I’m not talking about the giggles they make when you tickle them, imitate an emu or sniff their freshly tubbed bellies like a dog. I’m talking about the giggles they make when they’re finding happiness completely on their own, when they’ve put themselves in a situation that just makes ‘em beam.

Such was the case this evening when L got together with the three-year-old daughter of our friends across the street. The girls giggled. Incessantly. For nearly 45 minutes. Then they rolled in the grass, looked up at the sky and giggled some more.

These giggles were so honest, so pure, and so goddamn adorable that you couldn’t help but smile.

Of course as daddy looking on, I was smiling from ear to ear. I was so transfixed by the scene that I stood there (with Powergirl and our friend from across the street), primed for a night run in my (neon) running clothes, watching for almost the entire time. The girls were giggling. Everything else could wait.

Eventually, after that run, while L and I read books before bedtime, I asked her to opine about the giggling and her budding relationship with our neighbor’s daughter.

“Good friends,” she said proudly. It was the first time she’d ever used that phrase about another human. No wonder she was so giggly.

As I blogged last month, we needed to get her the document in preparation for our post-Christmas trip to England, her first official international trip. Powergirl and I have been waiting eagerly for the thing to see the ridiculous photo of our little baby inside.

Suffice it to say, the photo did not disappoint (she looks so grown up!).

The passport itself brings our trip that much closer to reality. We’ve been preparing L for the adventure by showing her images of Stonehenge (my wife is an anthropologist, what can I say?) and the University of Oxford, where the aforementioned wife studied abroad as an undergraduate. Of course we’ve also taught her “London Bridge” and other songs that refer to England and the U.K.

Perhaps most important, we’ve been preparing L for the pastime that likely will comprise big chunks of our days: Sitting in front of a fireplace.

Slowly but surely, she’s learning to keep her distance so as not to get burned. Of course she’s also learning that reading books is much more fun when you’re snuggling in front of a roaring fire.

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.

First, the good stuff: The baby, bored out of her mind, ran around the back of the Post Office making whale noises and saying, “England, England, England.”

Oh, at one point, she also jammed her finger so far up her nostril, she nearly poked her brain.

Thankfully, these antics kept us in stitches through the bad stuff: The woman in charge of handling passports was one of the least pleasant human beings I’ve ever met, and when it came time for her to take L’s picture, said lady suggested that we just “stand” the baby on a chair and “tell her to be still.” (My response: “Um, you know she’s 17 months old, right?”)

Needless to say, I’m glad we won’t have to get L another passport until she’s five.

From a bureaucratic point of view, the process of obtaining a passport for a baby is surprisingly serious. Powergirl and I needed to fill out four pages of paperwork. We needed to show up together, bring an official copy of L’s birth certificate, and solemnly swear that we were her parents and that we weren’t lying about anything else.

Also, we needed that photo, which was more challenging to engineer than one might think (turns out that no part of Mom or Dad can be showing in the image. Who knew?).

Bottom line: After our eventful afternoon, L’s official paperwork is under review. Department of State, here she comes. Soon enough, she’ll be documented for international travel. Her first stop is England. Who knows where she’ll head next.

Considering the developments of this afternoon, I’d say a celebration is in order today.

For the first time ever, the baby uttered the phrase, “I love you” on her own accord. Previously, she had gotten as far as “Love” and “I love.” She never had added the “you” until today.

Thankfully, both I and my wife were present to witness the milestone. As you might expect, we cried.

Of course since that moment, we’ve been encouraging L to repeat it again and again, virtually chanting, “I love you” as if it were some Yogic mantra. Most of the time, the baby has obliged (which, of course, has made us slap each other with delight for a fairly major chunk of the afternoon).

The true test will be to see if the kid is still uttering the phrase tonight. Our fingers are crossed.

Today, per her doctor’s authorization (and suggestion), I turned around L’s car seats in our respective vehicles. The next time the baby piles in the car for a ride, she’ll be facing forward, thereby seeing an entirely new world.

Mommy! Daddy! The front windshield! Also, the cool little computerized car “game” that shows up on the screen in Mommy’s car (a Prius).

Indeed, there is so much to see. And while L undoubtedly will find the new experience fascinating, Powergirl and I are looking forward to the change as well. As the baby has gotten bigger (and as some of our road trips have gotten longer), the two of us have been jonesing to turn her around so we can keep better tabs on her.

Now, mercifully, we’ve got our wish.

While Powergirl was planning on commemorating the new era with a quick trip to the Safeway and the dry cleaners this afternoon, I’m welcoming it in grander style: A 90-minute round trip to visit a business associate in Petaluma on Monday.

It’s amazing how little milestones like this can keep us parents so happy.

It was ugly, folks. I mean, real ugly. She screamed. She cried. She convulsed on the floor like an epileptic. At one point she even laid on the guilt, pathetically beckoning for her mother to rescue her.

Oddly, the fit was over Motrin. The kid has been battling a cold for a few days. In addition, she’s teething. This morning, she was dealing with the perfect storm of a slight fever, aching incisors and very little sleep (her teeth kept her—and me—awake from 3 to 4:30 a.m.). As soon as she saw the little plunger of medicine, she freaked.

In all, the tantrum lasted ten minutes. Somehow, I managed to 1) prevent her from snapping her spine, 2) protect her from slamming her head into the bookcase and 3) give her the goods.

Another bonus: I didn’t lose my patience or raise my voice once.

In the immediate aftermath of the incident, L’s impersonation of Crazy Baby was more traumatizing for me than it was for her. She snapped back into normalcy within minutes; I handed her over to the nanny, then fled to my office and cried.

Now, upon further reflection, I recognize that these tantrums likely will get worse before they get better, then get bad again during the teen-age years.

For Dad, practice in dealing with them makes perfect, I guess. That and some good brandy.

Sure, there were highpoints: L’s smile of wonder when the Dumbo ride took flight; her excited pointing at the ducks in “Small World”; and her awe at Baloo the Bear when he “greeted” us during a “Character Breakfast” inside the Disneyland Hotel (she actually gave him a fist-bump, a skill I’ve been teaching her).

There also were definite low points: A near-choking incident before lunch in New Orleans Square, a Defcon-1 meltdown during breakfast on our first day; a four-hour delay at SNA on the way home.

Still, considering L came down with a nasty cold about halfway through our one day in the park, I suppose the whole experience could have been much worse.

Overall, the trip reminded me of a few important facts about traveling with infant:

• When you don’t stay in a hotel with some sort of efficiency kitchen, mealtime is complicated and can get very expensive. The first night, we ended up ordering her a room-service dinner; the last day, breakfast consisted of puffs and a cheese stick on the bed (we didn’t bring the travel high chair).
• No matter what kind of stroller you’ve got, lugging a camera and associated diaper bags around a theme park is tiring. Thankfully I managed to balance the baby on my right arm and this other stuff on my left.
• Plane flights are a cinch if you bring lots of books and endless amounts of patience.
• Everything is new (so while the aforementioned four-hour delay in an airport is annoying for grown-ups, L had the time of her life ogling airplanes and spying suitcases roll by).

Also, I’d be remiss in posting about Disney without sharing some thoughts about my first experience in the park as a Dad:

• “Stroller parking” is ingenious, and should exist everywhere (though it did take a few “parks” for this New York-native to lose his paranoia about someone stealing our wipes).
• There is no way in hell an average working-class family with kids can afford to visit that place more than once a lifetime. The 2.5 of us were there for a grand total of 45 hours. Including food, it cost us nearly $1,000. That’s more than $22 per hour.
• I’ve got no problem with the way Disney merchandises (more power to them), but find it despicable that very few of the stores sell books. After L fell in love with Mulan during one of our Character Breakfasts, I looked in six different stores for a book about the character. Five of the stores had no books at all; the sixth store only carried books that were sold with some other piece of merchandise, such as a tiny doll. Is Disney subtly anti-literacy? (Perhaps this is the subject of an essay down the road.)

Taking into account all of these pros and cons, the trip was a mixed bag. Ultimately, though, the visit made both L and Powergirl very happy. At the end of the day, that’s really all that matters to me.

Personally, I’m not exactly pro-Disney; I’d rather go for a hike in the woods. But considering how much our daughter likes Mickey and the gang (especially princesses such as Ariel and Cinderella), I’m actually looking forward to experiencing the park through her eyes.

Adding to the excitement of the trip is that we’ll be touring the place with L’s favorite cousins—my sister-in-law’s kids. Then, the following day, L will get to see four more of her cousins and two of her favorite relatives: My aunt and uncle (who will be at a party thrown by one of my first cousins).

In short, the trip is about Disney and family.

Getting there should be interesting. Because the flight from SFO to SNA (that’s Orange County for those of you who don’t get out that much) is so short, we opted to make this the last official flight with L as a lapchild.

Even with hiccups, I’m sure the flight itself will be fine. The airport portion of the trip, however, should be interesting: The last time we flew with the baby, she wasn’t walking.

I guess this means the trip will bring new experiences for all of us Villanos. We can’t wait.

The scene of this milestone: Santa Rosa Target. The reason: I was too tired to carry her around.

Let’s just say it was a long night. To celebrate, the baby and I spent the morning on a bit of retail therapy.

And celebrate she did. For L, riding in that cart was like a stroller, only better. She was completely mesmerized by the stuff on all the shelves, exclaiming every time she saw something on the packaging she recognized (Dog! Birdie! Flowers!).

She also was quite fond of this package of HALLS honey-lemon cough drops, and must have said the word, “lemon” 718 times.

Most of all, however, because I’m a goofball who pretends ketchup bottles and napkin packages can talk, the baby thoroughly enjoyed watching me as we carted around the store. It’s been almost a year since she faced me in a cart-like transport (Where have you gone, Mrs. Carriage Seat?); I think she appreciated gazing upon the familiar face.

Perhaps the only downside to the new experience was check-out. Usually, I hold the baby and pull the cart down the lane behind us. I tried it that way, but the baby freaked out because she couldn’t see me.

To pacify her, I pulled out of the aisle, and pushed the cart in first. While this calmed the screaming beast (this way, she could look at me), it forced me to reach around her to unload my stuff. In the process, I nailed my funny bone on the candy rack—not once, not twice, but three stinking times.

The bottom line: We survived, and managed to get everything on our list. Still, can any of you kid-in-cart veterans share a better technique?