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.

Naturally, then, Powergirl and I were freaked by a lengthy and detailed story that ran in The New York Times last week about cone-beam CT scanning technology that many pediatric dentists are using nowadays.

I won’t spoil the entire piece, but the Cliffs Notes version is this: These cone-beam scans can help dentists deal with complex cases, but research indicates that the machines generate way more radiation than is necessary to tackle everyday issues (cavities, etc.) that afflict a vast majority of kids.

What’s more, the piece concludes that these machines are zapping our kids excessively and unnecessarily, at a time when excessive and unnecessary zapping may cause cancer.

The article also suggests that this could be a case of users embracing technology for technology’s sake; though the machines generate three-dimensional images, in many cases there’s no need for anything more sophisticated than a two-dimensional image.

(As a related side note, I’ve wondered why every movie these days has to be in 3D as well. Isn’t high-definition 2D just fine? I digress.)

Anyway, if you’re a parent of a kid with teeth, give the piece a read.

We were in what I like to call the goody aisle; the aisle with all of the cakes, cookies and other assorted fattening treats. At the time, she happened to be walking on her own two feet (as opposed to sitting in the stroller, where she spent part of the visit until the strap broke).

So she did what any other 18-month-old kid would do; she sauntered over to the donut selection, grabbed a box of Entenmann’s powdered minis and started prying.

I was surveying the whole-grain Fig Newtons and managed to intervene just as the kid was about to tear the cover off. She looked at my quizzically. The overbearing, 21st-Century parent kicked in without warning.

“No, you can’t have these, honey,” I said. “They have trans fats.”

As the words left my mouth, I wondered where the hell they came from, and who the heck I was dropping them in a public place. For the first time in a long while (maybe since I bought my wife her Prius for Christmas back in 2007), I felt like a quintessential white and upper middle class Yuppie (this feeling only was compounded by the fact that we were in Target). I hated myself for the rest of the morning.

Upon further reflection, however, maybe I overreacted. I mean, yes, it was absurd to reason with an 18-month-old about trans fats. But the intent behind my comment was spot on: I don’t want my daughter eating that crap or eventually contributing to our nation’s obesity epidemic.

Maybe if I start now, she’ll catch on early and make better choices down the road. Who knows? After years of practice, I might even be able to assail trans fats publicly without feeling lame.

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.

Because my wife and I are neurotic, however, we’ve prepared my folks with a “little” list of stuff to remember and/or keep in mind as they care for our kid.

The list is three pages long.

Sure, it covers important stuff like medicine dosages (in the event that L gets sick), doctor phone numbers and pre-bed routine. It also touches upon moderately important things such as what L likes to eat, and completely ridiculous things such as the number of hours each day we’d like for her to be outside.

My wife and I treated the document like a manuscript; I wrote the first draft, she edited it (Track Changes turned on, of course), then we incorporated the edits together. As we wrote, we laughed at each other (and ourselves) repeatedly. Still, the thing is printed out and ready to hand over.

My poor parents deserve a medal. Here they are, doing us a favor, and we’ve totally spazzed on them. It’s not like they’re rookies with the whole parenthood thing; they did a damn fine job with me. Hopefully, they’ll see our list as an expression of love—both for L and for them (after all, we don’t want them having to worry about anything).

Mom and Dad, what we really mean to say is, “Thanks.”

Especially on the subject of language, because I’m a wordsmith by trade, I’ve just assumed I’d be a freedom-of-speech type dude.

Then, during last night’s episode of “The Vampire Diaries” (yes, I admit this is one of my absolute favorite hour-long shows on television) my bubble burst in dramatic—and almost Puritanical—fashion.

In a nutshell, writers worked the word, “dick,” into the script four times over the course of the 60-minute show. As in, “Don’t be a dick,” or “You’re being a dick.” This is a phrase that I lob to my friends all the time (hey, we are from Long Island). It is not, however, something I think young children should be hearing their favorite prime-time vamps say.

If the show were on at 10 p.m., when most young kids are asleep, the curses wouldn’t have bugged me at all. But because the program is on at 8 p.m., when just about every 9-, 10-, and 11-year-old is up and watching television, Powergirl and I totally flipped out.

After I Tweeted and Facebooked about my ire, it hit me: I totally sounded like a parent, and an uncool one at that.

“Come on, guys,” I could almost hear L saying. “Everybody says it, and it’s not that bad.”

And on some level, it’s not. On another level, though, it’s horrible. I don’t care if everybody says the word, “dick.” I don’t even care if I say it myself. While my daughter (and subsequent children, for that matter) is still impressionable, while she’s still learning the attributes of good language, it’s not a word I want her to know.

In other words, just because language in general seems to be de-evolving these days doesn’t mean my kid has to contribute or embrace the new slang.

(As an aside, after hearing all of these vamps and werewolves say “dick” on primetime television, I couldn’t help but think about the 2006 Mike Judge film, “Idiocracy,” where a future President of the U.S. incorporates words like “shit” into his State of the Unions.)

I contemplated writing a letter to the CW about all of this, but that would make me even less cool (it also undoubtedly would do nothing). Instead, I’ll consider this a valuable lesson, and vow to be even more vigilant to monitor the language that L is exposed to when she’s old enough to copy it and make it her own.

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.

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.

Previously, the approach involved opening the victim’s airway first, starting mouth-to-mouth breathing and doing chest compressions last. Now, however, the AHA says that cardiopulmonary resuscitation should begin with forceful chest compressions to keep the blood circulating through the body.

Perhaps more important, the AHA says that people who haven’t been trained in CPR need not bother with providing air-passage clearance and mouth-to-mouth breathing at all.

Apparently these decisions are the byproduct of several large studies over the past five years. These studies have found that skipping the first two steps and going straight to chest compressions yields better survival rates for people who suffer cardiac arrest. Experts think that by discouraging the average citizen from giving mouth-to-mouth emergency treatment, more people will be willing to provide CPR to strangers.

Still, as a parent of a young child, I’ve got to ask: Is the new plan best for infants and toddlers who require CPR?

Interestingly, none of the stories on the change report how it potentially could impact CPR for kids. On paper, I suppose, it shouldn’t really make a difference whether the patient is a grown-up or not. Still, I don’t want to risk breaking my daughter’s ribs if I don’t have to.

Also, does this mean I need to get recertified again (re-re-certified?) with the new plan?

Readers, if you see any information about how the new strategy relates to babies, please share. I’ll do the same (perhaps in the form of an article for someone). Thanks.

Then we remembered why we banned fish from this house long ago: the things are addicting.

I can’t actually estimate how many of them I’ve eaten since we introduced them with L’s lunch on Saturday. Suffice it to say that this morning, when L witnessed me skimming goldfish from her little snack bowl, she started laughing at me, as if to say, “Daddy, you have no willpower whatsoever.”

In all seriousness, the addition of goldfish to L’s dining repertoire is both something to celebrate and something to fear. With their hard little forms, the little crackers are, far and away, the most challenging item she’s ever had to ingest.

Naturally, this means the resident neurotic (that’d be me) freaks out every time she eats one.

Usually, I mark the occasion by saying, “Chew, chew, chew,” until all traces of the fish have disappeared from her mouth. The girl must think I’m imitating a train.

So long as she doesn’t choke, I don’t care one bit (even if I do eat far more of the buggers than I probably should).