Being Daddy

Editor’s note: A few weeks ago, I asked Eliza if it would be OK if I wrote a guest column on her blog in honor of Father’s Day. She smiled at me, drooled and babbled incoherently.

Based on this exchange, plus all the good work that she’s been doing on this blog, it seems that she’s just like her old man – not nearly as good at expressing her thoughts via the spoken word as she is the written word. Of course, she can’t talk yet; I have no such excuse.

Excuses or not, that’s why I chose this blog as an outlet to discuss my life as Daddy. It beats having to actually talk to people. Warning: The following may be extremely sappy.

– Mike

I’ll never forget the day I found out that I was going to be a father. It was Feb. 16, 2011, and Lauren had just taken a pregnancy test. Wanting to avoid any mixed signals (“Is that a plus, a minus or a division sign?”), I had sprung for the best test I could find – one with a digital readout that clearly read “Pregnant” or “Not Pregnant.” 

If the water turns blue, a baby for you!

If purple ye see, no baby thar be!

If ye test should fail, to a doctor set sail!

After Lauren did her business on it, we sat and stared at it for the longest three minutes of our lives. When we finally saw just one word – “Pregnant” – I knew right then that my life was changing. And I couldn’t have been more excited.

I’ve always loved kids. For the most part, they’re a lot more fun to hang out with than adults. And Lauren and I had talked for years about how we wanted to have a family. So as the months ticked by, leading up to her Oct. 22 due date, our excitement grew. But then, when we hit October, I started getting a little nervous. Was I ready for this? Of the million or so things you need to do when you’re responsible for the well-being of a tiny human, I had experience doing just a fraction of them.

I’m a worrier by nature and I fear the unknown, and that’s not a good combination when you’re about to become a father for the first time. Will I be able to change a diaper correctly? What do I do when she gets sick? What if she never stops crying? Did I pay close enough attention during baby CPR class? Will I ever get a full night of sleep again? And how the hell are we going to afford this?

Looking back on the night Eliza was born, I wish I had been happier. Not that I wasn’t happy – I was. I was ecstatic that mother and baby were both healthy, and the dream that we had both wanted so badly was coming true. But keeping me from fully enjoying the moment was the nagging feeling that I was in over my head.

A couple of minor complications meant we had to stay in the hospital for a few extra days, and as sick as I was of looking at the walls of our tiny room at Swedish, I was also somewhat dreading going home. No more nurses and doctors at our beck and call, ready to answer any questions or jump in to help if we didn’t know how to do something. We were on our own.

But then the strangest thing happened. Our first day at home came and went, and Eliza was still alive and well (and so were we). And then the next day. And the next. And our little flesh-colored rag doll kept getting bigger, stronger, and livelier. We were actually doing this!

Turns out, these past seven-plus months have easily been the happiest and most rewarding of my life. It’s impossible to describe the joy I feel from the simplest things. Like picking Eliza up after a nap and seeing her mouth stretch into a big toothless grin the moment she sees me. Or the way she snuggles into me when we’re lying in bed together. Or the way she giggles when I blow raspberries on her tummy. Or the way she smiles triumphantly after farting.

Of course, much of the credit for my happiness goes to my amazing wife. Lauren is the absolute perfect partner for raising a child. She has always been the most caring, loving person that I know, but seeing that care and love directed at our daughter is incredible. She’s been a steady, calming presence whenever I’ve felt overwhelmed or didn’t know what to do. She’s the one who got up with Eliza at night every three hours during those first three months, letting me sleep. She’s the one who sacrificed so many things while she was pregnant, taking every precaution to make sure Eliza was healthy.

Putting Eliza to bed together at night has quickly become the highlight of each day, with Lauren cuddling with her in the rocking chair while I read a few chapters from whatever book we’re working on at the time. It’s the one moment (out of many, many candidates) where I most feel like we’re a family.

Has it been difficult at times? Of course. And it will continue to be. But making it this far, relatively unscathed, has made me realize that whatever we face with Eliza, we’ll be as prepared as possible for it.

I’d give anything for the chance to tell Oct. 22 Mike that everything’s going to be great, and that being a father is the coolest thing imaginable. If June 15 Mike had been in that delivery room last fall, I’d have been doing backflips off the walls and seeking out people to hug like Jim Valvano at the 1983 Final Four.

I’m still dwelling on unknowns these days, but now, it’s those unknowns that are most thrilling to me. What is my little girl going to look like six months from now? What will her first word be? What will she be wearing when she takes her first steps? What will be the first book that she reads all by herself? What will be her favorite subject in school? I don’t have the answer to any of these questions, but I can’t wait to find out.

There is, however, one thing that I do know – on the day Baby Rose No. 2 comes along, you won’t find a happier, more excited person within 5,000 miles of that delivery room. And if you come near me, I’m going to hug the living crap out of you.

Maintaining a healthy pale glow

The upcoming Memorial Day weekend is considered the unofficial start of summer. And in case you were worried that I wasn’t fully prepared for my first summer – I’m sure it’s been eating away at you – fear not. I’m all set.

Now, considering my parents both have skin types that fall somewhere on the spectrum between “pasty white” and “clear,” I’ve already come to terms with the fact that I’m doomed to a life of pale skin that will burn under any light stronger than a 40-watt bulb. You know that classic English rock song, “A Whiter Shade of Pale,” by Procol Harum? No? Well, anyway, that’s the Rose family in a nutshell. Mom and Dad know this, which is why I never go outside without taking proper precautions – hat, sunscreen, etc.

In the past few weeks, Mom and Dad have kicked it up a notch, stocking up on everything else necessary for me to safely enjoy those 65-degree, overcast Seattle summer days. First, there’s our new pool – an inflatable crab monstrosity that can be connected to a hose, creating a delightful little fountain. And, of course, it features a large sun-blocking canopy. We don’t have any great photos of it, so here’s one from the manufacturer. Horrifying, right?

Then there’s the sun tent, which can be conveniently brought to a back yard or the beach, and big enough to keep the entire Osmond family safe from the sun’s evil rays. It’s the only reason I was allowed outside with nothing but a diaper on:

And finally, there’s my new swimsuit. No fancy bikinis for this girl. This thing not only has long sleeves, but it’s also got a hood. And the hood has bear ears, because why not. The only way I’d have more coverage is if I was wearing a wetsuit. This style is going to be all the rage this season. At least, that’s what Mom keeps trying to convince me.

 At the very least, I look better in it than Dad does.

(By the way, in case you couldn't tell, the surest way to make a fortune in the world today is to develop some fancy new baby product, because every parent on earth will eventually convince themselves that it’s 100 percent necessary.)

We tried all this new gear out when we spent Mother’s Day in Redmond at YaYa and Grandpa’s house, and it was a complete success. Here I am in the pool with my cousin Brooklyn.

So now we know that I’ll be in good hands over the next few days, because tomorrow morning, Mom, Dad and I will be heading east to Lake Chelan for a long holiday weekend with Mom’s family. Can’t wait!

Come fly with me

On Saturday, I took my first-ever trip aboard an airplane when we flew to the Tri-Cities to wish my Grammy a happy belated Mother’s Day.

Mom and Dad were a little nervous, since they had no idea how I’d respond to being in the air (pressurization on the ears and all that fun stuff). Turns out, they had nothing to worry about. They took great care of me inside the plane, and our Saturday and Sunday flights both went off without a hitch. They made sure to feed me during takeoff and landing, so I was busy chewing and swallowing during all the altitude changes.

Dad also chose our flights wisely, picking not only the ones with the fewest people onboard (so we were ensured of having an entire row to ourselves), but also the ones flying at the times of day when I’m typically in the best mood. Overall, a lot of great planning and execution from the Rose parents.

Maybe I’m too young to appreciate it just yet, but being my age for your first airplane trip is nothing to sneeze at. The first time my dad ever set foot on a commercial airplane, he was 18 years old and had just graduated from high school. Me? I was just a few days short of seven months old. Having a dad who works in aviation certainly has its benefits.

So without further ado, here’s a short photo essay of our weekend trip, courtesy of Horizon Air (Shameless plug: Wings of the Great Northwest!™).

We arrived at Sea-Tac at 6:15 a.m., and Dad still didn't think we got there early enough.

Mom tells me he's always like this at airports.

Since I'm under 2 years old, I wasn't required to have my own seat. And with less than 20 people on the flight, there was no need to do so. But Dad was beyond excited for me to get my own boarding pass, and he wasn't going to be stopped.

We're officially airborne, and I'm downing a bottle like it's 2 minutes before last call.
Mom had to pull it away to make sure we had some left for when we landed.

You know, this is pretty cool.

I fell asleep with this outside my window...

...and woke up with this. You have no idea how disorienting this can be to a 7-month-old.

Touchdown in Pasco. Let's do it again!

Hello, Tri-Cities sunshine!

A few photos from Kennewick: First, some quality time with Grammy...

...and with Grandpa.

Mom discovers a fun new way of feeding me.

I’ve got the mother of all mothers

Unless you live under a rock (or under a rock that doesn’t get cable), you knew that Sunday was Mother’s Day. Is this the ultimate example of an over-commercialized Hallmark Holiday? Yeah, probably. But it still holds a lot of importance. According to the always-accurate Wikipedia, “Mother’s Day recognizes mothers, motherhood and maternal bonds in general, as well as the positive contributions that they make to society.”

Put me down as being in favor of all that. Regular readers of this blog know that I’ve made my feelings about my mom pretty clear, but in case you’re new here, I’ll make it quick: I’ve got the best mom in the world. She’s incredible. She took great care of me for the nine months before I popped out, and she’s been topping herself ever since. This is a woman who:

• Never batted an eye when, after I was first born, she had to wake up every two hours to feed and change me, and she let Dad sleep straight through the night.
• Knows every trick for getting me back to sleep when I wake up crying.
• Turns mundane activities like bath time into my favorite things.
• Is always singing English songs and poems that (I’m sure I’ll realize once I get older) are all slightly dirty.
• Sewed me a homemade Santa hat by hand.
• Has called it a night early from outings to put me to bed while Dad stays out with friends.
• Has excellent spoon control.
• Subjected herself to the horrors of the breast pump for far longer than any person should reasonably be expected to.

As far as I’m concerned, there’s only one black mark in her ledger. Even so, that makes for a pretty impressive winning percentage.

Now, obviously, Sunday was Mom’s first Mother’s Day (unless you count last year, when I was still in her belly, but that’s silly), which meant that Dad and I were under a little extra pressure to make it memorable. So on Sunday, Dad paid for a private sailboat excursion that took us out into Elliott Bay, then after a lunch of lobster and filet mignon, he hired a skywriting pilot to spell out “Happy Mother’s Day, Lauren” in huge letters in the sky.

OK, so he didn’t do that. He did, however, make her breakfast in bed while I snuggled with her (after I let them both sleep in until 9 a.m.). We also presented her with the Mother’s Day gift that the two of us had worked on together: a framed photo of me, flanked by my handprint and footprint. Needless to say, she was impressed.

We followed that up with a trip to YaYa and Grandpa’s house for a fun day of frolicking in the sun with my cousins, Jackson and Brooklyn, and some delicious fish tacos (courtesy of my Auntie Amy and Uncle Ben). A good day all around. Although skywriting would’ve been pretty cool, too.

Anyway, Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers out there! But mostly to mine.