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.

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.

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.

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.

She requests carols four or five times a day (“Jingle Bells” and “Frosty” are her favorites, though she also likes “Santa Baby”). She plays with the stockings every time she climbs up the stairs (we hang them there because we use our fireplace a ton). Naturally, she’s also obsessed with the tree, touching (and sometimes kissing) low-hanging ornaments every time she passes by.

Perhaps the pinnacle of her Xmas obsession came this afternoon, when, during a walk around town, she randomly shouted, “Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas” to a bunch of strangers who were walking by.

Indeed, the kid has been bitten by the Christmas spirit. And it kind of rules.

Powergirl is the inspiration for all of this, really. I was raised Jewish and gave up on religion all together in college. At this point in my life, I’m nothing more than a cheerleader, support staff for my wife. Considering how happy all of the songs and candles and pine needles and sparkly stuff make both of my girls, I’d say that job is the best gig that I’ll get all month.

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.

The DVD, dubbed “Mr. 7 Yea!” features kindergarten teacher Marc Sevigny reading two popular children’s books in an engaging style. In the interest of full-disclosure, Sevigny is my friend’s brother-in-law. Still, I’ve seen parts of the video, and the guy is definitely entertaining.

His humorous style introduces children to strategies for becoming better readers. Some of these strategies include:

• Preview the cover
• Picture walk
• Make predictions
• Build background knowledge
• Smell the book

In this first video (there are hints there will be others), Sevigny reads “The Grouchy Ladybug,” by Eric Carle, and “Caps for Sale,” by Esphyr Slobodkina.

(An aside: We’ve got both books here in our house, and they are among L’s faves.)

Sevigny proclaims on his Web site that for every DVD sold, he’ll donate another to a child in need. The DVDs retail for $14.99. Check ‘em out—it appears that orders placed by Dec. 20 will still arrive in time for Christmas.

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.

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.