As always, L took the opportunity to make us laugh. Hysterically.

It usually happens when she gets up for the day. She awakens quietly, opening her eyes with a gasp or a coo, then laying there motionless for a few minutes until she’s ready to stand. Slowly, she clambers up the side of the Pack-N-Play, moving in slow-motion more out of grogginess than anything else.

Finally, when she’s ready, she pops her head above the crib edge, giggling while she swings it back and forth until Powergirl and I acknowledge that she’s up and ready to roll.

We call the final phase of this routine the “marmot,” because, well…because, when she does it, our kid looks like a marmot poking its head out of a hole . L, of course, loves the phrase; this morning she actually chanted “Marmot, Marmot, Marmot,” until we roused.

On recent trips, we’ve also transformed the phrase into a verb; “to marmot” means, “to do that thing that L does when she wakes up in the travel Pack-N-Play.”

Needless to say, the day began with our little Marmot, marmotting about. And it ruled.

The tantrum was a doozie, a 30-minute episode that started out of nothing (she didn’t want to brush her teeth) and ended only after I gave L a long while to cry things out behind closed doors in her crib.

Once she decided she was fine, she was back to normal within seconds.

I, however, am still shell-shocked, and have spent most of the morning wondering about the extent to which this behavior will become commonplace over the next few months.

Some of the other thoughts that have run through my head since the disturbing 7 a.m. “wake-up call” have spanned the gamut from practical to philosophical. How can these little creatures possibly scream so loud? How can they flail about the way they do without breaking bones or dislocating limbs? Why don’t adults throw tantrums the same way?

I’m sure I’ll get answers eventually. Until then, all I know is that tantrums are not fun for anyone involved, and though I love my daughter unconditionally, this was a terrible, terrible way to start the day.

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.

Literally. As in, she says, “Scared, scared,” and clutches me for dear life.

I wrote about the very first time this happened; it pertained to the garbage truck (which previously was a source of great joy). Since then, it’s been happening a bit more frequently.

The most recent installment came today, and revolved around the process of getting in and out of the car seat in my truck. As I was taking her out of the truck for brunch today, L wiggled about and accidentally bonked her head on the doorjam. She didn’t cry. She didn’t even flinch, really. But the experience must have scarred her, because after our meal she refused to go back in.

Ultimately, it took two or three minutes of pleading to get her to stop whimpering and clutching my shoulder for dear life. She repeated the episode at our next stop in town (despite the promise of a visit to her beloved fountain in the plaza).

In the scheme of things, these developments aren’t really causes for alarm. Still, I certainly don’t want her to be a scaredy cat, and I certainly don’t want to enable irrational fears.

Any suggestions? I’m all ears.

Daddy, it turned out, was only a last resort.

I’d be lying if I didn’t internalize this treatment at least a bit. In general I’m a bit emotional, but throw into the mix a milestone birthday and very little sleep and you better believe I’ve been a bit raw.

That said, at least fundamentally, I understand this is simply par for the course for those of us lucky enough to experience parenthood.

The rational part of my brain knows that L is going to go through dozens (if not hundreds) of phases of this kind over the next 18 years. I also know that as she gets older (read: as she becomes a teen-ager), I likely will find myself on the other side of this equation frequently.

Still, at least here and now, swallowing the pride can be rough.

To this point, I’ve “dealt” with the situation poorly; making snide comments to Powergirl about how L would rather hang with her. Ultimately, however, this type of reaction is unfair to L because it implies blame. The baby is doing nothing wrong. Neither am I. It’s just a phase. The more easily I can remember that, the better off everyone in this family will be.

Previously, though I wasn’t a real present guy, I reveled in “me” on birthdays, doing precisely what I wanted to and very little of what everybody else had in mind (unless, of course, everybody else wanted to celebrate me).

Now, however, I’ve got other priorities. Namely, L.

Today was a perfect example. Because Powergirl has a work thing for part of my actual birthday, we decided to treat tonight as if it were my birthday night. The original plan was to go out to dinner as a family to one of our favorite local restaurants. When it became clear (through a tantrum-filled trip to the park) that L’s new canines were going to make that challenging for the rest of us, we improvised, and simply had dinner here at home.

The old me would have hated the notion of changing plans on someone else’s behalf. The new me, however, didn’t mind one bit—especially because that someone was my baby girl.

Instead of suffering and struggling through a painful meal at a crowded restaurant, the three of us had a silly, song-filled dinner here at home. L was happy. Powergirl was happy. In turn, I was happy, too.

I’ve got a fantastic wife and the best kid on earth. Happy birthday to me indeed.

Never mind I’ve been working crazy hours. Forget, for a moment, that we’re refinancing.

Really, the parachute-sized bags under my eyes (and the Olympus Mons of a zit forming on the right side of my face) are attributable to one being and one being only. Her name is L. Little, little L.

She’s not doing it on purpose; something about the time change has totally screwed with her schedule. Even though we only set our clocks back one hour, L has been getting up two to three hours earlier every day. When she’s up, she’s up for good (also a variation from her usual theme). Oh, and she isn’t napping any longer than usual either.

Curious, right? Powergirl and I certainly think so, and some of my other parent friends report similar realities.

What makes our situation particularly exasperating is that we actively sought to prevent it before our trip to Vegas. All week last week, we kept the baby up longer and later in an attempt to switch her to the new schedule. Before we left, she seemed to be doing great.

Then, of course, this. Ugh.

Needless to say, in college and high school, I remember loving the switch to DST because it meant an extra hour of sleep. My, how times have changed.

When we “meddle” in her newfound solo-living, she’s also content expressing her frustration with a slap. Naturally, this has become a relatively serious problem.

For me, the issue is all about a response. On the one hand, I don’t really enjoy yelling at L. On the other hand, she needs to know that slapping is never OK, no matter who she’s slapping or why she’s slapping them (except, maybe, if the person is intending to hurt her, but that’s another story completely).

To this point, I’ve taken to speaking firmly against the slapping. On some occasions, I’ll also just walk away, setting her down (if she’s in my arms when the slap occurs) or leaving her in her high chair while I go and do something else.

For those of you parents who’ve been there and done this before, what do these slaps mean, and what is the “right” way for dealing with them?

Enquiring and neurotic minds want to know.

L would wake up stoked. From the moment she looked out the window and spotted our cans on the street, she’d yammer on and on about the garbage truck. Every time she heard something that sounded remotely similar, she’d make a bee-line for the door in the hopes of catching a glimpse of that magical beast taking our trash.

Whenever she actually spotted the truck, she went into a waving frenzy, doing her best Queen Elizabeth impression until the truck driver waved back. The little wave exchange became the highpoint of her week. The garbage man was her hero.

Recently, however, something has gone terribly awry.

I first recognized the change a few weeks ago, when I brought her to the door to see the garbage truck and she howled in disgust.

Last week, I was racing to the curb with a blue sausage of dirty diapers from the Diaper Genie when the truck pulled up, and L (who was in my arms at the time) acted as if I was about to throw her into a pool of molten lava.

That day, I had to tell her, “It’s okay,” over and over again to get her to chill.

Well today, every time she heard one of the trucks in our hood, she cowered behind me and said, “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

Clearly, the garbage truck is no longer her friend, but I’d love to understand why. Is it because the trucks sometimes wake her up from her nap? Is it that she’s now old enough to be freaked out by the sounds? Is it because she’s now girly to the point where garbage isn’t something worth liking? Something tells me I may never know.

Whatever the science would say, we have a statistical anomaly in our midst here with L.

Still two weeks shy of her 17-month birthday, the girl frequently displays the independence of a teen-ager. Today’s episode revolved around her morning nap. She didn’t feel like taking it. So, well, she didn’t.

Before you shrug your shoulders, dear reader, let’s just say we had an active day. The two of us spent the first few hours of the morning playing “catch.” Then, while Powergirl (who has laryngitis) took a nap, the baby and I hit the farmer’s market. I figured the kid would sleep on the way home. Instead, she babbled and “sang” from the back seat.

The afternoon was more of the same. Lots of books. An hour or so with blocks. Both Powergirl and I tried numerous times to get the kid to sleep. Then the three of us hit the park.

By 4 p.m., I was so exhausted I had to close my eyes. The baby, however, was still going strong.

She finally konked out around 6:30 p.m. Since then, my wife and I have been taking turns slothing and catching up on rest. Neither one of us can get over how wide-awake this child was all day. If we were so tired, how was she so awake? Furthermore, even if a kid is the most stubborn little buggers imaginable, isn’t he or she biologically coded to take naps?

Apparently, our child is different. She’s 16 months old and has a mind of her own. Surely that independence is something worth celebrating. I just hope we can get enough rest to celebrate it appropriately down the road.