Having been born in November of 1978, I had to wait a long time for several of my first holiday experiences. Independence Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving – I didn’t get to them until 1979, which is a real shame. Hazel’s lucky in that she was born before the boatload of important annual festivities. All she really missed out on were Groundhog’s Day, Cinco de Mayo, and Valentine’s Day; all acceptable losses though missing Henry Rollins’s Birthday was a bit of a kicker.

So, in preparation for her first Halloween, we had a pumpkin carving party over the weekend. Hazel was more of an observer than actual participant, as giving a five-and-a-half-month-old a large knife would probably wind up badly for all concerned. Megan went for a nature scene on her pumpkin and cut out some gently falling leaves. To juxtapose Megan’s tranquil scene, I freehanded an evil, uni-browed reptilian demon pun’kin – complete with forked tongue, protruding lower fangs, and a general bad attitude. After all, we want Hazel to be well-rounded (and not just physically like she is right now).

But I’m afraid that any manner of fancy gourd slicing couldn’t draw Hazel’s attention away from her hero: two-year-old Thomas, the son of Megan’s friend Becky. Hazel thrilled as she watched Thomas walk, eat things, have teeth, stab one of our chairs with a pumpkin carving knife, and begin to color our hallway a nice shade of Crayola mauve. A rule of kids that I learned real quickly is that they are always mesmerized by what slightly older kids can do. Before Hazel could sit up on her own, any child that could complete this feat was stared at agog like an earthbound saint. But of all the things that Thomas can do, I think the biggest source of Hazel’s envy was his ability to get at our cats whenever he felt like it. For her, trying to catch Casey Jones or Fleabag is like trying to net the wind. I keep telling her that soon enough, she’ll be hustling those felines around our house like Benny Hill after young British ingénue.

Obligatory Halloween costume pics coming up next!

And with the mighty whiff of Seth Smith, the Red Sox have won their second World Series ring in less than half a decade. Boston fans (including in their ranks an overwhelming percentage of Mainers) can now breathe a sign of relief, a yip of hooray, and a snore of sleep – staying up well past midnight has definitely taken its toll on us Eastern Standard Timers.

Does this victory mean that the Red Sox are the new Yankees? I certainly hope not – although with talk of A-Rod dyeing his stockings red, could a ban on facial hair and Coco Crisp’s ‘fro be far off? Their performance in the Series gives me hope though, some of Lugo’s fielding almost derailed Boston and the bullpen definitely needs a couple of months off to rest. Still, like a pissing contest gone horribly awry, any mistake the Sox made was trumped by the Rockies. You could just about hear the collective hearts of Colorado’s longtime and brand new fans shatter when Holliday misplayed that mid-game shot to left field. Just like watching Superman not beat a speeding bullet in a race or your favorite housecat nimbly misjudge a leap to the windowsill and wind up landing squarely on its feline rump, that one error may have spelled catastrophe that no late game homers could fully squelch.

I loved seeing Boston win again, but I really wanted the Rockies to put them through their paces rather than just lie down on the railroad tracks like a damsel while Terry Francona twirled his mustache cackling. I have to wonder if the twists of fate that put a team with a so-so record up against a solid ball club was like putting a hamster in a death match with a hungry polar bear. Mostly likely, if the Series was the best 6 out of 11, we’d have seen wins on both sides, but that’d be a hell of a lot of baseball, half the televised games of which would inundate me with Coors commercial after Coors commercial. No, it’s time to move on past the autumnal tradition of baseball and start right into the Maine winter tradition of freezing our thermal-clad butts clean off.

A fear that all dads must share is knowing that, before they know it, their kid will bring home that first boyfriend or girlfriend. Growing up is an odd time that dirves us to make similarly odd choices – in the bands we like, the clothes we wear, the things we will or will not eat, and the people we choose to enter with into social relationships. I still get a chill running down my spine when my mind wanders to Kris Kross, Zubaz pants, tubes of cookie dough, or any of the girls I dated in high school. And I know that eventually, Hazel will start hanging out with some “friend” in as little as a dozen years; a person that I am going to have to be nice to while knowing full well what teenagers do with each other. Yuck.

Hopefully, regardless of Hazel’s future sexual orientation, she never brings home anyone like Eric Byrnes. Last night, the Arizona D’backs left fielder provided what can be loosely categorized as commentary before Game 2 of the World Series. To be fair, he may have given some solid analysis of the game (doubtfully), but I was too distracted by his tousled appearance. As he let forth a slew of zingers and wacky one-liners, all I could contemplate was how extreme and bodacious he truly is because what else could he be with such a tousled hairstyle. Yes, much like how each hair on his steadily balding head goes its own way, omnidirectionally, so too does Byrnes live a lifestyle that can only be described as non-non-non-non-non-heinous.

Perhaps this is just petty jealousy talking, for I could never pull off the tousled look. Even when I muss my hair with wild abandon, it’s so thick and wiry that the hair reconstitutes like a dark brown T1000, collecting into a brunette helmet of puffy, unmanageable hair. The best I could do to rally against the world using my scalp would be an emulation of Che Guevara, but berets are so last season. Although, a dude walking down the street with a full beard and a beehive coif sprayed up a yard above his head could cause quite the stir.

The question is: where could I find cat eye spectacles with bedazzled accents deep in the heart of Midcoast Maine?

Thanks to Hazel’s rabid support, Boston is on their way to their second World Series in this century. While their “meh” attitude mid-ALCS left me cold, last night saw the heart come back into the Red Sox ball club. Dustin Pedroia especially stood out - his 3 RBI double came immediately after I dismissingly said, “Pedroia never does anything; I’m going to bed.” Not only was I proven wrong, but I also wound up staying awake for the whole game. Similarly, when they put Coco “My Nickname is Better Than Yours” Crisp in right field, I spoke nothing but doom and gloom. Not only did he produce two of the three final outs of the game, but the last was an over-the-shoulder, smash-into-the-wall catch. My apathy was put at bay.

Not to say that I am a Boston Booster through and through. Like I have said in the past, I’m not a sports fan. I watch the Championship and World Series each year not out of a love for a team or the game of baseball. Watching all those people experience high elation or cavernous despair as one huge being is why I tune in – the human emotion permeates the atmosphere like salt in the ocean. Unlike football or even hockey, when you watch a baseball game, you see the face of every player, on and off the field. Plus, the crowd is so integral; they may as well be on the field along with their team.

So while I’ll root for Boston in the WS, I may secretly want the Rockies to win. It’s their first time in the Series and they seem like a bunch of solid guys without a loudmouthed oaf in their midst. Plus, given the choice between a magnificent natural landscape of our continent or a pair of rouge hosiery, symbolically speaking, the choice is obvious. It’s much like when we played seasons of Tecmo Bowl in college. I always picked my team based on whose uniforms enjoyed the sharpest design. And yes, I can sap the manliness from televised sports faster than you can say, “Go Banana!”

I’m sad to report that Hazel still has nary a tooth to chomp with. I’m also sad about that last sentence’s poor grammatical structure, yet I digress. We’re over five months into her life and she still is just a Gummy Gus. I’m sure she’s right on the dental developmental track, but she goes through periodic teething flare-ups that really crankify her craw. Despite her gnawing on anything within her reach with all the wild abandon of a hamster with a cardboard tube, not a single white molar, incisor, or the like interrupts her gaping smile of throaty black. She’s very frustrated by this delay. When her first tooth does finally break through, her relief will surely be palatable palpable.

Thinking back, I obviously cannot remember my baby teeth coming in, but I do vividly recall their exit. It must have been around second grade or so when my milk teeth popped out. I can almost hear the cha-ching each made once they were released; my tooth fairy was very giving without spoiling me, doling out around 25¢ for each fallen chopper. But the best part about losing your baby teeth happens during those few days just before they detach. That’s when you can twist the tooth all the way around on the single strand of fleshy guy wire that still secures it in your mouth. Yes, messing with that anchor of pink pulp was probably the grossest thing I did as a kid, using my tongue to spin the tooth or make it pop straight out like the gunport cover on a pirate ship.

What I don’t recall is whether or not it hurt when my permanent teeth came in. I guess they traveled the same furrow made by the primary teeth, but that still must have stung a bit. I’m guessing it wasn’t the most comfortbale experience, hence my employment of dissociative amnesia. As I have said before, this method of dental progression is proof enough to sink any Intelligent Design argument forthwith. Take that, people’s deeply held beliefs!

Megan would make an excellent MLB coach. While watching the NLCS with me this past week, whenever a hit is not immediately caught or secured for a tag out by the professional baseballers, Megan would comment, “Those guys should try harder; it’s their job.” Likewise, if an at-bat did not result in a homerun (or at the very least a double), Megan would again chastise the player, stating that, instead of getting out, he should hit better and not do so since he’s paid to win at baseball. In short, I feel that Megan could quickly whip any team, even the Shelbyville Shelbyvillians, into World Series winners through concise tips like these.

During last night’s game, Megan quickly lost interest due to the 0-0 score. But, when she came back out and saw the Indians were winning 7-0 about halfway through the game, she rolled up her sleeves to craft the perfect game plan for Boston’s comeback. You could almost see the beaming light bulb ignite above her head as she said, “What the Red Sox should do now is hit a bunch of homeruns.” And wouldn’t you know it, despite being hundreds of miles away from their dugout, Megan’s advice was heard and followed by Youkilis, Ortiz, and Ramirez – in a row! Three homers to nearly halve Cleveland’s lead. Of course, Boston still lost, but at least it wasn’t a shutout.

What I’m wondering is, if the Sox can afford to use a time machine once to travel back to the dawn of man and bring back a Neanderthal like Kevin Youkilis¹, why couldn’t they just make a second trip and take Wakefield out of yesterday’s game a few pitches earlier than they did?

¹Youkilis had the unfortunate task of introducing Boston’s starting lineup before last night’s game and really came off like a shaved caveman – and not one of those Geico commercial cultured ones.