1)    PREGNANT WOMEN FART…A LOT!  This can be a big problem for pregnant women.  I could eat nothing but broth and water but you’d think I had been gorging myself with chili and pickled eggs. I woke up one at 3AM to find my sheets and comforter tucked in tight to me, and a barricade of pillows between my husband and me.  What can I say?  There is absolutely nothing you can do about it.  AND WORSE, there are times when you can’t even control it!  Before you know it, you’re crop dusting a grocery store leaving elderly and infants suffocating in your wake.  There is no amount of make up or hair spray that can make you feel attractive with this going on.

2)    MOVIE-LIKE DREAMS:  I wish there was a way to have my brain studied during my pregnancies.  I have the most vivid, bizarre and sexy dreams of my life (not necessarily all at the same time). I have dreamed of being chased by a short, red-head serial killer through the cobble stone streets of what seemed to be a foggy London.  My only weapon, a ball-point pen that I had in my pocket.  At the right moment, I turned and started trying to stab my attacker, but I couldn’t move.  This is when I woke up, I was physically trying to lift my hand for real to stab my pillow.  Alternatively, I’ve had both Charlie Hunnam (Sons of Anarchy) and Bruno Mars desperately vying for my affection. Those dreams are not for sharing, but they weren’t so bad.  The problem is, between this and waking up every hour to pee, you can find a sleepy and grumpy woman on your hands.

3)    DON’T TOUCH MY BOOBS!  Men, I have great news and bad news!  Great news first, your ladies’ boobs are going to get exponentially bigger.  Your partner just got a natural boob enhancement.  The bad news is if they are anything like mine, they felt like they were on fire by just putting a shirt on.  This can lead to serious problems as it’s hard to be intimate when you can’t be touched.

4)    SHE CAN GROW A BEARD!  I’m sure when you partnered with your baby’s mother, you never expected a moment when kissing her would feel like kissing a man.  Welp, you do now. I can only suggest you buy her a membership at a spa with free waxing services.  Pre-natal vitamins will make all of your hair grow…..in every place.  Don’t be surprised when you wake up and the soft beautiful face you went to sleep with now has a goatee.

5)    GET OUT THE DEPENDS:  Yes, that is right, as a 34 year old woman, I have bought, and worn, Depends.  It has been nicknamed “snissing”.  I call it a pain in the royal patoot!  As I’ve said before, I like to laugh, unfortunately laughing while pregnant can lead to changing your drawers.  This also applies to sneezing and coughing.

There are other things that happen to pregnant women that aren’t discussed; however, some things just need to be experienced in person.  Not only that, but I don’t want to gross you out too much so that you stop reading my blog.  Knowing the additional things your love is going through helps you understand why she is the way she is.

The high chair is a “Swarovski crystal-studded high chair designed by Carla Monchen”.

I don’t know who Carla Monchen is but kuddos to her for creating a business around ultra expensive high chairs.

Little Kim/Kanye will be sitting pretty while eating puréed carrots and squash.

(h/t The Vivant)

The fact that dads do laundry is nothing new to lots of you reading this, but it does present a different angle for mass market TV ads.

Look’s like mom’s got quite the independent lady on her hands.

For those blessed enough to not know, N.I.C.U. stands for “Neonatal Intensive Care Unit”. Basically, intensive care for very sick babies. Preemies. Drug babies. And my baby.

When you are one-half of an expectant couple, you never think your baby will have a problem. Oh, sure, you might have a small worry in the back of your mind as you drift off to sleep that says something could go wrong. But, mostly you think about how exciting it will be for the baby to finally arrive. I thought about my parents and aunt getting to meet him for the first time. I thought about how much I wish my grandparents were still alive to meet him and wondered if they would be able to see him from heaven. But, no, I didn’t think or worry that something might go wrong.

In hindsight, maybe I should have worried a bit more. The pregnancy hadn’t gone well almost from the get-go. There were many appointments. There were months of bed rest and frantic trips to the hospital where they would stop the way-too-early contractions so the baby could “bake” a while longer.

These early contractions started at 28 weeks. When we reached thirty-six weeks, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. They told us, “You’re out of the woods. If the contractions start up again, the baby can make it on his own now”. They were wrong.

At thirty-six and a half weeks, the contractions started again and couldn’t be stopped. He was born and, for a moment, it was picture perfect. I got to hold him so the Missus (who was busy with her C-section) could see him. They took him to the hospital nursery while they stitched the Missus back up. I followed along. Closely. I watched through the glass as first one nurse and then two and then three gathered around him. It took a minute for me to see the looks of concern on their faces. It took a moment for it to register that it wasn’t a good thing that so many of them were looking at him. Before my own alarm had a chance to firmly grip me, a nurse was wheeling him out of the nursery and down the hall. She very calmly told me that the baby was having a hard time breathing and she was taking him to have the N.I.C.U. team take a look at him. She said it so matter-of-factly that I stupidly thought he was fine.

In the morning, after some terrible sleep, we went to go see him. A nurse appeared in the hallway and told us, “Before you go in, know that your baby is very sick”. At the time, I thought she was being dramatic. She wasn’t.

In the small N.I.C.U. entry, we were told to sign in. We were told how fragile and prone to infection N.I.C.U. babies are. We were instructed on where to find scrubs to wear and how to thoroughly clean our hands in order to see our baby. Then, we rounded the corner and saw the interior of the N.I.C.U. Lining each side of the room were tiny patients looking less like human babies and more like baby birds that had fallen from their mothers’ nests. Babies belonging in a commercial pleading with women not to smoke or drink or do drugs while pregnant. Sick babies in need of a miracle.

Seeing your baby for the first time in the N.I.C.U. is something you can’t prepare yourself for. There was a fleeting moment of disbelief, then a moment when running far away seemed to make sense, before the suffocating reality hits you like the back of an angry hand going across your face. He was on a critical care table. Wires and tubes everywhere. IVs in both arms and feet and even one in his forehead. If that wasn’t bad enough, there was his breathing. Not peaceful baby breaths, but tortured, agonizing gasps for air. It was such a fight for him to get air into his lungs that he was literally covered in and dripping with sweat. As I watched his awful struggle to stay alive, I became aware of trying to keep my knees from buckling under me. I thought to myself ”You have to make yourself not care about what happens to him because he’s not going to make it.” The lowest part of that first visit was when the Missus, peering down at our newborn, asked the doctor, “Is he going to die?” After a long, thoughtful pause, the doctor responded by saying, “We’re not looking for that from him.” Those words would be of very little comfort over the days that followed.

It would take a day or two to realize that our baby was the sickest baby there. There was a small hole in his heart. There were more holes in his lungs. We were told not to talk to him or touch him because he needed to remain still and calm. There was a large lighted wall for viewing x-rays. Every x-ray was of our baby. All of them showed his lungs full of fluid. The doctor explained Patent Ductus Arteriosus and Respiratory Distress Syndrome. As the day went on, the baby got worse. He was worn out from trying to breathe. They put him on a ventilator and sedated him so he could rest. There was nothing to do but cry.

It was five full days of ups and downs before our son was stable enough for his Mommy to hold him for the first time. With all the tubes and wires it took three nurses and a doctor to get him into his Mommy’s arms. It was a wonderful and painful moment. Wonderful because it was finally happening and painful because a Mommy shouldn’t have to wait that long to hold her baby, nor should a baby have to wait that long to be held.

There were several more days of ups and downs, but overall improvement. Then, one morning, I went into the N.I.C.U. while the Missus, recovering from her C-section, caught her breath in the waiting area. I came around the corner and found his critical care table empty. My fingers and toes tingled with panic. Time stopped as my mind raced. Seeing his empty table, I knew he had died. I knew we hadn’t gotten to say goodbye to him. I knew I was going to have to go into the hallway and tell my wife that the baby hadn’t made it. I was frozen standing there, unable to breathe, when a smiling nurse told me that I had walked right past our baby who had been moved to the less critical section of the N.I.C.U. They had wanted his move to the less critical part of the unit to be a surprise, so they hadn’t said anything to us. It goes without saying that they had succeeded in surprising me! In any other situation, I would have been mad, but I was giddy! I burst through the door to tell the Missus the good news!

As the days dragged on, the baby started to get stronger. He gained some weight. X-rays showed his lungs were clearing. The hole in his heart closed. After 17 of the longest, hardest days I have ever been through, we got to bring our baby home. Today, he is a happy and healthy six year old (“I’m six and a half,” he’d be quick to tell you!).

Although this story has a happy ending, my wife and I will never be the same. I look at photos of us before and after and we aren’t the same people. There is a carefree look that has left our faces. We know now how fragile life is. We know how quickly things can change. Hopefully, we are also wiser and kinder. Hopefully, we don’t sweat the small stuff as often. Hopefully, we don’t have even one day where we forget how blessed we are.

So, yes, I have gone through something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

I don’t have what I like to call “hormonal flare-ups” every day.  They are as random as the lottery. There are days I wake up and Jesus himself would get on my ever-last nerve.  The simplest things would set me off into irrational rages, uncontrollable tears, or hearty laughter.  It could be that you left me waiting for a minute longer than I wanted or simply the sound of your voice, and my skin literally crawls with annoyance.  I was watching a touching moment on Master Chef, a cooking competition to find America’s best home cook.  This particular segment was about a man who recently lost his mother and, of course, she had always supported him in his cooking dreams.  When he got the chef’s apron and broke down, I was hormonal heap of tears.  The best part is that inevitably my husband walks in as I’m crying.  The look on his face is absolutely priceless.  Of course, I immediately burst into laughter at the discovery of his wife sobbing as she watches a cooking competition.  Even I know how ridiculous it is, so I can only imagine his thoughts on this scene.

The one thing to NEVER, EVER, EVER say to your highly emotional partner is to relax.  It’s a natural reaction, but fight it with every inch of your being. It never works, in fact, it is pouring gasoline on a fire.  I don’t know another word in the English language that can make a woman go from annoyed to explosively angry than that.  Please trust me on this, many have tried and many have failed miserably.  If you don’t believe me, take a poll of the women around you.  I promise you, I will win.

Fellas, you have to be strategic and the one using their brain instead of their emotions.  I’ve read articles, obviously written by men, claiming communication the key of smooth passage through these waters.  Yes, communication is important, but how is a rational human being supposed to communicate with a highly irrational person that doesn’t know or even articulate what is happening to them emotionally? You can’t and you only end up frustrated.   As the ancient master of strategy and war philosopher, Sun Tzu, once said, “Know thy enemy.  Know thy self.”  When it comes to hormonal breakdowns, if you’re the only one using your brain, you’ll win every time.  Whatever you do, do not engage.  It’s the equivalent to engaging a two year old.  It’s just never going to end up being productive as you’re on two separate playing fields.  Remember, you can’t fix crazy.  Let her be right or just let her be.  Logic will soon come back around and all things will be back to normal.

I knew there would be water when our oldest daughter decided to join a swim club, but what I didn’t expect were the tears.

I played all kinds of sports from five-years-old through high school and it was the same for my wife who was involved in softball and baton until college. So as parents do, we exposed our kids to as much as possible to see what, if anything, would stick.

Our oldest had done soccer and dance, but it didn’t resonate with her.  When she was seven, she failed to pass her level in swimming lessons. So imagine her journey to 18 months later, just after turning nine, she was named swimmer of the year by her club team coaches.

Sometimes life doesn’t follow your preconceptions. A swimmer in our family is about the least logical thing we could imagine. See, I’m allergic to chlorine, swimming in it makes me break out in hives and to be around it for any length of time makes my eyes water and burn. My wife had a traumatic experience with water when she was young and is apprehensive to even swim in an above-ground, five-foot pool.

Yet after that failure at seven, our daughter spent that whole summer in pools with her friends and at her aunt’s house splashing around, which apparently paid off.  The next summer she went back for lessons and they skipped her ahead a level. She breezed through levels 3 and 4, and being inspired by Missy Franklin and Rebecca Soni at last summer’s Olympics, she wanted more. My wife looked into other options and found a swim club in our suburban city. Our daughter tried out and made the team.

The first few months were tough on us all. She was learning how to use muscles she didn’t know she had while mom and I were learning the difference between freestyle and butterfly. She struggled through the pace of competitive swimming, we were juggling work, practice and our other two daughters’ activities.  There were times we doubted this would stick, too. She lagged behind some of the more experienced swimmers, struggled with technique and didn’t seem to have a sense of urgency in her stroke. But she kept swimming.

With the blessing of her coaches, we entered her in her first real competition and she was hooked. Being poolside with her teammates, swimming alongside other girls stroke for stoke and setting that first time lit a competitive fire I had never seen in her before. Mom and I weren’t as enthusiastic. Maybe that’s the wrong thing to say … we were confused. We watched as group after group was cycled into the pool and we had no idea what was going on, what her time was, how she finished, nothing.

Swimming isn’t like what you see on television. At this age and level, there are no medal races. There are 40 girls, split into groups of six or eight and each swims once. Then you wait … and wait … and wait for times to post. Only then do you know your time and rank. This is a very different mindset from the instant gratification we were used to in team sports. We played seven innings and there was a final score, 60 minutes and there was a loser and a winner. Closure.

Not with swimming.  We learned that this sport is as much, if not more, about competing with yourself. Getting better each day in the pool, “cutting time” is the phrase. And while our daughter was cutting time, she was more interested in the ribbons and medals. We tried to stress that she was new to this and it would come, just keep getting better.

Then she had a breakthrough. Her first event, of five that day, was a 25-yard butterfly and she raced the perfect swim, placing a tie for 5th and earning her first ribbon. It was validation to her, and she fell in love with the sport. Still, in true swimming fashion, we left that meet empty handed. The awards were given to the coaches to give to the kids, and she eventually got her little yellow ribbon at practice that week. Her next meet she won two more ribbons (one of which we still haven’t gotten and probably never will). Totally different mindset.

At this point the seed was planted and we were the proud parents of a part time fish. She went to practice three to four nights a week, got bumped up a level and finished her first season by earning a handful of ribbons, three medals at one meet and four more at the 8-U Championships. She was even asked to swim on a relay with the 10-year-olds at the Divisional Championships, an invite she eagerly accepted.

This was our first heartbreak, the first time we saw water on her face that wasn’t saturated with chlorine. The team finished last in the relay, but worse we found out later that they had gotten disqualified. Our daughter had managed to swim through her entire first season without DQ’ing, and when she found out she was likely the reason for leaving the block early, she crumbled. I had seen other kids cry after not making a cut time, and those days are probably coming, but being only eight, there were no time standards. Tears were foreign territory. But this is when we knew for sure how much she cared.

She shook it off and went back to practice. Entering a new season, and a new age group, it would be months before she would compete again, but she took on a personal mission statement. Don’t practice until you get it right, practice until you can’t get it wrong. And she lives it every day.

At the end of the season awards meeting, we watched as the team swimmers got ribbons for best times, practice attendance, etc. We had told our daughter not to expect anything that night. She was young and new to the club and just to enjoy the ice cream. So when we heard her name announced as swimmer of the year, the tears came back. First our daughter’s out of shock, which trickled down to tears of joy for mom and me. Our swimmer was a mess for a solid hour and couldn’t keep it together while she thanked all her coaches. What an experience for us to see that much genuine gratitude on her face, a rarity with children at times.

I stared at the picture of her with her trophy all day the next day at work, and then I realized that my daughter had become an inspiration to me. She has driven this ship the whole time. She drags us to the pool many days. The transformation has made me realize that you cannot judge your children on what you assume they can’t do. You cannot think that because they fail at something once that they will never be great. It changed my outlook on everything. Too often we make excuses not to find or be the inspiration. Find a reason to embrace inspiration! “You can’t” is more than a word barrier to our children’s success. Its a mindset that is instilled in them, if we appear to believe it ourselves.

Encourage your kids to take a chance, and allow them to talk you into taking a chance on them. Your eyes may burn watching them, and it may mean you get up at 5:30 A.M. to run the team concession stand, or take her to early morning summer practice, but it may just transform you both.

]]> http://playgrounddad.com/becoming-a-swim-dad-a-transformation-of-sports/feed/ 0 http://playgrounddad.com/becoming-a-swim-dad-a-transformation-of-sports/ http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/PlaygroundDad/~3/o273pABIbhg/ http://playgrounddad.com/treat-1-million-card-giveaway/#comments Sat, 01 Jun 2013 07:01:32 +0000 Ashley http://playgrounddad.com/?p=10647

Hey Guys, Treat.com is running a big promotion for Father’s day, it’s the Treat 1 Million Card Giveaway. It will be June 1-12, and Treat will be giving away 1 million free cards. The offer is good for all new Treat customers for any Treat card (Birthday, Father’s Day, Thank You, Graduation, etc.). 

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Offer expires 6/17/2013 (11:59 P.M. PT). Offer is good for one (1) free greeting card using the code TREATCARD1 at checkout. Postage may apply. Customer must be a first-time Treat customer. Offer is valid for one-time redemption per billing address. Cannot be redeemed for cash or combined with other offers, discounts, promotions or credits. Offer is not applicable to previously placed orders. Offer is only valid on www.treat.com and does not apply to purchases made from the Treat Cards for iPhone app. Offer is not applicable to Treat Card Club, gifts, or third party or partner websites.

And then it hits me:  Don and Betty aren’t as distracted as we are. Not about household stuff, anyway. Say what you will about their choices—I see them really try to be present to their kids, to be in the moment, and to not say, “Sally, go watch TV!” And on the show, they often succeed. Can we do this better? In this age, is it even possible for us to simplify? Yes. Yes, it is.

The problem is this: we’re trying to remember too much. We can’t keep it all in our heads. So let’s make things happen automatically, so we don’t have to think about them. Let’s set it and forget it. Here are three ways to do that.

1) Sync your household calendars.
You bump into a friend at the store, and he invites you and your family over to watch the game and suck beers on Saturday afternoon. Delighted, you agree, only to return home and learn that you and your spouse have a combined seven birthday parties to take your kids to on Saturday. You won’t be drinking or watching games, unless you count Kool-Aid and Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

2) Go digital with your to-do lists.
This can solve two big problems. First, we all get anxious about trying to keep all our to-dos in our heads. The solution? Get ‘em all out of your head, into lists. Check out the Getting Things Done system, by David Allen. It seems geeky—and it is—but it totally, totally works. Once you set it and forget it, you’d be surprised how relaxed you can be.

The second problem your to-do lists can solve? Just about the time I finish a bunch of errands, and I’m patting myself on the back for getting them all done, I realize that I forgot diapers, or milk, or some critical, must-have-today item. Back out I go, frequently to a store I’ve already been to that day. But it doesn’t have to be like this.

Here are some options, labeled Regular, Intermediate, and Geek Out:

Regular: start emailing yourself. I like to do this at sunup, with the word “TODAY” in big letters at the top, and a list of everything that I absolutely must get done that day. Or if you’re headed to the grocery store, start a shopping list in an email to yourself when you wake up. As the morning progresses, and you make breakfast and get the kids off to school, you’ll think of more items, and you’ll enter them in your list as you go. Just before you leave for the store, hit send.

Intermediate: download the Evernote app to your desktop and smartphone. It’s free. Make notebooks for everything. I made notebooks for HOME, ONLINE, and EMAIL. I also made one called PHONE (which I use for calls I can make from anywhere, so I often do those while driving), and other one called PHONE NOT ANYWHERE (so I know to make those calls from home, like when I need to refer to paperwork during the call). You can enter due dates for everything. Awesome.

Geek Out:  Buy the desktop, smartphone, and table versions of Omnifocus. It’s a big chunk of change, but it’s the Lamborghini of apps, according to productivity gurus like Merlin Mann. With location enabling, Omnifocus can ping you when you’re in, say, the hardware store, to remind you to buy those nails you entered six months ago. And you can even set it to ping you when you’re *near* the hardware store. Duuuude.

If you’re like me, parenthood has turned you into the guy from “Memento.” Ten minutes ago might as well be ten years ago. You often walk upstairs for something in your house, only to wonder, “Why did I come up here?” Sometimes you wake in the night, certain that you’ve forgotten a crucial sign-up or appointment. To fix this, I’ve gotten in the habit of setting alarms for most things. The chicken will be done in an hour? Set a reminder on your phone for :55. Your kid needs sunscreen for a field trip? Alarm yourself the word “SUNSCREEN” for that morning, around the time she’s getting ready for the bus. Your credit card bill is due on the 18th of every month? Set a recurring reminder, so it hits you on the 15th. Set it and forget it.

photo credit: x-ray delta one via photopin cc