For me, the issue is a lack of sleep; the very same guidebook that has kept me from blogging regularly also is keeping me from putting my head on the pillow for more than a few measly hours a night.

Coffee and other stimulants (all legal, don’t worry) have helped me deal with a good portion of this insomnia. The rest of my secret: Narcolepsy, such as the kind I demonstrated on the chair of my hair stylist this afternoon (Laurel, I hope you realize what a compliment it is when I pass out while you’re wielding scissors near my head).

For Powergirl, the issue is a surplus of sleep; she’s been under the weather for the last few weeks and has essentially gone into a modified form of hibernation to get well.

For L, sleep developments have taken a different turn. Sure, she’s getting the requisite 12 hours a day. And yes, she’s finally off of England time. But we’ve noticed two new problems that smack of an early arrival into toddlerhood.

• All of a sudden, it has become impossible to “transfer” a sleeping L from the car seat into her crib. We used to be able to do this without a peep. Now, however, the very moment we unbuckle her seat, she wakes up and refuses to go down again (no matter how tired she is).
• On some nights—last night included—she has nightmares, and wakes up shrieking like she’s never shrieked before. Eventually, she does calm down and go back to sleep. But to call this development disturbing would be putting it mildly.

Powergirl and I can deal with our own sleep issues. For L’s, however, we need some help.

And so, dear readers, I ask you: Have those of you with children dealt with similar behaviors in your kids? If so, how have you coped? Any input or advice would be appreciated. Thanks in advance for your insight.

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?

But for now, I leave you with this: my first full-length feature in Babytalk magazine.

The story is about language acquisition (as you’ll see in the lead, this is something far different from “learning to talk”). It incorporates personal anecdotes from yours truly and some of you readers. It catalogs advice from experts. And it offers some suggestions for how readers can help their children acquire (and love!) language at an early age.

I worked incredibly hard on the piece and am particularly proud of it. Please read it, pass it along, and feel free to comment here. Thanks.

Yesterday, for instance, an ordinary errand-run to the local Safeway turned into a date with the “robot” at the self check-out counter. L watched in amazement as the computer told us precisely what to do, then accepted one bill and dispensed us some others.

(Since this encounter, she has referenced the “Safeway robot” approximately 647 times.)

This morning, while buying cake in the local bakery, L fell in love with nutcrackers (her first time seeing them) and we spent nearly 30 minutes “talking” to the wooden men.

Finally, this afternoon, a seemingly ho-hum trip to the local hardware store became exceptional when L spotted a parakeet in a cage near the registers. The two of us must have sat there and watched the bird for the better part of an hour. By the time we left, she knew its name (Sunshine) and could imitate its call perfectly. Of course everyone in the store knew L’s name as well.

What amazes me about all of these experiences is the uncanny ease with which my daughter turns everyday experiences into adventures. The moxy! The zest for life! If only more of us grown-ups displayed the same traits, the world would be a far more interesting place.

And so it is with great excitement this week that I roll out a new strategy: the late-afternoon nap.

I’m not morally opposed to napping; hell, the whole thing seems to work wonders for L. From a practical perspective, however, I’m not expecting the new plan to be easy.

The problem is that I’ve never been much of a napper. All my life, I’ve likened myself to one of those heat lamps in a hotel bathroom; when I wake up for the day, I wind myself up as far as I can go, then keep moving at full-speed until time expires (at which point I “narc” out; as in, “become a narcoleptic”).

Some days, I can manipulate my awakeness with copious amounts of caffeine. Usually, though, I’m vulnerable to my own narcoleptic tendencies; once my internal timer runs out, there’s no way to fight it (this explains the snoozing at the keyboard).

My thinking behind the nap plan is to trick my body into adjusting sleep schedules so I can work later.

If the plan is successful, I should have plenty of energy to watch L all day, snooze for a bit, then launch into work for five to six hours after both L and Powergirl go to sleep. Of course if my plan falters, I’ll be a perpetually cranky mess, and likely will fall behind on most of my deadlines for the month.

Either way, I’m desperate for a change. The work/life equation is out of balance again, and needs realignment. Let’s hope these minor tweaks do the trick.

Naturally, then, I have been looking forward to the day when L is old enough to walk and talk and talk with me, enjoying my company while the two of us enjoy everything that comes with being alone in the great outdoors.

To my surprise, that day was today.

It started innocently; during a break in the rain, the two of us donned our sneakers and jackets, and walked down the block to fetch the mail (our mailbox is at the end of the street). Our mission accomplished, L demanded a trip to the park. So we crossed the street and ambled over to our neighborhood playground.

Because the swings and slide were wet, however, we just kept walking. Past the basketball hoop, past the swings, around the giant meadow and all the way to a tiny creek.

We stood on the creek bank for a while, watching for “fish” (there are none, but we pretended).

Then we played “drums” on some of the park signs, listened to echoes under a tiny bridge, and watched hawks glide up above on the thermals that are common in our part of the Alexander Valley.

Finally, as the rain started to fall again, I introduced L to acorns (little “nuts with hats,” as I called them). She pocketed three, and talked about them all night.

In all, we were walking and talking for almost an entire hour—L’s longest on-foot excursion by far. Was she zonked? Absolutely; she went to bed a full 45 minutes before the usual time. But if today’s adventure is any indication of how this kid’s childhood is going to go, the two of us are going to have a lot of fun.

Last week, the paper ran that article about the impacts of cone-scan technology among pediatric dentists (I blogged about it earlier this week). Since then, the Gray Lady has published two other informative-yet-disturbing articles pertaining to the development of our children.

The first, a technology piece by Matt Richtel, attempts to take a look at the impact of increased screen-time on the way our children’s brains work.

The second, a sports piece by Mark Hyman, chronicles how a number of companies are making sports training videos for children as young as six months. This latter story also notes the degree to which an alarming number of parents are purchasing these videos, intent on turning their toddlers into the next Derek Jeter.

Look, I’m all for conversation pieces. And, by and large, I’d say these pieces present a good example of unbiased, well-reported journalism. My biggest complaints are with Richtel’s piece; sure, it’s got great anecdotes but at no point does it provide readers with a service, the whole “What-can-I-do-to-help-my-kid?” bit.

As a self-proclaimed neurotic, I’d be lying if I told you these latter two stories didn’t make me tweak a bit.

Already, Powergirl and I have been spazzes about the amount of time our L spends in front of a screen (television, computer or otherwise). This story only added to the paranoia. Now it’s clear we’ll also think twice about those My-Gym classes; the minute they become too structured, we’re outta there.

And, really, that’s the bottom line. In theory, I’m not opposed to any of this stuff—cone-scan technology, screen-time or sports training videos. The keys, of course, are moderation and involvement on the part of us parents.

Are there occasions where a cone-scan is inevitable? Yes. Will our kid watch some television over the course of her life? Undoubtedly. Might she take a rock-climbing class? Perhaps.

But the minute this stuff becomes commonplace is the moment Powergirl and I have failed.

I was upstairs. L and the nanny were downstairs. I had to run out to drop off a UPS envelope at the local UPS Store. But since L gets upset when she realizes I’m in the house but can’t play, I didn’t want L to see or hear me leave.

The solution: Texting, of course.

I texted the nanny, informed her of my predicament, and asked her to district L long enough for me to slip out the front door. We also arranged to have the nanny occupying L behind the closed-door of L’s room when I returned. Ridiculous? Considering I was texting (in my own home) with someone 15 feet away, yes. But everybody made it through the morning without tears.

These are important victories for us work-at-home parents. It’s hard enough for us to fight the constant urge to play with our kids, let alone keep them happy playing with someone else in the very same space.

Thankfully, we’ve got a nanny who is savvy enough to understand these challenges, and a baby who’s well-behaved enough to cooperate.

Initially, the idea was to get out of the house. It had rained for most of Thanksgiving weekend here in Sonoma County, and an afternoon break in the weather provided the perfect opportunity to dodge raindrops and get fresh air. Powergirl and I raced to get L’s shoes and jacket on. Once we were outside, the goal was simple: A walk around the block.

We got one-quarter there before L knelt down and discovered something neither of us had seen, growing beneath two cement panels in the sidewalk. “Moss!” she exclaimed. She squatted to touch it. Five minutes later, she hadn’t budged.

The two of us weren’t quite sure how to react. On the one hand, storm clouds were brewing, and we weren’t sure when it might rain again. On the other hand, the fact that she was so curious about nature had us beaming with delight, and we wanted to encourage it positively at just about all costs.

(Back story on L’s love for moss: During one of our trips to the plaza this summer, she spotted some on a redwood tree and called it grass. I corrected her. She’s been obsessed ever since.)

Ultimately, we coaxed her into moving forward. Over the next 30 minutes—she stopped to investigate seven different patches of moss. Many of these exams were punctuated with newfound adjectives: “Soft,” “Green,” “Wet,” and my personal favorite, “Furry.”

We managed to get back to the house just as the rains resumed. Inside, as L shifted gears and fixated on something else (blocks? Or was it crayons? Or animal crackers?), it all became clear; those tiny patches of suburban Bryophyta—and the wonder they inspired, of course—had made my day. Hey moss, Happy Thanksgiving to you, too.

He learned this immediately. After he and his wife spent their first night home with the new baby, he sent me (and, I assume, others) a text about his son: “[The boy] was the Michael Jordan of crying last night; you couldn’t stop him, you could only hope to contain him.”

After encouraging him to hang in there, that it definitely gets better, I reminded him to be good to his wife.

And really, I couldn’t have given better advice.

Let’s face it: Being sensitive, doing chores and changing diapers all are noble traits/characteristics of a new dad, but when push comes to shove and the kid is crying until all hours of the night; when your woman has cracked nipples from breastfeeding and feels fat and ugly; when your day is ruined by those car seat manufacturers who made their products so complicated, it’s critical to treat the woman as the rock star she is for giving birth and continuing to set a great example.

Even though our daughter is now pushing 18 months, I still try to subscribe to this philosophy. Sometimes, I falter (let’s say this was not the best weekend). Most of the time, I’d like to think I succeed. Either way, I’m always making an effort.

Hopefully, at some point in her life, L notices this approach, and expects nothing less from her partner down the road.