Odd learning, at my advanced age, that an oatmeal hat's near- impossible to remove.

Certain things don't change: death, taxes, Dick Clark and the certainty a toddler, mistaking a bowl of glop for a bowler, will place it upside-down on her head.

There's a bright side: I can take her to a track meet and the oatmeal acts as sun screen. Should I turn my gaze, of course, she'll be gone, headed for the strip where sprinters in spikes explode from blocks, or bound for where discuses, hammers and javelins are landing. Cue nightmare scenarios: chorus of cluck-clucks from the cheap seats as daddy, desperate, seeks his daughter:

"Why, the nerve! Holding up the track meet ... risking his baby being shish-kebabbed ... and what's with her hair? Good grief!"

No, better to take your miniature Magellan for a spin in the baby jogger. (I know the j-word is heresy, but try calling yourself a "runner" when you are pushing 40 pounds uphill and even "The Penguin" of Runner's World fame flies by. Waddle on, my ...)

Assuming you've gotten this far, your budding Zola Budd is sure to cry inconsolably till you unstrap her and let her "run" with you. This will drive you crazy because:

a) her steps are so small, she goes nowhere, or

b) despite that, you can't keep up with her.

Since all roads lead to foaming at the mouth, you must work the kinks out. A brush or comb will elicit few oats and much screaming at a volume that will bring Child Protective Services to your doorstep in a twinkling.

No, better to soak her head (then yours) in water until the residue of her breakfast (and your ideas about child discipline) disintegrate and release. MR