The HILJ: Day 5.

So, we're at the clinic, taking Hazel in for her first check-up, and we decide it'd be a good idea to see if she needs changing before the doctor pokes and prods and checks for scurvy and whatnot, and sure enough, she's got a greenish load for us to send out the airlock, so I'm cleaning and wiping and making sure my daughter's got the cleanest bum in the world, when she decides to shoot another load of greenish surprise right up my sleeve.

Seriously. It reached my elbow.

We're just gonna chalk that one up to 'Joys Of Parenthood', and save it for when she's twelve and asking me why she can't get a tattoo of Justin Timberlake (who by then I expect to be the future version of...well, Justin Timberlake...) on the small of her back, and I'll say, "Dude. You owe me."

Yes. I will call my daughter 'dude'. I think it's much saner than, say, proclaiming her a modern saint and charging people money to undergo faith-healing by praying at her bedside.

So, yes: five days in. Did I mention that we had our kid? I apologize if I haven't, as the last five days have blurred into one long Lynchian montage of sleep deprivation, hospital food, engorged breasts, diabolical maternity nurses, and strange words like 'bilirubin'.

Oh, and my daughter keeps peeing on me.

Still, we're happy. We may be tired, frustrated, bewildered and at times quite frightened, but both the Ladyfriend and the Little Miss came through this experience healthy and in one piece, and though our sanity seems to be put to the test, we seem to be maintaining. It helps that we have so many awesome friends and family members who are generous and thoughtful and don't seem to mind the fact that we smell of meconium and breastmilk. Each and every one of you rock, and we can't thank you enough for your support and your love. (Of course, we'd thank you more if y'all pitched in and bought us a mail-order robot nanny, one who would not only cook and clean and change diapers, but would also rub our feet and feed us grapes and tell us how pretty we are when we were feeling blue...of course, I do realize that we'd ultimately have to destroy it when the inevitable Mechanized Revolution happened and our willing slave morphed into a sleek killing machine with chainsaws for hands and laser vision, but we've all got our dreams, right?)

Anywho; I'd like to take this opportunity to officially welcome into the world the fruit of our loins and the Future Zombie-Space-Queen Of The World (whom I've lately taken to calling 'Chunky Soup' for no other reason than my sleep-deprived brain just feels like it...): Hazel Indiana Lee Janzen.

Touch her and die, mofo. Seriously, I will eff you up but good if you make her cry.

Now send us food, foolish mortals, and be quick about it! We hunger for tater-tot casseroles and frozen lasagna!