself. Which is really what starting a family is about -- putting someone and something else first.

I was 37 when my daughter was born, and again that was right when I was ready. Being a husband is one of the hardest and best jobs I have ever had. Being a father is even harder and more rewarding -- which probably goes without saying.

That's why today, more than ever, I think about the world I live in and what my place is in it.

That's not to say that I have that licked, by the way. Every day I have the internal conversation about whether the time I have to spend away from my family to work is worth the sacrifice (i.e., the "Waah! I have to work to support my family but I'd rather be home with them!" feeling). What about the trips to the gym a few times a week? It's a balancing act.

So, yeah, what I do every day is a mix of trying to help my world and the world overall. Some days, I do it real good with one. Some days, it's the other. Very rarely, it's both. Often, it feel like neither. And it feels empty and not fulfilling.

But I wake up every day believing that day will be the one where I fill up both columns, a better world for my family and the world in general. And I keep waking up every day feeling that way; otherwise, why get out of bed?

That's what I am trying to leave behind. And that's what I want my daughter (and any future children) to know and remember. I tried every day to make the world a better place.

And that, to me, is the best legacy I can leave for my daughter. Because I'd want her to follow that more than anything else.

I just called...

So my office (really a cube) phone just rang, and I answered. The voice on the other end of the phone said "Hi Dada!"

It was awesome.

Crazy, really... for a while now, my daughter's been playing "telephone," picking up our house phone or cell phone(s) or even remote controls (or her baby monitor) and saying "Hi!" and telling us she's calling Grandma (my mother-in-law) or Nana & Papa (my parents). But when it came time for her to talk on a real phone to a real person, she would usually just smile at me (or my wife) when we told her to "Say 'Hi!' to" whomever was on the phone.

Now, though, she seems to be on board with talking on the phone, for real.

I'm sure there will come a time when I'll be asking her to NOT talk on the phone so much.

But for now, I can't wait till she calls again.

So let them be little 'cause they're only that way for a while

Warning - this one's gonna be all over the place...

The March issue of GQ featured a profile on Bill Ray Cyrus (of "Achy-Breaky Heart" fame) which detailed, in equal parts, a heart-breaking (no pun intended) and searing look at the toll of being Hannah Montana's daddy. It's here if you want to read it.

In the piece, Cyrus acknowledges that he played a part in allowing his daughter to become a massively popular and now -- arguably -- out-of-control star with the "Hannah Montana" show, concerts, albums, etc. Miley Cyrus, his daughter, seems to be well on her way to becoming another burnt out child star fallen victim to partying, booze, etc. Think Lindsay Lohan with a Nickelodeon instead of Disney pedigree. The story is equally sympathetic to, and scathing in its critique of, the Cyrus clan, with Daddy Billy Ray seeming despondent that his little girl is gone and may never come back to him.

For a while, this story was the most read and most emailed piece on GQ.com (which is where I read it), probably due to the "car-wreck" factor of the story and the easy jokes about Billy Ray and his rise to fame (and infamy) on the wave of his one hit, his acid wash jeans and spectacular mullet (he likes the term "Kentucky Waterfall"). But it resonated with me for an entirely different reason.

Billy Ray is a father. He sent his little girl out into the world because he thought it was best for her talent, and he believed in her. Now his daughter is in trouble, under the sway of folks who care only for her money (and don't care about her), and he knows it's partially his fault. And he doesn't know what to do.

In the GQ piece, Billy Ray talks about how he thought he had everything under control when he and his wife made the decision to let his daughter become a TV star. They thought the family bubble was strong enough to withstand the pressures and temptations of fame... but it wasn't, and now they have a daughter who, at 18, is essentially estranged from him, beholden to people who care about her as a commodity and not a person. His lament is painful, moreso because he doesn't hide the fact that he doesn't know what to do.

Now, don't misunderstand me -- I am in no way saying that the clan Cyrus are victims (they knowingly chose this for their child), nor do I think my daughter will someday be a huge TV star and pop icon that will cause me the same regret.

It goes without saying that you never stop being a parent. Even when your children grow up and become parents themselves, they're still someone's child. And you never go to sleep at night without saying a prayer that your child will be happy, loved and safe in the world.

You always think that your choices will be made in the best interests of your child. If they want to play soccer or take ballet, you weigh the pros and cons and then let them do what they want. If they want something bigger -- like to be a TV star or pop singer -- you do the same thing.

And it's struggle -- you want to let them fly, but you need to protect them. You want them to grow up and experience all that life can give them, but you also want them to remain little forever, protected inside the bubble of your family.

It's the parents' dilemma: Love them and nurture them to follow their dreams while secretly praying that their dream won't take them beyond what they can handle or control. And all the while you're longing for them to remain your little girl (or boy), who looks at you adoringly and depends on you for everything.

I know that someday my daughter will grow up, spread her wings, and leave the nest. Maybe it will be for college in a far-off city, maybe for a job, maybe for a husband... or maybe all three. And I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me sad to think of that now, even though she's barely 14 months.

Someday when she's older, she'll read this and think I worried too much about something that wasn't a big deal. But to me, it's everything. And when I came to that realization, that's when I knew I was a Parent.

Time passages...

So, umm, hey... what's going on? Been a while since I Daddy-blogged. A lot has happened.

We had our first Christmas, and it was, hyperbole notwithstanding, truly magical. My daughter was excited, confused, tired (as were Mommy & Daddy) and delighted by both her presents and the boxes they came in. Wrapping paper proved a little confusing; she would rip it a bit, then stop and wait for something to happen, which led Mommy and Daddy to finish the job.

Elmo-themed gifts were a hit, including an Elmo Remote Control that satisfied both her urge to play with anything that has buttons (remotes, phones, BlackBerries, etc.) and the aforementioned love for Elmo. She also loved a front-door/house play set, which was -- surprisingly -- easy to assemble the night before. It has all sorts of sounds, bells, and other stuff to play with that she loves, and it's actually fun for us to play with her.

A few weeks later, we had her first birthday party -- 30+ people in our house (which is a lot of people) -- and it was a great day. We pushed our Baby Girl beyond her usual nap times, so there was a minor meltdown. She also wasn't so excited about birthday cake, much to our chagrin, as we were really hoping for some fun "frosting face" photos. She got great gifts from everyone, and my wife and I were humbled by how much everyone gave and how excited they were for such a wonderful milestone.

She had her first day in the snow. The last six weeks, we've been getting hammered by snow in the Boston area. After the last round of 10-12 inches, we took her out into the snow to let her play. She wasn't a fan... at least, not yet.

And then, just this past weekend, the big milestones started -- walking and talking. Almost overnight, our Baby Girl started saying all sorts of stuff, and is moving all over. When she's walking, the look on her face is priceless: A combination of playing it cool and a sly "Look at me!" smile since she knows how excited Mommy & Daddy are. It's just remarkable to see her walking around and talking up a storm.

All these things happened in about a five-week span. It went from "I can't believe she's gonna be a year old" to "She's doing it all!" in what seems like the blink of an eye. When I decided that I would re-start this blog as a "Daddy Blog" I always thought that, while all these things were happening, I'd have so much material and blog posts on all of them. Then I looked up and it was February and I hadn't written a thing.

It's funny -- all the cliches people have for parenting are right. It DOES go fast. A year ago, I would hold our five-week-old Little Peanut and just be in awe of this little life. Now I hold her and she looks at me and I know she's thinking "That's Daddy!" and she smiles and hugs me.

You always tell yourself to "Remember every moment" and document everything. You try to take mental snapshots of smiles, hugs, playtime... all that stuff. And then all of a sudden everything happens and you feel like you haven't enjoyed it enough.

Part of me is so excited to see our Little Peanut walking, talking, smiling, feeding herself... all those great things. And part of me is sad that each first step, first word, new milestone means that she's getting older. And that I need to hold on to each of those moments however I can.

When she's old enough - and if I keep posting - I'll show my daughter this blog. Hopefully, all of these moments will be captured. If not for her, then for me.

Because it does go by fast.

Goodnight my angel now it's time to sleep

Since I work in downtown Boston, I leave the house pretty early in the morning to catch the commuter rail. As a result, I miss being a part of the morning routine for my daughter - my wife handles the morning feeding, getting her dressed, etc. and brings her to daycare, conveniently located in the school where my wife teaches one town over.

To make sure I get enough Daddy Time, I catch the earliest train possible home so I can take the bedtime routine - bath, bottle, bed. It gives me about an hour of uninterrupted time to be with my daughter, and gives my wife a much-needed break to relax.

Almost from the day we brought her home from the hospital, that bedtime routine has included songs and lullabies after she finishes her bedtime bottle. FULL DISCLOSURE: My wife is an insanely talented singer and music teacher, and yours truly is a not-so-secret musical theatre geek. So we my daughter's been exposed to pretty wide selection of music.

As she's gotten older, I've added to the catalog of music I sing to her on a given night, everything from "The Rainbow Connection" to "Sparks" by Coldplay. It's funny, tho - no matter how many different songs I sing, I always seem to gravitate to the same three songs:
- "When Somebody Loved Me" from "Toy Story 2"
- "Somewhere That's Green" from "Little Shop of Horrors"
- "Goodnight, My Angel (Lullaby)" by Billy Joel

To recap: A song about a toy left behind (watch this clip and try not to be affected) by an owner who grew up; a song about yearning for a better life that, in the context of the show, is only a dream; and a "lullaby" that acknowledges that, one day, a father will be gone and a daughter will be on her own.

Umm... not exactly the happiest jukebox in the joint. So why do I sing them to my daughter before she goes off to sleep? Probably because - besides being a melancholy, sentimental schmuck - I have started to become more and more aware of how much my life has changed, how quickly my daughter is growing, and how much I want for my daughter.

Anyone who has ever listened to a lullaby of any sort knows they are inherently sad. Any song about longing, regardless of what context, has that sadness in its DNA. That's why they are so relatable; every one of us, regardless of how happy our lives are (and mine is quite happy, indeed), always has a longing for something. It might not be something you want; it may be something you lost... but it's there.

A year ago, I didn't have a baby or a house; now I have both. Six months ago, my daughter had only started to sit up, verbalize and interact with us; now she's standing, cruising, babbling and smiling like crazy. And someday, she will grow up and head out into the world on her own.

It's funny to me to think that even though my daughter is not a year old, I already know I will soon long for times like last night, like tonight when I start to sing to her and she looks at me and I know that, in that one moment, I am her whole world.

Someday, when she is grown up, someone will ask me about her and I will instantly flash to holding her in my arms, singing about "somewhere that's green," and I will get a little choked up.

And I'll smile. Because, to paraphrase Billy Joel, "I'll know, in my heart, I will always be part of her"...

We have movement!

Baby-Proof (def): Making your home safe for your newly-mobile child, including covering sharp edges and blocking dangerous surfaces (i.e., stairs, doors, etc.); also, a parent's worst nightmare. See "I'M NOT READY!"

So my daughter is crawling, pulling up, doing all of her pre-walking stuff.

Three words: Wow! Yay! F%$K!

Wow! - It's becoming increasingly clear to me that the cliche "they grow up so fast" is not just a trite saying; children really do grow fast. Nine & 1/2 months ago, my daughter was a newborn. We had no idea what her personality would be, when she would start to vocalize, get her first teeth, etc. Now she's a happy, smiling, squealing, mischievous ball of fun who babbles ("ogoly-ogoly-ogoly" is a favorite phrase) with eight teeth and more on the way. She's so interactive and engaging - just plain fun - that I have to remind myself she's not even a year old yet... and yet, a small part of me misses the days when I would hold her and she would open her eyes and melt my heart with a small gurgle or a grasp of my finger in her tiny hands.

Yay! - After 8 months of butt-scooting and "almost" crawling (laying on her belly and pulling herself with her arms Army-man style), my daughter started crawling, pulling herself up and even trying free standing - all in ONE MONTH! It seriously made my head spin. My wife and I were starting to wonder if she was developmentally-delayed, even though I was a late-crawler, too. Well, we ain't worried no more.

F%$K! - Now we have to baby-proof our house. When we bought our house in May, it was semi-baby proofed - some latches on drawers and cabinets, plug covers, the door to the basement had a handle protector... but it also had a few things that still needed to be done. We have to get a gate for the stairs (curiously, the top of the stairs was set up with a gate, but not the bottom - kids can fall down stairs from any stair, right?). And oh yeah - now we have to make sure closet doors are closed and there aren't any objects at the two-foot level that can be pulled down on top of our daughter.

But one of the best parts is we can now play games with her that are interactive and that she can move around... roll stuff to her, she pushes it back. Put her on one side of the room and she crawls towards us (or away, her choice). Really, it's just unbelievable how far she's come.

And to think - she's not even a year old yet!

Day-care, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Just Hand Over My Kid

My daughter started day care a couple of weeks ago. Early returns have been, for the most part, positive, albeit with a few rough days - though none in the last week or so.

Me, on the other hand, I'm day-to-day; some days, I'm thrilled at the idea that my daughter is in day care and is interacting with other kids, the teachers, all that stuff.

Some days, though, I'm a mess. I think about how the little hermetically-sealed bubble of "Daddy, Mommy & Baby" has been forever and irretrievably punctured. We'll never get that bubble back; the baby bird is out of the nest, etc.

I think about how, in those first few days, she would cry at drop off and hold out her arms to be taken back. How our "happiest baby in the world" would seem sad sometimes.

Mostly, though, I felt like the worst parent in the world; when forced to choose between being home and caring for my child or handing her off to strangers so I could make a buck, I chose money...

Here's the thing, though; it's not really a choice. My wife and I struggled with this everyday (her much more than me, since she had been home with our daughter every day since she was born), often feeling bad about our choice. I've come to realize that it's not a choice - in order for us to provide our baby girl with a home, clothes, a future, and all that stuff, we have to work. Life is too expensive - day care ain't cheap, that's for sure - and money is not just a necessary evil; it's required.

On the way to our parental steel-cage wrestling match with this existential crisis of money vs. family, a funny - and wholly unsurprising - thing happened: My daughter adjusted and is FINE. She's still happy.

She still giggles when I imitate Cookie Monster (an admittedly poor imitation, but she doesn't know that yet)... loves Peek-A-Boo... thinks "The Very Hungry Caterpillar" is the best book ever... basically, she's adapted and is as happy, playful and smiley (Scrunchy Face) as ever. Seeing that, and hearing from the day care folks that she such a happy baby, helps, too.

Mommy and Daddy still can be prone to over-thinking and suffering paralyzing paroxysms of parental guilt, but we're learning to deal with it. Once again, I'm finding that I - we - have just as much to learn from her as she does from me.

The Scrunchy Face

I was once told, probably sometime during my wife's pregnancy, that the day your child smiles at you for the first time will be magical and amazing and will melt your heart and make you realize you have a little person, etc., etc.

And when my daughter smiled at us for the first time, it was all that. It really did send me to another place. But I knew she was "my daughter" when she started making what my wife and I call "The Scrunchy Face."

It is exactly what it sounds like - my daughter will, in moments of happiness (laughing or babbling), scrunch up her face in a "super smile" that is both insanely cute and wildly entertaining. Her eyes crinkle and her dimples will pop and she will smile her biggest, almost toothless grin.

And the best part about it is that, when she does it, I do it right back to her and we look alike.

Now it may seem strange that it would take something like this to make me feel like she is my daughter, especially since a lot of people have said she looks like me. It's not her looks, though, that I am talking about. It's the fact that when she does it, I do it back to her - and we both laugh.

So, more than my "looks" (God help her), maybe she has my sense of humor. And that's something unique to me and her.

And that's how I know she's my girl.

So this guys walks into a delivery room....

"It's a girl."

You could have pretty much knocked me over with a feather when the doctor said that to me. I mean, really and truly - my legs were wobbly and everything.

And it wasn't because we had been told it would be a boy and it was wrong. It had just become an unspoken agreement between my wife and I that we were having a boy. After all, I was one of three boys, my brother had two boys of his own... and our baby had been tracking bigger all during my wife's pregnancy.

During those 41 weeks (our daughter was a week late), I used to joke with people all the time that "My family only makes boys" and that "if I have a girl, I'm screwed" because I had no reference point for how to raise a girl. My wife, also one of three, has a younger brother and sister and seemed a little less trepadacious about having a girl, but still... we just thought "boy" all along.

The funny thing is that, all throughout the pregnancy, I stubbornly refused to find out the sex of the baby. I had always said that having a baby is one of life's few, true surprises - if you choose to not find out, you really won't know what you're having unil that magic moment when the doctor says "it's a..."

Even when I asked my wife to marry me, I was reasonably sure she would say yes, mostly because we had always talked about it and we were living together, etc. But this was a true surprise. And one that I would never have spoiled, no matter what.

I know how to raise a boy. I'm a little out of my depth when it comes to a girl. And the truth is, I love that.

Because now my daughter and I get to find out how to grow up together.

New direction, same author

So about 100 years ago, I started this blog ostensibly as a way for me to keep the (very) dim pilot light on for my nascent sportswriting career.

A lot has happened since then, tho - including a seismic event in my life that has, quite simply, profoundly straightened out my priorities and simplified my worldview.

On January 11, 2010, I became a father. And, to use the most devalued and overused word in today's popular lexicon, it has been the most amazing journey of my life.

Hence, this blog will have a new "flava" - it will be about my life as someone's father. I might still discuss sports or pop culture or politics or whatever, but it will most certainly be through that prism.

Because that's exactly where everything in my life that really truly matters now begins.

I'm someone's Dad.

And it's the greatest thing in the world.

Soxycontin

Brought to you by Paul "Fitzy" Fitzgerald... Check him out on NESN's "Pocket Money"!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oEEwGZixc6Y

Lost weekend?

So the Red Sox dropped 2 of 3 to the Yankees and, for all intents and purposes, said goodbye to any chance of taking the AL East division title this season.

And with 39 games to go in the regular season, it's all about the following numbers -- 1, 6, 20, 22.

1 - The Wild Card standings currently have the Sawx sporting a one-game lead over the Rangers. The Sawx currently have a 2-7 record against the Rangers, who just dropped 2 of 3 against the Rays, the other serious Wild card contender. Which brings us to...

6 - That's the number of games the Sawx have remaining against the Tampa Bay Rays. The Sawx have posted a 4-8 mark against the Rays this season, looking old and slow against the youthful Rays. The six games are split evenly - 3 in Boston, 3 in Tampa - and that bears watching, as the Sawx have gone 3-3 vs. the Rays at home, but 1-5 at the Trop. At the very least, they need to hold serve against the Rays at Fenway and try and steal two games at Tampa. FYI - the Rays are 3 games back of the Sawx in the Wild Card standings.

20 - At 70-53, the Sawx have 39 games left, of which 20 (slightly more than half for you math majors out there) are against teams with winning records. Eleven of those games are at Fenway, where the Sawx are 39-20 (vs. 31-33 on the road).

22 - Of those 39 remaining games, 22 are at home. The Sawx need to take advantage of this advantage and win these home games, especially since they finish the season with 7 games at home vs. the under-achieving Blue Jays and Indians, both of whom should be well into "playing for next year" mode by the end of September.

Before I sign off, a quick note on last night's 8-4 homer-happy loss to the Yankees last night. After both Derek Jeter and Hideki Matsui hit Josh Beckett's first-pitch fastball home runs to start the first and second innings, respectively, I turned to Mrs. Wikked Hahd and said "I guess the Yanks plan is look first-pitch fastball for tonight"...

Come to find out that indeed was the case, as almost all of the Yankees homers on Sunday came on first-pitch fastballs and two-strike curveballs - Buster Olney on ESPN.com pointed that out here (scroll down to the "Sunday's Games" segment). So why could I see that but Beckett, Jason Varitek, Terry Francona and John Farrell couldn't? Is it because of Beckett's legendary stubborness? Or is he due for some pounding after being so brilliant for so long? He insists he's healthy and has no physical issues, so it could just be a blip.

Either way, it's never a good sign when I can see what's going on from my couch better than the Sawx from the field.

Favre = Chump.

I know this space is reserved for Baw-stahn spoohts postings, but I just had to say...

Brett Favre is a chump.

Why do we care? It's a freaking joke. The guy is killing his reputation and legacy in some sad Quixotic quest to remain relevant. And like Roger Clemens - the most recent "can't let go" athlete - he's ruining any goodwill from his career because he craves the spotlight too much to go off into the sunset (holy mixed metaphors!).

In the process, he's making fools of all football writers - from Peter King on down - whom he told just weeks ago that he was "done" and was "really" retired. Imagine you're Peter king: Favre is your real football BFF with whom you've shared innumerable dinners, locker room chats and text messages. He tells you "I'm done" and you report it to the world, only to have him reverse field a week later and come back. So now King, who is to the NFL what Peter Gammons is to baseball, looks like a fool. You think his reputation didn't take a hit and he's not upset? Check out the first half of this story for the former, and this one for the latter.

Don't forget, he's also pissing off his die-hard fans in Green Bay, folks who stood in sub-zero weather with foam cheeseheads on their head cheering for their icon. So now his fans look like fools, the football media cognoscenti look like fools, and - worst of all - he's burning bridges left and right.

Sigh... when November rolls around and he's hurt again and throwing wounded ducks up for grabs - ruining the Vikings chances for the playoffs and beyond - we'll all have to go through another stupid news cycle of "Favre done?" again. Only this time, hopefully no one will want to listen.

Hopefully...

Drew-ing a blank

Quick quiz, "Jeopardy"-style: Five years, $70 million, highest per-year salary on the team in 2009.

Answer: Who is J.D. Drew?

That's right - the highest-paid player on the Boston Red Sox is not Josh Beckett, not Jonathan Papelbon, not Kevin Youkilis, not Jason Bay, and not Dustin Pedroia. Heck, not even David Ortiz.
And for that $14 million per year investment, the Sawx have gotten the following: 43 HRs, 173 RBI, 225 R, and a .269 Avg. in 2-3/4 seasons... meanwhile, Drew has done nothing to shed his injury-prone reputation, playing in 80 percent of his team's games (349 of a possible 442, counting last night). It's not for nothing that Bill Conlin, a columnist for the Philadelphia Daily News (a city Drew famously spurned because they wouldn't pay him the Scott Boras-demanded $10 million as a draft pick), once called Drew "Superwuss" for his myriad of injuries.

By contrast, each of the positional players named (Youkilis, Bay & Pedroia) have played in 90% of those games -- collectively -- while making $15.8 million total. And each has more runs, more RBI, more HR and a higher batting average in that span.

What's most maddening, tho, is looking at the players currently outperforming Drew for other teams for a fraction of the cost, knowing that the Sawx are on the hook for Drew's salary for another 2 & 1/4 seasons, which hurts when you consider that Youkilis and Pedroia both have bigger salaries that kick in next season and Bay is a free agent at the end of this season, and you have to believe that Drew's salary will be a sticking point in those negotiations.

In his defense, you can't quite call Drew's salary "dead money" because chances are, on one of those days when he DOES play, he COULD do something to help the team win at least one game. Unfortunately, no one -- not Terry Francona, not his teammates, not Theo "J.D. has naked pictures of me" Epstein, and especially not Red Sox Nation -- knows when those days or that game will be. It's just as likely to be in a meaningless May game as it is in Game 6 of the 2007 ALCS to send the Sawx to a decisive Game 7 and eventual World Series title.

So when you watch Drew strike out on bad pitches out of the strike zone, bounce out to the second basemen to kill a rally, or pull up on a line drive to right field, it is enough to make you nuts. Last night's bad strikeout in the eighth inning (on an inside fastball around his eyebrows) and obvious pull-up on a line drive to him that scored two runs and prolonged a painful inning only serve as Exhibits 100 & 101 of how frustrating a player he is.

By all accounts, Drew is a nice guy -- respectful, deferential, a good husband and father (most players aren't either, let alone one or the other) -- but appears to be an indifferent teammate and not a "gamer" (on a team full of them) willing to "grind it out" and play hurt for the team.

And therein lies the rub -- he's a talented player who has proven that he can be a game-changing force, but has never delivered on that talent and seems to not give a crap either way. Epstein was captivated by the promise of that talent, and is now hostage to it.

And so are we... but just think: Only 2 & 1/4 seasons and $30 million or so left to go.

Stick a fork in them?

It's August 17 - six weeks to go in the season, and the Red Sox are now trailing in both the AL East and Wild Card standings.

7-1/2 games back of the Yankees, 1/2 game back of the Rangers. 12-17 in their last 29 games.

This is not a blip - it's a trend, and it's looking ugly.

Beyond wins & losses, though, is this troubling statistical split -- 118 and 20. The first number is the amount of stolen bases allowed by the Sawx pitching/catching batteries this season, the second is the number of runners caught stealing. That's a 98 stolen-base split... yikes. In fact, the Sawx are last in both stolen bases allowed and runners thrown out.

As the Tampa Bay Rays have demonstrated in nearly every game against Boston this season -- and as the Texas Rangers painfully reinforced this weekend (8 steals in 3 games) -- today's game is a speed/defense/pitching game, and not the bash people's heads in game of past years. Sure, everyone knows that, and the Sawx are Exhibit A writ large of what can happen when you fall behind the athlete curve.

As a team, the Sawx have stolen 92 bases and succeed in their steals 75 percent of the time -- fourth in the AL in both categories. Those rankings, though, are deceptive: Jacoby Ellbury has 53 of the Sawx 92 steals, and is the only player on the team with 20+ steals and a plus-75% success rate (generally considered the cut-off for an effective base-stealer). By contrast, the Rays have 3 players with 20+ steals, each exceeding 75% in their success rates (Carl Crawford 54 steals, 84% success rate; B.J Upton 35 steals, 76% success rate, Jason Bartlett 21 steals, 88 % success rate) and a team mark of 80% success rate (158 steals, 39 caught), which trails only Texas (84%) in the base-stealing efficiency ranks.

Here's another troubling fact -- the Sawx are now the sixth-best fielding team in the league by fielding percentage (.984 - total assists & putouts/total chances), but that's deceiving when you consider that the Sawx have the fewest amount of total chances in the league. Some of that is due to the pitching staff, which has struck out the second-most batters (900) in the league - after all, you can't catch the ball if the batter strikes out - but the Sawx have also allowed better than a hit per inning (1.02 H/IP). Amongst contending teams - division leaders and wild-card contenders - only the AL West-leading Angels have allowed more.

Number, numbers, numbers... what does this all REALLY mean? It means that the Sawx, who for the last three season either had the highest or tied for the highest fielding percentage in the AL, are slipping behind their competition. Hence the trade for Alex Gonzalez to solve their shortstop problem, the shuffling of Mike Lowell between 3B and DH, the move of Youkilis to 3B, the trade for Casey Kotchman, bringing up Josh Reddick, etc. - all moves designed to make the Sawx better in on defense.

When you consider that the 3-5 spots in the pitching rotation currently sport a collective ERA of almost 6.00 and a WHIP (walks + hits/IP) of almost 2.00, it's critical for this team to be able to get outs in the field and control the base paths. And the Sawx are just not getting it done in those departments - and no amount of production from the offense will fix that. You can't beat the opposition if you can't get them out or stop them from running on your pitchers/catchers.

The truth is, this team's flaws were evident early in the season, but the line-up was producing (Big Papi's season-long funk notwithstanding) so they weren't as obvious. But now they are... and I'm not sure how they can be fixed as we move into the Aug/Sept stretch drive.

And that, more than the lack of production from Papi, J.D. Drew, Jason Varitek, etc., may have the Sawx on the outside looking in when the playoffs roll around.