Megan and I had lots of misgivings before sending Hazel to daycare. Would we become strangers, ranking behind all those fun teachers? Would she learn all sorts of nasty behavior? Would she be permanently snot-ridden and coughing? The pessimistic litany went on and on, our cyclical conversations on the matter amounting to nothing more than philosophical tires spinning in the mud. In the end, we had to admit that Hazel needs to see other kids and have other adult authority figures without us around. Independent relationships are important, and we certainly don’t want to raise a high marking but socially inept home schooler. We won’t be able to clamber onto the school bus with her on the first day of kindergarten, so we may as well give her a social head start and give her over to daycare two days a week. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?

Well the worst didn’t transpire, but one of our top concerns reared its mucousy head: by the end of week one at “school”, Hazel managed to contract Daycare Ick. Unlike the parasitic Ich that ruined many a fish tank in my life, Daycare Ick involves a lot more sticky shirtsleeves (both the infected child’s and any nearby adult in consoling distance). Daycare Ick symptoms can vary from a perennial runny nose to a nagging cough to what Hazel wound up with: Conjunctivitis. I can easily imagine all those other kids in her room, older kids by as much as a whole year, holding her down and taking turns rubbing their grubby fingers in her then brown and now pink eyes. Between that and her dripping nose and teething aches, Hazel is only ranking at most a 7.5 on the Funshine Bear Cheer-o-meter.

But just as a South Pacific island youth must kill a Great White Shark using nothing but half a coconut, I suppose that Daycare Ick is a necessary if not annoying right of passage. What would my youth have been without the classroom colds, the locker room awkwardness, or the sundry wedgies? Fortunately, none of my wedgies were atomic and my freshman year gym teacher let us shower with bathing suits on. But don’t ask about sophomore year, I really can’t afford to miss any work from the post-recount catatonia.

My work trip to Chattanooga ended very nicely. I even found time to walk around their downtown, which is darn nice what with the river walk along the Tennessee River, the Walnut Street Pedestrian Bridge, and the spacious, wide sidewalks leading to loads of quality restaurants. The nice thing about doing consulting work with schools is that you are typically done by 4 p.m. at the latest.  I am happy to report that many a Frisbee floated in the Chattanoogan sky that eve.  If that city wasn’t in the South, I could totally see myself living there.

While at our client’s school, I was able to admire some of the artwork in the library, including several prints by John Falter. In fact, I liked them so much that I did a little bit of research on a few of my favorites. “The Bridge” stood out for its chaotic layout and stark portrayal of a Revolutionary War era battle, soon-to-be Americans bayoneting the hell out of some British jerks (no offense, Dan) who were trying to cross some bridge, hence the title (no image online of this painting as far as I could find, dern it). After a bit more Googling, it turns out that the bridge in question is The North Bridge of Battle of Concord fame, a integral moment in American history and one of the reasons why I had today off from work.

For today is Patriots’ Day! Most of the workin’ folk of Maine and Massachusetts had today off from toiling thanks to those long deceased minutemen. I spent the day most patriotically, starting off with a nice three-hour yard raking session. “The Pond” has all but dried up in the back, and I am determined to make use of as much of our property as possible. Those American revolutionaries didn’t charge into battle with rifles that couldn’t shoot a man with his finger in the barrel just so I could sit back and let a full third of my half acre estate fall into forgotten disrepair. No sir. As a true patriot on Patriots’ Day, I left no leaf unraked, no fallen branch uncollected. I’m happy to report that the yard looks a large percent better and ready for some shade gardens and such. And I even unearthed an action figure — a humanoid camel who turned out to be none other than Sandstorm, the cool camel captain!

Following all this patriotic lawn work, I loaded the family up and drove us all over 40 miles to the nearest Target for some all-American consumerism. Truthfully, we just needed to stock up on some things for Hazel’s first day of daycare, which is tomorrow. Rather than just settle for our local Wal-mart, we made a day of it and head to Augusta, our state’s fine capital. How could we have better paid tribute to those fallen nascent Americans than by touring the cerebral cortex of Maine’s democratic government? No better, fair readers, no better at all.

America, we breathed you deeply today, this glorious day, this Patriots’ Day. Amongst the olfactory tinge of the Union worker on the line, the immigrant family yearning to be free, and the odorous smoke of freedom-ringing fireworks, we sniffed fries and burgers. So, on the way home, we had a drive-thru dinner, like true American patriots.

Greetings from sunny Chattanooga, Teneessee! The last time I was in this state, Jim, his Cherokee Territory wife (Christina), and me were ascending its highpoint, Clingmans Dome, along a snow-strewn access road under a bright midnight moon. Following this summit, Jim got really, really sick from gas station Cheetos and we hunkered down at a truck stop just outside of Pigeon Forge (home to Dollywood and all things super classy) and I had the pleasure of using a truck stop pay-by-the-hour shower stall. Over vending machine peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, while Jim might have been dying in the back of the van, Christina and I spent the evening watching Top Gun on a ridiculously huge television in the trucker rumpus room. The year was 1998 and it was the first time I saw that movie. I was a deprived child.

Speaking of deprived children, Hazel should not be counted among their swarthy lot. She spent Saturday Running Errands With Daddy and had a hoot, as did I. We went to the post office and the grocery store and still had enough time (and baby energy) left over for a quick trip to buy Mommy a brand new Red Sox hat. Hazel bought it with her allowance, which I bestowed upon her as we waited in line at the register and summarily suspended before we had crossed the parking lot to our car. While Hazel is very sensitive to the fact of our taking away tangible things (toys she insists on banging against each other, our cell phones she likes to chew upon, nigh swallowed cat food) intangibles like the concept of allowance can be turned on and off like a faucet without any tantrumic repercussions. Until she figures out that money is special paper, things should be just fine.

After Hazel was put to bed and the rain delay was lifted, Megan and I settled in for a nice night of televised Major League baseball. I am no august sports fan by far, but seeing as how I own a Red Sox hat, and had bought a second one for my wife (Hazel somehow has the king’s share of Red Sox paraphernalia in our house with two hats and one outgrown onesie), I make the effort to watch a game when it is on a channel our rabbit ears antenna picks up (ABC, PBS, or FOX - CBS should the atmosphere by particularly benevolent). Saturday’s game was pretty tense; both the Sox and their dread rivals the Yankees played excellently in the field and kept the score low and close. After a second rain delay, we arrived at the top of the 9th with 2 outs, Papelbon on the mound. Just as he was to throw what could have been a game ending strike, FOX cut the feed and switched to stupid NASCAR. With a pox cast on Bill France, Sr., I shook my fist angrily toward the heavens before realizing that I could just check the live feed of the game online. Technology fixes everything.

Since watching car racing on television is tantamount to torture in our house, we turned the channel to PBS out of desperation and the Saturday evening movie was just starting: Penny Serenade starring Cary Grant and Irene Dunne. The entire movie is couched as a series of tedious flashbacks sparked by different songs being played on the phonograph in deliberate succession by Dunne’s character. I can’t remember her name, as another character’s fictional moniker far outshone her, that of the “aw shucks” best friend of Grant, Applejack Carney. I’m not officially calling dibs on that name should we have a boy next, but consider this a penciled in dibs. Beyond his name, Applejack is a fantastic guy, capable of fixing printing presses with his fist (à la the Fonz), bathtubs using no tools, and marriages with adopted babies. All in all, the movie features loads of chauvinism, a miscarriage, purchased Japanese children, and that great clomping around sound effect made famous by the Three Stooges. You can watch Penny Serenade in its entirety online — consider it for your next rainy day distraction or betting device.

Anyway, by the length of this post, can you tell that I’ve been cooped up on three separate plane flights today? I’m off to see what Chattanooga has in store for a simple Mainer. If I make it to Rock City or a Lookouts game, I’ll let you know.

Megan and I are both getting more parent-y by the second. We’ve already moved well beyond the not-being-grossed-out-by-bodily-excretions stage; most mealtime conversations revolve around what Hazel did or did not pass through her body that day. Hopefully, this is the only time in our lives that taking a massive poop at the dinner table qualifies as a witty rejoinder. Yesterday, Megan turned one more corner toward total parent-ness while making dinner. Looking out the window above the kitchen sink, she declared, “Those damn kids are in our yard again!” [Editor’s Note: She might not have cursed, but it makes a better story if she did.]

For privacy’s sake, our road name will heretofore be known as Awesome Land North. Awesome Land North is a quiet, little cul-de-sac running directly parallel to Awesome Land South, a down and out dead end. Our AL North backyard abuts (haha) the backyard of a nigh identical suburban plot of land over on AL South — a small expanse of trees and shrubs serves as a line of demarcation between us. Toward the back corner of our half-acre is a low spot where water collects, often cited by Megan as evidence that we own waterfront property. A gaggle of AL South elementary schoolers insist on playing in this muck, climbing on fallen trees and throwing around mud and rocks. They don’t do any real harm, but it bugs us to no end just the same. I’ve spoken with them a few times, asking them to not play in our yard but somehow, they always manage to wander back over, sometimes moving well past the “shoreline” to within an arms length of our home.

It just reminds me of a stereotypical neighborhood old man, shaking a liver-spotted fist at a group of giggling children who never retreat further than just beyond the reach of a garden hose spray. Add this to my getting up early at Big Dave’s Bachelor Party to turn off all the lights someone left on overnight, the white hairs that are threatening a coup by my left temple, my prideful obsession with the state of my lawn, and my honest enjoyment of picking up sticks in the yard after a good rainstorm, one starts to get a fairly focused profile of a cantankerous dad. I almost want Hazel to start dating just so I can dislike whomever she brings home.

Almost.

We are back refreshed from our mini-vacation to the green southern lands of Connecticut and Manhattan. Seriously, flowers are growing down there while here in Maine all plant life is dormant and mostly brown. In fact, the only green grass I have seen is on Hadlock Field as we drove through Portland yesterday and in this one house’s lawn on my drive to work, most likely right above their leach field. Driving down to CT to visit my folks is almost old hat for Hazel. She’s really a champ at spending 6+ hours in a car, especially considering she travels strapped into a backward-facing seat by way of a five-point harness the whole time.

While in CT, Megan and I were able to see our niece, Carolyn, and her brand new baby brother, our nephew, Tyler. Plus, we had a wedding to attend in Manhattan. Due to the lateness of the event, it only made sense for us to leave Hazel in the competent care of Grandma and Poppa (née my Mom and Dad) for some much needed quality time. My old college chum (once you graduate, college friends become chums — it’s a fact!) Big Dave married Aislinn, a delightful lass if ever there was one. Their blessed day was, by far, the fanciest wedding I have ever attended. But it wasn’t fancy in a wearing-uncomfortable-rented-dress-shoes sort of way; despite the posh that dripped from every corner, the mood was relaxed and all attendees were contented throughout the entire evening. Blonde was even able to wear a napkin on his head without being jettisoned by the wait staff.

Without going into every minute detail, I think you can sum up the impression of this wedding with one word: bagpipes. We knew we were at the right church when we heard the bagpiping resounding off the tall buildings of Park Avenue. It was a nice way to stake their claim on this section of the Big Apple, but our kilted serenader wasn’t done once the ceremony kicked off. Following the grand hitching, his delightful piping greeted the assembled as we left the church and continued as he led all 200 of us through the streets of New York, making our way from 38th and Park to just north of Grand Central Station. Even without Shriners doing figure-eights in teeny cars and winging candy at passersby, it was still a hell of a parade.

All in all, it was a good think that we didn’t bring Hazel into NYC with us, as she would have come across many a Mets fan. She really doesn’t like Mets fans. Like, really really.

Work is a bear right now, albeit a rather friendly bear that only chases you up gumdrop trees and, once cornering you, just mauls you a little bit with filed down claws. Still, I have a few things to report:

• I am addicted to blog theme redesign. I simply cannot help myself lately; I find a theme, bastardize the heckfire out of it, then move on to the next theme with nary a Dear John letter taped to the bedroom mirror or a very apologetic voice message. But I am thinking that my latest effort will stick for a while, so stay tuned for that.
• Every week, Megan and I have tacos for dinner. If it were up to me, we’d have Taco Night every night, but something about a well-rounded diet and a varying palette gets in the way. For years, we have gotten the same corn shells for our ground chicken masterpieces. We always buy the El Paso family pack, but seeing as how Hazel is not quite up to the gastroenterological challenge, we always have shells left over. So habitually, we seal them up in airtight containers for next week’s taco meat. And without fail, we are always greeted the next time by stale, hard, pierce-your-face taco shell. They just don’t keep.
  So the past two times, I’ve done an experiment. If sealing them properly makes them go stale, maybe sealing them improperly with keep them fresh. Call it Bizarro logic. And, true to form, these ill-stored shells have come back as fresh as if the cornmeal were flattened and crisped in far away Mexico. So remember El Paso’s new marketing tagline: ¡Say adios to common sense!
• At finally, and most importantly (if you can imagine something being more important than our dinner storage habits), my sister is currently in labor with her second child, soon-to-be my first nephew. Another of life’s hurdles is about to be effortlessly leapt by me, although since my sister has been in labor for over twelve hours, I really should just stay mum on that point. This is very decent of my sister, as I asked her many weeks ago to have the boy while we’d be visiting and attending a wedding in Manhattan, which happens to be this weekend. My family truly does spoil me.

So that’s it from here. I doubt I’ll post anything before next week, but if y’all would still bother to point your web browsers to this site, my self-inflating stat numbers would greatly appreciate it.