And while I volunteered to be stuck by a needle today, what truly hurts is that Hazel is growing up pretty damned fast. After week and weeks of her hating daycare, something clicked last week and she now loves it. She says the names of her classmates at home and I’m convinced, if she could reach the car pedals, she’d happily drive herself there at the crack of dawn. Oh how she despises having to actually eat breakfast and get dressed before we finally get on the road at 8:30 a.m.

Of course, this improvement in her mood is something to be celebrated. When I dropped her off today, she made her rounds, saying hi to every other wee tyke in the room. This is a vast improvement over her leg-gripping tantrums (our legs, her tears) of June and July. But once I had put all her things away in her cubby, I went to say goodbye and she was already off playing…with the class bully. Not even 15-months old and Hazel is already running with a rough crowd; a crowd that likes to kick and bite and generally express frustration physically. Too Cool Hazel didn’t even look up when I was leaving—a bothered waving of her hand dismissed me until the school day ended. I’m sure her and her new friend had to go find some matches to play with or something.

I suppose I can be okay with this so long as:

1. nobody gets hurt.
2. Hazel doesn’t get expelled (or whatever the daycare version of that is).
3. Hazel is the brains of the operation. The bully is definitely bigger than Hazel, so is the default brawn, but if Hazel isn’t the criminal mastermind of the operation, then how could I abide? No daughter of mine is going to be some dumb lackey, or worse, a toadie!

I’ll let you know if Hazel gets any tattoos between now and nap time. Knowing my luck, it will probably read:

If this were Jeopardy, the category might read “Fahrenheit 411” or “Degree of Difficulty.” Alex Trebek reads, “Your answer is ‘105°’.” The correct response, in the form of a question, is “What is Hazel Ragozzine’s internal body temperature on the afternoon of July 14, 2008?” Correct! To put that in focus, the temperature inside of Hazel’s wee body was hotter than (or as hot as) the highest recorded temperatures in the following U.S. states: verdant Vermont, rinky-dink Rhode Island, moose-y Maine, anticipated Alaska, and so-surprising-that-I-dropped-the-alliterative-pattern Hawaii.

With no pediatricians available, Megan and I had little choice but to carry our baby-shaped dollop of molten lava to the Emergency Room to see why Hazel was burning up. Not the best reason to ditch work two hours early, but it was great to have a united familial front in the face of the fervent fever. Even after giving her doses of Infant Tylenol and Ibuprofen, the ER nurse recorded her temperature at a staggering 103°! Sure, her mood had improved by then, but that’s just not a natural bio-thermostat setting. What could be wrong? The ER doctor was very nice (and a suspected intern by Megan) and went through a very thorough examination of the wailing Hazel. Without going into any of the gory details, a moment of levity struck when the doctor’s bedside manner impelled her to blurt out: “I’m not suggesting that your daughter is a hermaphrodite.” Even with context, that sentence is never the right thing to say.

After three hours of hospital time, we left with a diagnosis of a left ear infection and a vial of antibiotics. Following a relatively sleepless night for all concerned, Hazel is feeling pretty good today. Her secret? A unequivocal love of broccoli.

After a cold and snowy start to the week, the view out my office window has blue skies, calm seas, and roofs dripping with melting snow and ice. In short, it’s warm in Maine and I am happy for this. Shortly after Hazel’s 30-hour sickness last week, both Megan and I caught strains of it. Since we’re older and frailer than our daughter, both of us have been sneezing, coughing, and (belly)aching ever since. Megan is about a day ahead of me in symptoms and recovery, so I should be out of the woods soon. Yesterday I was running a fever and was all loopy; I’m no microbiologist, but that high internal body temperature must be how my system destroys the virus or whatever much how napalm fire strikes can destroy people who live in a country we decide to muck up. This gives a whole new dimension to the term “germ warfare”.

While being sick at work is no fun, my sore throat and cough have given me a gruff, gravelly voice. With each phone call that I answer, I know that I am terrifying the caller while simultaneously filling them with a sense of wonder and curiosity about the well-lived voice greeting them telephonically. For those of you who don’t know, my normal speaking voice is nasally. Audibly speaking, I talk how Bob Dylan sings. Megan theorizes that the more nasality a singer displays, the more I’ll like them. This may hold water, as this egocentric attitude is backed up by my love of They Might Be Giants, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and Rush. Luckily this self-serving attitude doesn’t spread to musicians with beards, as ZZ Top and Anthrax (via Scott Ian) don’t often find their way into my iTunes library (though Cat Stevens does and provides support for both hypotheses).

After rereading this post, I think that fever may still be cooking a few bugs inside me at a brain-simmering bubble.

Last Friday, Hazel had her six month check-up. And while she passed the battery of tests (such as getting weighed and peeing on the examination table) with relative ease, she did have to endure a few vaccination shots. Heroically, she barely made a peep or a grimace during the injections, but for the entire weekend following, she was affected in unpleasant ways. Said effects varied from being just a little out of it to screaming in pain and confusion. The latter built to a dramatic crescendo last night.

Hazel’s bed time is between 7:30 and 8 at night depending on her (and our) energy level. Sunday evening went as usual: I bathed Hazel while Megan prepared to give her a final feeding before slumber. Things went well and Megan and I were relaxing on the couch by 8:15. Around 10, the wails began. Now this could have been the final effects of the vaccinations, but the evidence isn’t definitive. Whether we should blame modern medicine, the Tex-Mex dinner we ate, or my guffawing at Family Guy, the end result was a very inconsolable banshee baby.

We took turns rocking and soothing her in her room. My spirit cracked after about an hour and a half. Megan lasted for just over two, but with no permanent headway being made, she soon joined me at wit’s end. Being the mom, she pulled herself together first and picked up Hazel, the pair heading to the living room. After I composed myself, the realization came that there was no high-pitched cries echoing through the house. Going to investigate, I found that Megan had sat Hazel in our wicker laundry basket and our daughter was just sitting there with her chubby, little hands gripping the rim of the basket and a huge toothless smile spreading from one cherub cheek to the other. She looked like an amusement park attendee waiting for the flume ride to start. The levity shattered all my tension and I started laughing very hard. Megan laughed too. Hazel decided to start crying again, but without a lot of gusto. The end was in sight.

She still wouldn’t be rocked to sleep or take a bottle, so Megan once again used a brilliant gambit. She helped Hazel to her feet and walked her around. Hazel plodded down the hallway to the bathroom, turned back to shuffle after Fleabag (Both cats were very concerned at this point, though whether it was for Hazel’s well-being or their own interrupted sleeping one can only guess.), and then took the long walk down the hall to the kitchen. Her screams turned to those of delight and we just helped her do some laps around the house until she tired. I scooped her up for a pajama change - her drool had soaked the original pick of the night - and Megan prepped a bottle near the rocking chair. Fifteen minutes later, we had a sleeping baby and two very worn-out parents. The clock read 1:07 am.

When I left for work this morning, both mama and baby were still sleeping soundly. Next time, we’ll have to ask for the vaccines made from puffy, white clouds rather than Guatemalan insanity peppers.

On Monday, Hazel went in for her two-month check-up and earned the praise of her primary care physician. She put on almost a full pound since the week previous, which is pretty good for a baby. That’d be like me putting on 20 lbs in seven days, so scoff not lest ye mirror that weight gain relative to your own mass. She also was scheduled to receive four vaccination shots. The last time she was vaccinated, she was sluggishly doped out on the stuff despite the doctor’s assurance that there would be no drowsy side effects. Sure, she was three pounds lighter then, but the pediatrician cautiously only gave her two of the four needles.

Afterward, Hazel wasn’t so much sleepy as valiantly refusing to give in to sleep. In short, she fought sleep all day, not staying down for more than a few minutes despite the discomfort and, I suppose, the healing force of modern medicine. Like Little Mac going for the World Circuit title, she would not relent to Mr. Sandman’s Midnight Sleeper nor his “Dreamland Express” triple upper cut assault. All day and into the night, whenever he landed a restful right or a lulling left, Hazel would mash the A and B buttons, rise from the ring floor, and land a really nice star punch.

But, just like her father, Hazel could not dodge Mr. Sandman forever and eventually relented to his pugilistic pugnaciousness, sleep overtaking her with visions of punching out Mike Tyson dancing in her head. Sadly, that dream match will never come to pass (unless you enter: 007 373 5963). We breathed a sigh of relief when referee Mario finally counted, “Bahn, Buhn, Blee…BeeBayBoo” and Megan and I could board the Dreamland Express ourselves.

I have a sneaking suspicion that many of Hazel’s “life lesson” talks with old Dad will take the form of an extended metaphor based on a video game or an animated series from the early 80s to mid-90s. Poor girl. Even still, I’ll have to do some research on Flintheart Glomgold’s take on when teens should start dating.

Hazel doesn’t watch television. Currently, she’s more into the hanging toys that arch over her Magic Chair*. Just this past weekend, she figured out that she can pinion her arms about and hit the toys with her hands, making them swing to and fro, emitting a nice rattling sound. She loves this - evident in her pistoning legs and gurgles of what must certainly be glee. It has to be a real thrill to be able to make such monumental self-discoveries as “My arms can make my hands hit things” and “Mommy = Food”. Just wait until she starts noticing that the cats exist.

With Hazel unaware of television, Megan and I are free to save some money (and ourselves from the Maine bloat that snags much of the sedentary populace) by not having cable. No political stances here: we’re just trying to curb expenses. In fact, we actually do watch television thanks to our rabbit-eared antennae. With this garage sale find poised atop out TV, we can tune in to Fox, ABC, and not one but two PBSs! That’s twice the Rick Steve’s Europe (which I never knew had the comically unfortunate subtitle of “Through the Back Door”) for none of the price. Of course the system isn’t ideal; if we have Fox coming in mostly static-free then ABC is a wash and vice versa. And, to get any channels at all, we have to keep one of the metal probes jutting out into the living room, thereby requiring a slight dance to make it to the front door. I haven’t poked myself or Hazel in the eye with that thing just yet, but the danger is palpable.

I’m actually looking forward to when Hazel knows what TV is and such as I’m tired of watching cartoons alone. Most Saturday mornings, Hazel wakes up around 6 or 7 in need of food and a change, so I do both and then rock her to sleep while taking in Saturday morning entertainment. I’m not going to get into a whole back-in-my-day-the-cartoons-were-better thing, but man alive, have you ever actually sat through an episode of Winx? It just might be the worst incarnation of children’s entertainment since Widget the World Watcher. Once Hazel falls asleep in my arms, I often favor not moving at all to waking her up and having to start settling her all over again, so when a TV channel is selected, it usually will not be changed unless the situation is truly dire - like Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader or any of those Bachelor shows. I’ll gladly jostle Hazel to crying, cranky alertness than listen to Jeff Foxworthy. Still, I wish we had the CW, as their Saturday shows are much better and in line with a geek like me. But, Fox’s Viva Piñata is worth watching, though be careful not to sit too long and have to deal with Yugi Oh.

I don’t want Hazel to be a TV glutton, but a little broadcasted entertainment isn’t so bad. Jeopardy is a nightly ritual for us and a sitcom here or there isn’t truly evil. Like anything, it’s all about moderation. Too much of anything is no good, even too much water or exercise. I don’t want a couch potato daughter. But I also don’t want an elitist daughter. I’m not planning on watching NASCAR with her, but a Scrubs rerun here or there will only help her in life, right?

^{* The Magic Chair is really a must for any new parent. Hazel slept in one inside of the giant tiger cage crib they provided at the hospital last week and it really settles her down. Plus it bounces and who doesn’t love that?}