Perhaps my favorite of her favorites is something entirely different: A tiny plastic bust/finger-puppet of actor, rapper and pro wrestler John Cena.

I won the thing at some Go-Kart place in Las Vegas a few years back, and had been using it as a card-keep for cash poker games. Then, one day, as L was rummaging through some stuff in my office, she found it and made it her own (obviously, I washed it vigorously first).

Today, she calls it “JohnCena” (one word), and plays with him mostly in the tub. Last night, for instance, after I finished washing L, she took the washcloth and washed JohnCena, carefully scrubbing his plastic hair, plastic nose and plastic ears. When she finished bathing him, she smooched him. Then she put him on a plastic duck-boat and motored him around the tub.

If the whole scene weren’t so cute, it probably would have freaked me out.

Anyway, it also has me wondering what “toy” my daughter will adopt next. A SIGG water bottle? One of my million-year-old whale fossils? Perhaps a steno pad?

One of the stories I remember most vividly (which means he remembers it most vividly) involves a hot dog, an upset belly, puke in a new car, and dad catching all of my vomit with his bare hands.

The first time I heard that story, I thought it was so gross that I gagged.

Now, however, with a daughter of my own, I get it—especially after the events that transpired during last night’s tub.

In a nutshell, L decided that last night was the night to inaugurate me into her tub-pooping club (previously, only Powergirl had been initiated). Thankfully, we managed to get through almost the entire bath before the turd appeared. Then, however, as we were saying goodnight to all of the tubby toys, there it was.

For an uber-neurotic like myself, I didn’t panic at all. Instead, I calmly picked L out of the tub, dried her off, washed her legs again (that was the only part of her in the water when Mr. Turd stopped by), and put her in her crib while I cleaned up.

The clean-up is where the story gets gross. I knew I had to remove the turd immediately but wasn’t sure how to do it. I looked around for some sort of scooper, but found nothing. I looked around for a spare washcloth, but saw nothing. Finally, because I’m a dude and because I was rushing, I simply reached into the bathtub, grabbed the turd with my bare hands and tossed it in the toilet.

I don’t remember much about this brief transport, except that at one point, the smell was awful, and at another point, I thought to myself, “This is what fatherhood truly means.”

Dad, I finally understand. Thanks for catching my vomit way back when. I love you, too.

I wasn’t present to witness the incident first-hand (hey, I had to run sometime today), but Powergirl provided all of the gory details.

Happily playing in the tubby, our daughter suddenly got “the face” that we’ve come to know and love. She grunted. She groaned. She sat perfectly still for a brief moment. Then, voila! You can fill in the rest of the blanks.

My wife, always cool under pressure, apparently managed to deal with the situation almost effortlessly. She scooped up the turd and got the baby out of the tub in a matter of seconds. Next, once L was dry and dressed, Powergirl said went back in to sanitize the toys (which we’ll replace) and scrub the tub itself.

By the time I got home, the entire episode was nothing more than one of those you-won’t-believe-what-happened-tonight type of moments.

I have to admit, I was almost bummed I hadn’t seen it for myself.

Anyway, I ask you, dear readers, have you dealt with similar situations in your lives? If so, how did you handle them? If not, where does this rank among your parenthood fears? I’m just curious about the sanitary issues here. Please respond in the comment field or directly.

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By the way, it’s worth noting that this is my 300th post. Ironic (or fitting, I guess) that the milestone missive is about fecal matter, but the accomplishment is worth noting nonetheless. We’re certainly never boring around here. Thanks for reading.

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.

Normally, I share these duties with my wonderful wife. Considering that she left this evening for four days in New York, all of the clean-up duties fall on me until Saturday.

Tonight’s tidying was epic. Like, I think just about ALL of the baby’s toys and books were strewn across the house. In all, the process took me nearly 45 minutes after I got the girl to sleep. By the time I finished, I was, quite literally, in desperate need of an hour of mindless television and a giant glass of wine.

Organizing her blocks was perhaps the most daunting task, since she had a) mixed four different kinds of blocks together and b) hidden a number of the blocks in various places around the kitchen.

A close second: cleaning up the pile of letter magnets, which (of course) she left in front of the metal file cabinet in my office.

There was the pile that I like to call the Stuffed Animal Gyre, which, of course, needed to be removed from the center of her room so I could actually walk in the room to put her into her crib.

Finally: The tomatoes she picked from our garden and left on the stoop in a heaping mess.

Don’t get me wrong, here, folks. I’m not complaining. I’m just saying that caring for these little critters requires us parents to do a bunch of stuff I doubt we’d do if we weren’t, well, caring for our little critters. Tomorrow, I clean as we go. Maybe, just maybe, that will make a difference at the end of the day (though probably not).

Some backstory. L has been into balls now for a while. A few weeks ago, she discovered a baseball autographed by Mariano Rivera on one of the bookshelves in my office.

Despite the obvious value of a ball with this signature, I decided to let L play with it. She became obsessed—so obsessed that she rolled the ball under a couch or bed or dresser somewhere and now I can’t find it.

Since that moment, she’s been looking for the ball everywhere. Today, then, while we were playing in my office, she went rummaging through the recesses of my closet to find it (this area became a giant makeshift book repository when I had to move my bookcases to receive the foldout couch when we converted our guest room into the nursery).

She didn’t find the Rivera ball. She did, however, find another ball—the missing foul.

At first I didn’t recognize the thing; it’s a dirty baseball with a giant splotch of pine tar on it. Then, on the backside of the ball, I could make out my own handwriting. It read: “Tino Martinez. Yankees vs. Orioles, July 6, 2000.”

I couldn’t believe my eyes. My foul! I hadn’t seen the ball since we moved to Healdsburg in 2007. All this time, I thought it was a casualty of the move. Now, in front of me, there it was!

Instantly, I shared the news with friends. I called some buddies. I Tweeted it. I Facebooked it.

Of course the baby was delighted, too. Though she couldn’t tell the difference between the foul and the Rivera, this was one of those baseball things she had misplaced a few days ago, and she was happy to have it back.

You can imagine, then, how giddy she was when I let her have the foul to play with. She looked at me as if to say, “Really? I can have it?” Other baseball fans and collectors might scoff at my willingness to part with such a personal treasure. But the way I see it, I’ve now got two memories tied up in the thing—catching it and finding it again.

The physical ball means much more to her at this point; let’s just hope she doesn’t misplace this one, too.

That is, until Wednesday.

Tonight, while flying solo with the kid, I was forced to snap into action and perform the ritual by myself. Miraculously, I knocked off the following tasks:

• Pre-bath change
• Bath
• Post-bath drying/lotion session
• Pajama party
• Post-pajama bottle
• Ritualistic shushing to sleep

Together, these tasks are a small victory for many. But for this dad, completing the entire routine was a major milestone. We accomplished everything with no tears (of L’s) and minimal sweats (of mine). Even more impressive: The entire rigmarole took no more than 30 minutes, which is only about ten minutes longer than the process usually takes my wife.

I’ll be tackling the pre-bed sequence more and more in coming weeks, preparation for four days in early August when Powergirl jets off to New York and I’ll be hanging with L all alone. More nights like this and that trip will be a piece of cake. Bring it on.

I must admit, I am blown away by how promptly the airline responded. I also sort of can’t believe that the company admitted its policy is inadequate. I know United has taken a public drubbing for terrible customer service of late, but I have to hand it to them—in this instance, the airline left me pleasantly surprised.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Villano:

Thank you for contacting us regarding your less than satisfactory experience while traveling from San Francisco to Lihue. We cannot begin to express our sincere apologies for the lack of adequate facilities and equipment onboard our B757 aircraft serving Hawaii. For the sanitary and safety needs of all onboard, it is agreed that proper procedures should be in place for flights of this duration. The majority of our long-haul fleet is equipped with changing tables and we are regrettably unable to address why this aircraft type did not. Although I cannot promise immediate changes to our B757’s onboard configuration or call center procedures, your comments will not go unheard with the appropriate management teams.

I recognize that this may not be the answer that you had been hoping for, but your feedback on this matter is very important and valued. Our leadership team routinely reviews business policies that negatively impact our customer’s perception, and on many occasions has resulted in us making changes that benefit you, our customer.

As a token of goodwill, please accept the included E-Certificates as an incentive to give us another opportunity to serve you and your family in the near future. We look forward to seeing you again under better circumstances.

Regards,

Devin Becker
United Airlines Customer Relations

As such, the process has de-evolved into a sort of baby wrestling match; a game in which she tries to see how many times she can flip from her back to her belly and crawl away, and we try furiously to remove the old diaper and strap on a new one before poop and pee gets everywhere.

Powergirl is far better at this game than I am. My downfall: As soon as the baby starts squirming, I start sweating. Profusely. Like Patrick Ewing used to.

We’ve tried different methods of distraction over the last few weeks. The television remote worked for a while, but when she nearly chewed off one of the buttons, we gave up. Our nanny suggested giving her a bottle before changing her, but after a while she was on to us with that one, as well.

Then, yesterday, my brilliant wife (she does have a Ph.D.) found the Holy Grail: Her cell phone.

The lights! The sounds! The fact that it flips open and closed! The first time we gave her the phone during a change, L was so enraptured by this little device that she lie there motionless for minutes. I could have drawn on her belly with a Sharpie and she wouldn’t have batted an eye.

Since then, we’ve incorporated the phone into every changing session. So far, it’s still as fascinating (to L) as it was that first time.

Sure, the baby has totally screwed up the settings on Powergirl’s phone (sorry, AT&T). And yes, this afternoon, the baby accidentally purchased some weird Tetris-style game (how the girl manages to unlock the keypad, I have no idea). In the scheme of things, these are minor inconveniences; resetting my wife’s phone is a lot easier than grappling with a pint-sized human who squirms like a slippery seal. We’ll take whatever distractions we can get.

All week, friends have been emailing me with sob stories about their own experiences on airplanes without changing tables.

Then, tonight, after just declaring her as a lapchild for another flight (admittedly on United again; part of the problem is that we live in a city where there aren’t many cheaper or more convenient alternatives), I’m convinced these airlines just don’t give a crap (pardon the pun).

This time—literally, moments ago—I had the presence of mind to ask the customer service agent when I had him on the phone about changing tables. “No,” he said from Singapore or the Philippines or wherever he was located, “I’m sorry, sir, but none of our planes are [sic] outfitted with changing tables for babies anymore.”

While I know his statement wasn’t entirely true (as I mentioned in my letter to United, we have flown their planes between SFO and OGG, and some of those had changing tables), perhaps the company proclaims not to have them so as not to disappoint travelers like me.

Still, the facts are disturbing. How does the FAA allow planes not to have changing tables? What’s more, how, with all of the family travel-oriented coverage out there, has nobody made an issue of this simple fact? Does any of you readers share in my outrage? If so, speak up, and please provide suggestions for changing babies in a sanitary fashion mid-flight.