My daughter got her 6-month vaccines today. Azul howled with great fury as the needle sunk not once, but twice, into her virgin baby quad. ‘Twas a helpless semi-newborn shriek punctuated by melon-sized crocodile tears that slinky’d down her cherubic cheeks. Sucks to see her cry, but yo, that’s life and it’s for her own good. We had her smiling in three minutes flat thanks to a colorful (and empty) Tylenol box, anyhow. Then came the superior – and unexpected – trauma. This one materialized when my wife felt such remorse over our cria’s ordeal that I was compelled to drop inflation bank on a large Domino’s pizza and 2-liter bottle of carbonated beverage – no cheap endeavor in post-World Cup Rio de Janeiro – the solitary remedy to bring Maria back from the self-loathing cliffs of mommy catatonia. At least, this was the remedy adequate in my famished mind when I could see my beloved in dire need of a pick-me-up. I am pleased to report that the traditional-crusted pie delivered the goods; happiness has now returned to my family’s moo-shoo palace. The only remaining trauma to be resolved is that of Jinx, the pet feline of my neighbors and which we are presently cat-sitting, who bit me and Maria’s ankles every time Zuli cried as the flux capacitor of her baby’s mind took her back to the morning’s needle and bade her sob anew.