For the long holiday weekend, we’re taking Hazel on a tour of Connecticut to view the rearing grounds of yours truly. This will be the first meeting between her and the majority of my large Italian family. Somehow, I feel that life in coastal Maine has not prepared her for what can best be described as “more Eye-talians that you’s can shake a tray of lasagna at.” It’s an unfortunate happenstance that, as Hazel has grown, her dominate facial feature has become her chipmunk cheeks. The amount of pinching those acorn hiders will have to endure over the next four days is, well, just this side of child abuse.

Driving six hours with a three-and-a-half-month-old may sound like a risky proposition to some. Honestly, I myself have been brought to temper-tantrum tears reacting to the traffic through Hartford on 84. But have no worries; I have a plan^TM! Strategically, we are leaving tonight around seven or eight in the evening, since this is Hazel’s bedtime and her first sleeping period typically lasts about six or seven hours. My hope is that she falls asleep in the car driving along Route One in Maine and awakens deep in the heart of the Housatonic-Naugatuck Valley back in dear ole CT. With a plan this simple, what could possibly go awry?

Hazel is getting strong. I mean, I could still take her in a fair fight (no wrenches hidden in her diaper) with little problem. But, she is definitely a stronger baby than she was last week. Lately, all she wants to do is stand and sit upright. This is no small feat for an infant, but she approaches the task with as much fervor as a Dragonball Z character powering up. Forget sleeping, Hazel is all about holding her head up straight, unassisted, while grunting from the muscular effort.

But like I said, she’s still no match for ol’ Dad. Even if she becomes super strong and possesses the strength of 50 babies, I will still be able to hold my own (the biggest challenge would be my inner psychological battle). Of course, if she happens to find the Tanooki suit, I’m as good as finished. I mean, I think I could dodge her Fire Flower assaults, but that tail attack is rough! Plus, being able to turn to stone, even if only for five seconds at a time, would really pay off for her in the end.

So, in summation, today’s fatherly advice is never trust a baby. They’re just one P-switch away from thwomping you.

Megan’s parents tell me that, as an infant, she only needed a 10-minute catnap to recharge her baby batteries for hours and hours of cooing calamity. In desperation, many a Maine night would find Megan’s dad packing her into the car and driving around for a while. The solitary darkness of those New England back roads coupled with the soothing motion of the car always lulled her to sleep (so long as the car never stopped moving). An interesting side effect of this tactic is that Adult Megan is no good on long car trips. An excellent short-trip co-pilot and navigator, she is rendered comatose when on a highway for more than 15 minutes. Of course, while this kind of stinks for me (the driver) on the surface, it does offer me the opportunity to tune the radio to my station of choice.

My parents like to point out that, for the first eight years of my life, I didn’t sleep. Basically, I got by on about three hours a night. The rest of my twilight time was spent scurrying about the house in an Army-style crawl or running around the neighborhood, climbing trees and catching moths. In fact, there is a cadre of parents of my childhood friends who share a similar experiences while having me “sleep” over their house. They’d tuck me and my friend in after an evening of horseplay and, after settling down to read a book or watch Moonlighting (or V on one occasion I recall), they’d catch some movement out of the corner of their eye. On closer inspection, they’d find Boyhood John hiding behind the couch or under the coffee table, wide awake and brimming with energy. As I got older, I slept more and more, so much so that I’d sleep through my 12:30 classes in college. Still, my parents reveled in speaking of my sleep-shunning youth, remarking that I’d have a child just like me someday.

And in fact, Hazel is a lot like both Megan and I. During sunlight hours, she is definitely a Megan mirror, napping for just 15 minutes or so at a time. And when it comes to bed time, she surely fights sleep like I did, requiring a little finesse on our part to bring on the slumber. The real trick is to get her to settle down enough to consider sleep.This usually entails walking the house from one end to the other, holding her and rocking her. Sometimes this will be enough to get her snoring, but usually you need to go on to Stage Two: The Rocking Chair In Her Room. While formulaic at first, Megan and I proceed differently from Stage Two forward. Megan has great success with white noise, utilizing a small table fan we keep in the room. I, however, get bored using this technique, instead favoring signing to Hazel. I try to stick to children’s songs at first, but other songs elbow to my mental foreground, demanding to be sung. And so Hazel is entertained (into sleeping - which may not speak well for these artists) by The Beatles, They Might Be Giants, Wolf Parade, Interpol (edited), Tenacious D (severely edited), and many, many TV theme songs.

Concerning the latter: I can usually successfully get by with any theme song, but the Ducktales song consistently ruins Hazel, bringing on wails of distraught anguish. I still need to figure this phenomenon out, though I know it isn’t strictly content related, since when I melodically list the names of characters from the show, she digs. More experiments are needed before bringing this to the AAP.

Whereas attitudes may differ on the feeding, diapering, and doctoring of a newborn, there is a general consensus in regards to language development. All the experts agree: Talk to your baby from day one. I will admit, at first I felt self-conscious when talking to Hazel. Slowly, I began to not only feel comfortable, but also to satisfy my inner bombast by expounding to our infant daughter about topics ranging from How to Build the Best Sandwich to What Feet Are and How They Will Assist Your Future Life. Eventually, I felt so at ease that I would crack jokes to Hazel, quoting movies and TV shows that she may never actually see.

This has progressed to a point where I now do impersonations for her. Some are innocuous, like Elmo or Pat Sajak (the latter does a killer promo spot for WVII, eastern Maine’s ABC affiliate). However, I also branch out into accents, speaking like a Liverpudlian as I give her an evening bottle, lilting like a Teutonic Hungarian whilst changing her messy diaper. Some voices are American, like Texan or Generic Midwestern. Others range more widely, mimicking a burly Australian or even Admiral Ackbar of the Rebel Forces (who always reminds me of Richard Milhous Nixon…In Space!). Sometimes, when I am especially sleep deprived, I’ll lull Hazel to sleep reciting the only two lines of The Canterbury Tales that I know in Middle English:

Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote

What I’m wondering is: are my constant voice impressions screwing with Hazel’s language development? Am I dooming her to countless future speech impedimenta due to my lack of vocal self-control?

And my worries stretch beyond mere pronunciation. Hazel is a native Mainer. So, from here until ice cream’s far-flung extinction, whenever Hazel wants to order a candy confection atop her cone of choice, she’ll ask for “Jimmies” instead of sprinkles. It makes my inner Nutmegger cry, slumping back against the charter oak and blowing my nose on a fistful of tax dollars, worse than when the Whale blew down to Carolina. Wicked.

Step right up, folks, step right up! I present you with the latest match-up in our ongoing series “What’s Bigger?”

 

What’s Bigger: Hazel’s Head or a Cantaloupe? Now, I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that there has been no Photoshop trickery done here, no Trompe-l’œil meant to confuse your perception and cloud your better judgment. I can attest confidently under threat of bodily harm that this digital photograph appears exactly as it was downloaded; outward proportions may differ, but the graphical content remains the same. I also feel impelled to point out that the melon pictured is a standard cantaloupe which adequately represents its kind. We have not obtained some freakish mini melon just to skew the competition in favor of our premiere progeny. 

So don’t be shy, folks, which is bigger? Answer right and get a stylish and useful PBS tote bag^*!

^*_{Tote bag is not guaranteed to be stylish, useful, emblazoned with the PBS logo, or located on our plane of existence.}

Over the weekend, Hazel had her first run-in with JO friends of ours, JO standing for John Originating. I must admit that I was a bit anxious going in, seeing as how JOs tend to not be as big on babies as MOs (Megan Originating). I feared that we’d bore them with infant-friendly activities or disgust them with pre-toddler bodily functions. I should point out that two of the visitors are actually DO friends, sharing a Dual Origination with both Megan and myself. However, I will maintain that the male half of this couple has strong JO tendencies (general dorkiness, crude humor, comic book knowledge, sci-fi leanings). Being outnumbered, the female half is getting the JO treatment in this post, being guilty by association.

All in all, we had a great time. Although I did notice a difference between this visit and when pure MOs or family hang out with Hazel. Unlike those times, if my memory serves, not a single JO made any physical contact with Hazel all weekend nor sought this opportunity out. In fact, when Hazel had a slight diaper malfunction and set to wailing during a public feeding, the real line in the sand was drawn between MOs and JOs. At first, naturally, there was much inching away and aversion of eyes. The safety zone appeared to be about 15 feet from the baby. However, as Hazel’s consternation grew, so did her decibel level. Without any visuals to go on, a bystander would have thought we were boiling our baby alive, inspired by the Lobster Fest madness that gripped Rockland all weekend. This set the JOs to actually run across the parking lot and huddle in their car, fiddling with the cold, predictable logic of cell phones and mp3 players. Once Hazel was cleaned up and calmed down, the visitation could continue.

I can understand this behavior. When my sister had her daughter a little over two years ago, my first visit was very much the same. I didn’t really want to hold my niece, and when I did, it was most awkward and reminiscent of how I would hold a Nerf product. However, I did differ from your standard JO in that, when it came to diaper time, I was all in…to observe that is, like at a teaching hospital. The only butts I wipe are my daughter’s and my own, the latter of which is a mental picture I want you all to savor for the rest of the day.