Last night, Hazel decided it would be a hoot to cry uncontrollably from 1 a.m. until about 3:30 or so. The most likely culprit is teething, which I see as more of a red herring for parents to rely upon during ambiguous caterwauling spells than a consistent tear bringer. She also might have been really bummed by the latest casualties of “American Idol”, but since she has never seen the show, this is another catalyst to strike from the tally.

The most certain answer that I see is that today is February 29^th. Not only does it mark the end of a pretty cool month—February has the common decency to last only four weeks, thereby stepping aside quickly in my everlasting desire for November, the month of turkey and birthdays—but it also means that March is nigh upon us. All in all, March is a scary month. Not only does it come in like a proverbial snarling lion, but it also holds within it 31 days the dread Ides of March. I’ve been trying to get through the complete Shakespeare catalog with Hazel, but she has an unfortunately short attention span for long blocks of dense text with no illustrations of cuddly bunnies or chirping baby chicks. The result of her budding ADHD or just being a baby: You Make the Call! Even March’s name is frightening: MARCH! It may as well be called Schnell! for all the imagery of forced trudging through muddy desolation it brings to mind. The softest correlation of March’s moniker would be Sousa; this name change might impart a sunnier disposition. But after looking at his photo (ol’ John Philip bears an amazing resemblance to a Stratego game piece), I think any way you slice it, March is destined to strike fear in the hearts of any feeling souls on this planet or any other that recognize the Gregorian calendar system. Surely, this must be the cause of Hazel’s twilight terrors: a tearful goodbye to February coupled with a horrified acceptance that yes, March’s tyrannical rule starts tomorrow.

Just think of how sad Hazel will be once she figures out that she won’t see another 2/29 until she’s nearly five years old. It just doesn’t seem fair.

Dense snows big on sop but short on stature
coat the world like a sweatpanted loafer
who is no more than a belly scratcher
sagging jobless on his parents’ sofa.

(That last line rhymes when read by a Mainer.
People here play Three Card Monte with Rs;
removing some to make words sound plainer
and suping up others like pimped out cars.)

Winter can now fly south for the summer
and leave us to our lawns of green grasses.
More cold will surely make me quite dumber,
my thoughts gummed up like unthawed molasses.

But winter has its own intrinsic worth,
As Hazel will learn, each spring’s a rebirth.

Some of Hazel milestones are like pulling teeth (or teething in general – anything that is slow, painful, and dental in nature will suffice); we have been working with her on crawling for months now with little to no progress being made. We place her on her belly, arrange a few toys across the room as bait encouragement, and cheer her on to what should be a simple five-second crawling endeavor. However, Hazel just rolls on her back in a huffy pout and finagles her way over to her toys by rolling like a Teletubby.

This week, she has formally committed herself to crawling as a means of self-ambulation. Whether it’s from a yearning for independence or just a way to stay underneath the fumes from our freshly painted living room walls (Mesa Sunrise), Hazel is really making an earnest go of crawling. So long as no loving grandparent is in the room, Hazel is left to her own floundering devices and Megan and I just let her struggle, knowing that she needs to feel the burn. And I don’t mean your typical 30-minutes-on-an-elliptical-machine burn. Judging by Hazel’s red-faced cries, crawling feels remarkably worse than Civil War era field amputation. To put it another way, if you remember most of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s scenes in Total Recall—pulling the bomb out through his nose, being forced into the neutralizer machine, winding up outside the domed environment on Mars and succumbing to the lack of atmosphere in eye-popping majesty—you have a very good idea of the consternations and afflicted flailing Hazel emotes when trying to crawl three feet across the cushy living room carpet.

But like I said, lately she has been doing better. She still clearly doesn’t like crawling, but she is more willing to give it a try without cajoling than before. While Megan and I are happy about this, we know that once she masters crawling, our parenting lives will become just that much more unpredictable. More specifically, I know that I’ll have to get around to putting cabinet locks on all our ground level storage areas. Somewhere, the unwritten Law of Households states that one must keep mortally lethal chemicals under the kitchen sink at all times. Why we adhere to these Laws is beyond me?

But not every new skill is an effort for Hazel. During lunch on Saturday, I asked for the official update from Megan as to what we can expect Hazel to do next. Megan listed a few things, concluding by saying, “and Hazel should start clapping soon.” In response, Hazel turned to Megan and broke into a round of baby applause - which is just a few nigh inaudible claps. But the basic coordination needed to bring her hands together purposefully is a huge step forward, so huzzah for that. I tried to duplicate this success by saying that "Hazel should start winning the lottery VERY soon” but she just gave me that soon-to-be-ubiquitous look that says, “Oh, Daddy, you really are a simple man.”

Some questions in life need to be answered by all people: Where should I live? Whom should I love? Other questions should be considered by all people, but are often overlooked: What’s the meaning of life? Is there a God in the Judaeo-Christian sense? Am I going to leave this planet better than when I arrived? And yes, other questions are never even considered…until now:

A few days ago, this very question started to rattle my mental cage. I have no clue where it came from, but an answer was demanded forthwith. I am often plagued by nonsensical or downright dumb postulates that my mind simply will not ignore. Like a kitten with a ball of yarn, I just can’t resist stupid stuff like this. Typically, I have a mental monologue exploring both sides of the coin, then draw a final conclusion. This conclusion I share with Megan over dinner and she just shakes her head, internally questioning why she ever took that bet to marry me.

But, so as to share my burden, I asked Paul and Jim to consider the same question and answer on their respective blogs.

The common thread between mud flaps and dust jackets is that each protects something of value from dirt and much. This is not a good thing. But, of the two, mud flaps have more fun. They get to travel; I see mud flaps most often on 18-wheelers so these ones actually see more of the country than I do, and I have frequent flyer miles. Plus, they get emblazoned with funny and/or crass images—they’re the life of the party and have the best road trip stories. Whether they have Yosemite Sam threatening motorists to “back off” or a reclining naked lady, it’s all frosting on the awesome cake they call Life As a Mud Flap.

Being a book dust jacket must be terrible. Sure, they may house vast amounts of knowledge, but they can just as likely be wrapped around a John Grisham bloater or an Ann Coulter floater. Just think of what it must be like to exist only as a superficial marketing ploy. Oh the lies they have to tell to the world! Plus, the best view they can hope for is of the off-white ceiling above the coffee table. If they’re shelved, the only part of them open to the scenery is their spine. Lastly, life as a book dust jacket is one of immediate shame, for as we all know, you can’t judge a book by its cover. Talk about a self-esteem cutter.

So I say that it’s a mud flap life for me! Should you have a difference in opinion, I’d love to hear it.

The first Kurt Vonnegut story I ever read was “Harrison Bergeron” in 10^th grade English. If you aren’t familiar (and don’t have time to read the Wiki entry), the story takes place in the far-flung year 2081. In an effort to promote sameness and equality, the U.S. government creates a Handicapper General position. In short, anyone showing exceptional qualities is hindered so as to keep everyone at the same level. Smart people have neural inhibitors in their heads that disrupt their thoughts, attractive people are required to hide their beauty behind homely masks, and folks blessed with grace or athletic fortitude are laden with weights and chains to foist awkwardness and weakness upon them. It’s a bit extreme, but you can’t have a dystopia without a bit of hyperbole.

This story popped in my head because I am very close to seriously considering fitting Hazel with some iron chains so as to keep her lying down in her crib. Up until now, if she was too tired to nap and crankiness ruled the land, we could put her in her crib and let her cry it out. Usually, after only ten minutes of sobs and screams, she would realize that her mattress wasn’t made of white-hot daggers of infinite pain and would nod off, getting some much needed rest. Plus, this freed up Megan and I from grappling with her while steadily pumping the rocking chair back and forth—a real win-win solution!

The party ended last week when Hazel finally figured out that she can hoist her 29.5-inch frame to standing by grabbing onto her crib rails. This helps Hazel really wail from her diaphragm, which increased her volume, intensity, and musicality. Also, once she is standing, she becomes even more upset because she is now trapped that way and cannot lower herself back down in a safe or reliable way. So the shrieks ramp up and don’t subside like they used to. Clearly, we are not keeping pace with Hazel’s learning curve as I am relying on sci-fi stories for parenting advice.

I probably shouldn’t yoke my daughter just to make things easier for Megan and myself. I mean, just because she’s held down to the mattress doesn’t mean she will relax enough to sleep. And I think padlocks are a choking hazard. So on to Plan B (or Plan Z if I want to be extra dorky): I fit her crib with a gravitational augmentation device like Goku used to train while flying to the plan Namek. This would cause a localized increase in the pull of gravity and hold her firmly yet safely to her mattress. But that’s just silly as I might damage the floor of her room or, worse, create a Super Saiyan baby with all the correlated accoutrements. I doubt my home insurance can cover monthly Oozaru rampages.

In between Hazel’s naps, Megan and I have spent this holiday weekend redecorating our living room. One drawback of having your first child a few days after moving into a new house is you don’t really have the time to hang artwork or any such fluff. So, our house has been pretty sparse for the past nine months and we decided to do something about it, consarnit! We’re not done yet—after buying paint yesterday at The Home Depot, our color choice has been called back to the stand for further questioning—but we both have been making things to frame and display.

I deliberately asked Megan is she had any touchstones or points of guidance before I made my contribution. She kindly and firmly said no again and again, thereby giving me full reign of my two 4"x6" allotments of creativity. After a few regrettable attempts, I finally penciled the following:

I started with drawing my canvas size and then just kept trying out ideas until something clicked. The rampaging monster went through several versions before I settled on what looks like a radio-controlled, cyclopean Mega Man knock-off. While the framed piece will be inked by my own hand, I think I am going to use this rough sketch as training fodder for my continued efforts to rise above the level of a handless drunk with my Wacom tablet. Pretty soon, I’ll be all current with even more outdated technology.

The trouble (and I use the word as loosely as one can while holding onto common decency) with having multiple interests is that when one saunters to the forefront of your mental efforts, your other hobbies wind up neglected and have to amuse themselves for a while. So, as I’ve been noodling more with pencils than words presently, my loves of prose, poetry, and the jaw harp were on hold for much of the past week. Luckily, I spend 15 minutes each morning sitting in the lotus position and visualizing a card table, two bowls of honey roasted peanuts, a mini-fridge stocked with various Polar brand sodas, a Pinochle deck, and a few folding chairs with padded seats. Should I overlook this daily practice, those ignored interests might get bored and/or destructive. I also keep a mental Prohibition in state because once that jaw harp hobby gets into the sauce, watch out!