In celebratory honor of my completion of hundreds and hundreds of words worth of freelance lawn mower reviews, Megan’s new 17” MacBook Pro laptop finally being delivered, Hazel’s deft mastery of getting from the living room floor to the back of the futon using only guile and a well-placed footstool, and my possession of a soon-to-expire coupon, we went out for blunch this Sunday at Café Miranda. Blunch, of course, is a meal that is further down the road than brunch, but not quite all the way to lunch. The food was as excellent as it always is — my bacon and cheddar deep dish frittata stills haunts my taste buds’ dreams.

I am always terribly nervous going out to eat with Hazel for fear that we become Those People With the Screaming Nightmare Baby, but she has never been anything but perfectly well-behaved whenever we dine out. Still, I can’t shake the fear that she is just going to freak out one day and we have to run from the restaurant in shame, covering our heads from the onslaught of flung food from our fellow eatery patrons. And despite the surety of the two crotchety old people in the corner who just glowered at us the whole time, daring Hazel to act as badly as they pessimistically predicted she must, no major mishaps occurred. In fact, the worst thing that she did was continually request a sip of Megan’s Bloody Mary by way of repeatedly pointing at the large glass with the parsley poking from the top (and no, we didn’t give her any, though she did have two Burger King French fires this weekend that kind of shattered any illusions we had at not being bad parents).

After paying the check, Megan used the restroom and I prepared Hazel for leaving. Even though it is nearly April here and sunshine streamed through the front windows of the restaurant, a very cold wind continuously blew off the Atlantic, requiring that Hazel wear a few layers. I got her tiny zip-up hoodie on just fine, but her jacket gave me trouble. She just wouldn’t sit still and let me get her arms through the sleeves. As soon as I started attempting this feat, a rather vaudevillian version of “The Entertainer” came on the stereo. The feeling that I had now become that morning’s free show was impossible to shake.

Of course, I am overly self-conscious by nature, constantly assuming that people are meticulously monitoring my every move and action. Have you ever tried to walk normally when you are sure someone is watching you to see if you walk normally? Your legs and arms simply can’t get it together and you start walking like a mannequin with mismatched limbs come to life.

Or at least I do.

On Friday, we invited my in-laws over for an evening of dinner and Easter egg coloring. Sometime after the former but preceding the latter, Hazel began her nightly mantra: “Bap, bap, bap.” Translated, this means Bath, bath, bath. Early on, we instituted a bedtime routine for Hazel that always begins with a quick bath. So, when it starts to get late (7:00-7:30 Hazel Meridian time), she knows it is time to get the show on the road. Since Grammie was around, I pawned off the chore offered her the pleasure of bathing Hazel, a task she cheerily jumped at handling.

I still consider myself a laidback person, but I’m actually very tightly wound, even more so when it comes to my daughter — hence, the micromanagement of the whole process. By the end of the thing, both of us were getting Hazel dressed and groomed and primped, many hands stuffing her tiny arms and legs into her footie pajamas and sealing up her sleep sack. Not all of this is my overbearing nature though, as Hazel practically has to be strapped down to her changing table nowadays; she would much rather twist about and fling herself off the edge of the table than lie still and get some darn clothes on.

Following this mad melee, there were many sweet goodnights and Megan came in to give Hazel a bottle and rock her to sleep. But the little lady squirmed to no end on Megan’s lap, shoving the bottle of milk away as if she were a vampire being offered a tall, cool sacred chalice of garlic-infused holy water. We traded roles and, once with me, Hazel immediately settled down and started drinking her nightly repast. I’m sure my facial expression was a touch smug (although parenting is not a competition, Megan is totally winning so every little victory is one to be savored) as Megan turned off the light and shut Hazel’s door.

Everything went as usual. I soothingly sang through the ritualistic Kimya Dawson’s “Tree Hugger” and had gotten to “Particle Man” on my TMBG complete Flood review when Hazel’s eyes started to droop, a sure sign that bedtime would be a breeze. Once her bottle was drained, however, she started to shift uneasily; she sometimes does this when she would rather be in her crib than on a lap, so I got up and put her down. Her bodily gesticulations just increased, accented with cries and sobs. I lifted her again and, after a few slow laps around her darkened room, she seemed pacified, so I put her in the crib again, but she immediately erupted again. I was stumped as to what it could be, so picked her back up and sat down in the rocker once more.

And that’s when I noticed the duck in her pants.

One of the most interesting gifts Hazel has received from friends and family came from Megan’s Uncle Zack. Measuring in at a cherubic 5-foot nothing, Uncle Zack is just this jolly elf of a man, all smiles and crow’s feet. When Hazel was born, his contribution to his family’s welcome gift bag was a package of Flashing Rubber Ducks. Each duckie has small metal contact points on its bottom that, when touched by water, begin a fantastic light show from deep within their minute bodies (see the epileptic video evidence). It isn’t the wet water that makes it flash, as even a dry finger will kick off the multicolored spectacle. So long as you use them in a well-lighted space, the ducks are hardly spasm-inducing and their hard rubber construction makes them a great teething tool.

Well, with all the hubbub of getting Hazel dressed for bed that night, the small one of these ducks that we keep on the changing table as a distraction device ended up in her pajama pant’s leg. When I finally wrenched the thing out, I made contact with the metal nubs and the duck blazed forth in the dark bedroom like a tiny yet bright mass of incandescent gas, a teeny nuclear furnace of dazzling luminescence. Blinded, I threw it (a bit too hard I admit) across the room and zipped Hazel back up. After the light cycle ended and all was dark once more, Hazel drifted off to sleep easily, relieved of her burden much like a princess would be if the pea was ever removed from beneath her 100 mattresses.

As my darling wife reports, Hazel has been a handful lately. Hazel, once a stationary baby content to sit still and rip the pages from a magazine, has become the crawling equivalent of Speedy Gonzales. And don’t get me wrong, it’s fantastic that she has become such an efficient crawler. But, sometimes you just want her to stay where you plop her down rather than disappear in a cloud of dust, zipping her way toward the wall outlets with a great metal fork. Don’t even ask me where she got the fork; we never even bought the thing.

Luckily, Hazel is still ready for bedtime around seven or eight each night, so Megan and I still have a few wakeful hours to take care of household loose ends.  Not that an evening of dishwasher-loading, laundry-folding, washing the dishes that can’t go in the dishwasher, or bedclothes-changing is a magical night, but at least we can periodically pick up our home and blow the dust out of it like so many Nintendo cartridges.

But in between all the scrubbing and tidying, we still find the time to play some Scrabble, sip some wine, or finish an art project. And more often that not, Megan can find a chance to check on her favorite cupcake blog while I can devote a bit to reading the latest I-Mockery mini mock. In fact, if you’re looking for some reading, HarperCollins is hosting the complete text to Neil Gaiman’s American Gods for the month of March. Now you can read this great book for free (barring the off-chance that you have a library card). I have had gods on the brain lately, so taking the opportunity to read a “Where Are They Now?” take on the deities of yore is a real treat.

In lieu of paragraphical content and in honor of Hazel crossing the ten-month threshold, here’re some quick Hazel stats:

• Age: ten months, two days
• Height: 29 inches or so
• Weight: 20-ish lbs
• No. of Teeth: six visibly through the gums, two more nearly there
• Ability to Crawl: attained and utilized mercilessly to exploit her parents’ sleep debt
• Ability to Walk: reliable fallback but mostly overlooked in favor to lightning crawling
• Verbals: bah-bah (bottle, food, desire), dat (what’s that?), up (lift me higher), mom (Mom), da-da (Dad, any man in sight)
• Nonverbals: waving hello and goodbye, pointing at what she wants, smiling with a scrunched up nose to get what she shouldn’t have, tilting head to side just to get adults to dumbly do the same
• Likes: Mom, Grammie, Cats, Light fixtures, Light switches, Toys, Books, Cords/wiring, Technology, Songs/singing, bath time, opening doors, Food (hers), Food (yours), Elmo, Dogs, Abby Cadabby, Car rides, Dad
• Dislikes: Bananas, Blowing her nose, Getting her nails cut, Loud noises, Naptime interruptions, Toy removal as discipline, Repeating a spontaneous act of cuteness for posterity, Dad

I headed down to Vermont on Friday for Big Dave’s Bachelor Party. Seeing as how we left the state over a year ago for the Narnian splendor that is Midcoast Maine, I looked forward to getting back to our old haunts. I cruised into VT around 7 p.m. on Friday with much honking of horns and flashing of headlights. Oddly, none of the Vermonsters I saw seemed to recognize me as that guy who lived there for two whole years. Oh how soon they forget.

The plan was to rent a house near Mt. Snow and spend days skiing and nights steeped in debauched ribaldry. Due to cash flow, I was planning on skipping the skiing, and a good thing I did, as it rained on Saturday as if my name was Noah. First it poured, then it poured harder, then a deluge fell upon the Earth, and just when we thought it was safe, the weather gods figured out a way to heft the entirety of the Amazon and Nile Rivers into the stratosphere so as to give Vermont a really good soaking. In other words, no way was I going to ski in a monsoon. A few guys went anyway, much to their own chagrin and that of their “waterproof” clothing. Mother Boyle would not have been pleased.

Despite the weather, all involved had a fine time. Our house came equipped with an air hockey table, two billiards tables, a ping-pong table, a lap pool (which I didn’t use), a Jacuzzi (which I didn’t use), a sauna (which I didn’t use), a home theater projector with surround sound, two fridges for stocking, and two kitchens for cooking. Plus, everyone had a bed of their own; no crashing on the floor or in the bathtub for me! Much fun was had, much Ninja Warrior was watched, and Big Dave even won a dance competition (see the stills at Paul’s Photo Page). All in all, I give this bachelor party two enthusiastic thumbs up.