After a long night with L (she was up from 2 to 4 a.m. in major tooth pain) and an even longer morning of work, I escaped for an hour today to grab a quiet lunch in town.

The escapade started out swimmingly. No traffic between home and one of my favorite local Mexican restaurants. Grabbed a beer. Sat down at an outdoor table. Placed the order. Slugged back monster sip of aforementioned beer. Exhaled a calming sigh of relief.

That’s when it hit me: I was still wearing my pajamas (not Calvin Kleins, mind you; something far more, well…ghetto).

And I didn’t care one bit. It was the kind of morning—the kind of day, really—where we stay-at-home parents don’t give a crap about how we smell or what we wear. Readers, if you’ve ever flown solo with your kids, I know you know what I’m talking about. And you know you’ve been there, too.

Every now and again, parenthood requires so much selflessness that you forget what it means to be selfish at all. That’s not a complaint, it’s a confession. I’m not saying I like looking like a bum. I am, however, saying that sometimes, “bumminess” is not the end of the world.

The most classic example of this philosophy came after lunch in the local Blockbuster.

I was picking up a “True Blood” DVD for Powergirl, and when I made my way up to the check-out, the guy behind the register definitely noticed my attire.

“Dude,” he said, nodding toward my nether-regions. “I love the shorts.”

I chuckled and replied with a simple, “Thanks, man,” as I headed for the car. It was evident that Video Bargainville totally was jealous of my get-up. At least someone other than L appreciated it, too.

I’ve commented previously on the oxymoronic nature of the notion of “work/life balance” (see this post for review). To summarize: work and life are inherently out of balance, and it’s how you cope with that imbalance that sets you apart.

Today was a perfect example of this philosophy.

Exhibit A: A colleague and I scheduled our 2 p.m. work call around our own respective Daddy Daycare schedules. I was watching L until 2 p.m., and the 2 p.m. hour was his only hour of availability between work and picking his children up at daycare.

Exhibit B: Another colleague and I agreed to have a breakfast meeting later this month—with our kids.

Exhibit C: I agreed to guest post later this month on The New Perfect, and wrote the confirmation email with L sitting on my lap (and playing with my calculator, one of her favorite toys on Earth).

I’m not recounting these feats to shock and awe you into thinking I’m superman. Instead, I’m simply noting that most of us work-at-home/stay-at-home parents do this stuff all the time. For us, it’s not a question of balance, it’s a question of necessity. If we can pull it off with any degree of humility or grace, all the better.

I re-aggravated a nagging calf injury this weekend, which means I’ll be spending the next 7-10 days on the elliptical trainer at the gym. My book of choice for the ordeal: “The Lost City of Z,” by The New Yorker writer, David Grann.

The work has been atop my personal queue for a while, and the writing is excellent.

Still, after spending the better part of the last decade admiring Grann as a writer, the preface to his book made me disrespect him as a guy.

The goal of the preface, of course, is to explain why an ordinary dude would even think to go and report a story in a remote part of the Amazon jungle from which few have returned, and go there for an indefinite amount of time. In the process, he reveals that he a) has a one-year-old son and b) took out a second life insurance policy before he left.

I’ve got a real problem with this.

For starters, I’m suspect of any dad who voluntarily puts life-altering work (read: work that requires extended time away) before family, even if it’s the story of a lifetime and the end result is phenomenal.

Second, I question dude’s judgment; while apologists (and Grann himself) might argue that the process of taking out extra life insurance ultimately had the kid in mind, why would any new father put his life (and his child’s right to have a father) in jeopardy for work (and again, voluntary work at that)?

It all seems pretty egotistical to me.

Plenty of amazing male writers (friends David Howard and Shawn Bean among them) have managed to write great books without risking their lives and abandoning their families for months on end. Why Grann had to go there, I just don’t get.

Of course on the surface, it seems the risks paid off. Grann got his story, the book is fantastic and it’s won all sorts of awards.

But we’ll never know how those months without a father affected that child, how months of life with a single parent shaped the baby’s life forever. At this point, for Grann and his family, these are things they can never quantify. I promise you: In my life, with L and her subsequent siblings, Powergirl and I won’t ever have to try.

We’ve had an eventful weekend here in Healdsburg, dominated mostly by the emergence of L’s molars—and the subsequent havoc that new teeth can wreak.

The poor thing is in agony. Her nose is running, pretty much non-stop. She’s got serious ear pain. And on top of all of that, our prize eater has been almost completely disinterested in food (even her favorite combination of peas and macaroni).

We knew it was bad when she looked at Powergirl and said, “Ow” as she pointed to her ear (though, yes, the fact that she was able to communicate discomfort is, in and of itself, amazing).

I can’t imagine what it must feel like for her (or any other kid, for that matter) to sit there and deal as new teeth come through. I know what tooth problems feel like for me now, and all of my teeth broke through the surface of my gums years ago. To think L is experiencing all of this with no context at all—it truly boggles the mind.

Of course the teething ordeal stinks for us parents, too. Sure, when it’s done the kid will have more teeth. But the crying and crankiness and stuffed-up breathing—if there were a way for me to soak it all up so L could feel normal, I’d do it in an instant.

For now, all we can do is wait until the teeth poke through, and try to make L as comfortable as possible in the interim.

Tonight, that meant lots of books (she loves reading), lots of nose-beeps (for some reason she really likes those too) and lots of back rubs. Tomorrow, it might mean something different. We roll with the punches in this house. For her sake, and for mine, I just hope the teething subsides soon.

L’s been babbling for months, but today, on the eve of her 15-month birthday, the girl really started talking up a storm.

This morning, she picked up an animal flashcard with the letter G and said, “Gecko.” Then, while Powergirl was making coffee, L looked up at the coffee machine and said, “coffee.” While counting grapes over breakfast, she counted to three (with minimal help). Finally (and perhaps most adorably), the baby stroked my wife’s face and said, “pretty.”

These developments came after accomplishments from earlier in the week; milestones that included repeat words such as “Power” and “Orca,” and an important new word: “Yankees.”

Granted, you could argue that in all of these cases, the baby was simply repeating words she’s heard time and time again. Still, there is no disputing the fact that the kid’s tiny brain is evolving in front of our eyes. It truly is a wonder to behold.

Of course Powergirl and I now are placing wagers (always for burritos in this house) on which words the baby will say next. My money is on “Good morning,” a phrase with which she’s been struggling for nearly ten days. Another possibility: “Snoopy,” as she and I are headed to the Charles M. Schulz Museum in Santa Rosa this afternoon.

Whatever L says next, you can bet this word nerd will respond with excitement. There’s nothing like watching a little vocabulary grow.

Psychologists and divorce attorneys know all too well about the “seven-year itch,” the phenomenon through which married people generally get sick of each other after seven years of matrimony.

But an essay this week on The New York Times “Motherlode” blog discusses a different kind of seven-year disillusionment: One with your kids.

The story, written by Alison Patton, is a candid look at the author’s realization (and subsequent disgust with the fact) that her children have picked up some of her worst attributes. Because this epiphany came for her right around the seven-year mark with each kid, she draws the parallel to the proverbial seven-year itch.

It’s an interesting—and bold—line of thinking, and definitely worth a read.

(Full disclosure x2: The Times is a client of mine, and a friend of mine helped Patton with her piece.)

While I could never see myself falling “out of love” with L or subseuquent children, I certainly can understand an ocean of guilt upon realizing one’s previously perfect and naïve little baby (or babies) has (or have) inherited some of the parts of yourself you hate most.

If, for instance, L is even remotely as obsessive-compulsive about stuff as I am, it will be very hard for me to forgive myself. If she flies off the handle as quickly, I, too, may go insane.

Patton’s bottom line, however, is a good one: No matter how “disappointed” some of these developments might make us, no-one is perfect—not us, not our spouses, and definitely not our kids. The sooner each and every one of us comes to terms with that notion, the better (and more forgiving) all of us will be.

It was Isaac Newton, I believe, who pontificated on the relationship between action and reaction. Perhaps dude was referring not to the laws of motion, but instead to the laws of parenthood.

Case in point: L’s recent sleeping patterns. The good news: She’s been going down for the night around 7:15 or so, giving Powergirl and me ample time to enjoy quiet evenings together. The bad news: Since she’s getting so much sleep, L has been getting up before the crack of dawn, raring to go.

This morning was particularly rough; by 4:45 a.m., the baby was done with sleep for the night. Naturally, because it’s a weekday (and Powergirl teaches Monday through Thursday), I was the one in line to deal.

We made due. We played. We snuggled. We ate breakfast. Eventually, L went back to bed (on the floor with me, which meant I was too uncomfortable to follow suit).

But, man alive, am I zonked—almost too zonked to concentrate on work.

As I type this post around 10:45 a.m., the two of us already have been awake for a good six hours. The baby is still going strong, dancing to the alphabet song and walking around the kitchen. I, however, am ready for dinner, some Golden Spoon and the next Top Chef.

In the future, Powergirl and I will be careful what we wish for. Every action has a reaction, Mr. Newton taught us. Maybe those 7:15 p.m. bedtimes aren’t as good as they seem.

L’s vocabulary has been expanding exponentially in recent weeks; we estimate she’s adding six to 10 new words each day.

Perhaps her favorite new word: “No.”

At first, this concerned us significantly. Kids going through the Terrible Twos are notorious for talking back in this fashion, and Powergirl and I feared that L had evolved into the phase a bit early. Then, during breakfast the other morning at our favorite Greasy Spoon, it hit us: The kid has no idea what “No” actually means.

The scene was sheer comedy. We were out at breakfast, trying to feed L some pancakes, when she decided she’d had enough. She waved her arms at us, shook her head, and firmly stated, “No.” Then she proceeded to reach out, pull the pancake from my hand and eat it.

The process has replayed itself numerous times since then. She stands on ceremony, protests with repeated declarations of “No,” then proceeds to do what we ask her every time.

Sure, it’s cute. But of course Powergirl and I now are asking ourselves a) where she learned to say “No” like that and b) whether she’ll ever actually understand the true meaning of the word. After consulting a number of experts (other parents) we believe the answers to our questions are a) by listening to us and b) absolutely.

Of course the $10 million question at this point is: When will she snap out of this? I sure hope it’s sooner rather than later; “No” isn’t really an effective means of discipline when all your child does is mimic.

Big deadline here in Healdsburg today, so I’ll leave you with a short post about a hilarious blog that an editor friend recently recommended: Shit My Kids Ruined.

The Web site, an obvious take-off on the popular @Shitmydadsays Twitter account (and forthcoming book), is a compilation of photos documenting the havoc children have wreaked, and (sometimes too-wacky-to-believe) stories from the parents who have dealt with the destruction.

Luckily, L has not wrecked anything too dramatically to end up on this site. Let’s hope it stays that way.

Earlier today I returned from three days of reporting a story in Las Vegas, and I couldn’t be happier to be home. Interestingly, the effects of my life as a stay-at-home dad followed me to Sin City in ways I never dreamed.

To make a long story short, my assignment was about spa treatments for men. Two of the four treatments I experienced during my visit were massages. And while both masseuses stretched and contorted my body into positions it doesn’t usually go, the women noted that I had developed a condition known as “Mother’s Hip.”

The condition apparently makes one side of the hip joint tighter than the other. As the masseuses explained, it results when a parent predominantly carries a toddler on one side.

Judging from the colloquial name of the condition, it’s most common in women.

Of course my poor body is proof that Mother’s Hip can happen to dads, too; it’s clear the condition does not discriminate.

I had mixed feelings upon receiving this news. On one hand, I admit it—I was a bit embarrassed that I, a dude, would develop a condition most commonly associated with motherhood and being a mom. On the other hand, I felt an odd sense of pride, as if my achy and out-of-whack hip was some sort of badge of honor.

The bottom line: The masseuses were able to tweak my hip and get it back to normalcy. Now that I’m home and back into the regular routine, how long it will stay there is anyone’s guess.