Despite it being June, Loki still managed to play an April Fools’ Day prank on Maine last week, swapping our normal weather patterns for those of the Pacific Northwest. Each gray, rainy day was followed by an equally gray, rainy day. People took to referring to their umbrellas as bumbershoots and grunge-era flannel shirts started appearing in greater frequency than normal here on the Midcoast. Amid this meteorological torpidity, Hazel seized upon the Zeitgeist of 1991 Seattle and declared her new favorite word: “No!”

It really took shape one night as the family sat in the living room, playing toys and reading from Hazel’s many books. Our daughter wandered over to the surround system’s bass module and started forcefully slamming it against the wall. Hazel is sort of a Bamm-Bamm like toddler: if something can be lifted overhead or knocked over, she’ll do it with surprising ease and violent grace. Immediately, Megan and I sprung into Responsible Parent mode and firmly yet warmly told Hazel: “Hazel, no, don’t do that.” She left the hunk of electronics for about 15 seconds before returning, banging it once more against our living room sheet rock. Again we told her “No.” and again she stopped, but she didn’t let go of the bass module. Instead, she turned slowly to face us, a devilish grin splitting her chubby face, and shouted, “No!” Hazel’s voice currently sounds like that of a frog who smokes too much. She repeated “No!” with the same mischievous smirk then turned back to her task of wrecking both bass module and wall. Megan and I simply had to laugh since she was so darn cute. But our Inner Parent soon gained control and pulled Hazel from her destructive aims.

Since that night, Hazel will wander over to the bass module (or the kitchen garbage can or the bowl of cat food or the back of the toilet) and just place one finger upon the taboo object, turn to us and yell “No!” in impish delight. This proves that

1. she knows she isn’t suppose to touch these things;
2. she understands what the word “no” means; and
3. she thinks it’s really funny to push Mom and Dad’s buttons.

When not flagrantly screwing with us, Hazel will just walk around chanting “No, no, no” like some kind of Big Brother mantra. She still listens when we deter her from certains behaviors, but her parroting is becoming less macaw and more mocking bird.

We’ve tried to catch her doing these things for the pure comedic value, but as soon as the video camera comes out, Hazel ceases all activity and just tries to manhandle the camera lens as much as possible. After a few of these “When Animals Attack” footage sessions, we just gave up. But, if you can imagine the nicotine toad voice, you can use the bully sidekick from A Christmas Story as your visual representation. I fully expect Hazel’s first sentence to be, “Say ‘Uncle,’ yous guys!”

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.

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.