On Monday, Hazel went in for her two-month check-up and earned the praise of her primary care physician. She put on almost a full pound since the week previous, which is pretty good for a baby. That’d be like me putting on 20 lbs in seven days, so scoff not lest ye mirror that weight gain relative to your own mass. She also was scheduled to receive four vaccination shots. The last time she was vaccinated, she was sluggishly doped out on the stuff despite the doctor’s assurance that there would be no drowsy side effects. Sure, she was three pounds lighter then, but the pediatrician cautiously only gave her two of the four needles.

Afterward, Hazel wasn’t so much sleepy as valiantly refusing to give in to sleep. In short, she fought sleep all day, not staying down for more than a few minutes despite the discomfort and, I suppose, the healing force of modern medicine. Like Little Mac going for the World Circuit title, she would not relent to Mr. Sandman’s Midnight Sleeper nor his “Dreamland Express” triple upper cut assault. All day and into the night, whenever he landed a restful right or a lulling left, Hazel would mash the A and B buttons, rise from the ring floor, and land a really nice star punch.

But, just like her father, Hazel could not dodge Mr. Sandman forever and eventually relented to his pugilistic pugnaciousness, sleep overtaking her with visions of punching out Mike Tyson dancing in her head. Sadly, that dream match will never come to pass (unless you enter: 007 373 5963). We breathed a sigh of relief when referee Mario finally counted, “Bahn, Buhn, Blee…BeeBayBoo” and Megan and I could board the Dreamland Express ourselves.

I have a sneaking suspicion that many of Hazel’s “life lesson” talks with old Dad will take the form of an extended metaphor based on a video game or an animated series from the early 80s to mid-90s. Poor girl. Even still, I’ll have to do some research on Flintheart Glomgold’s take on when teens should start dating.