We’ve got our destination (The Cotswolds). We’ve got our dates (my wife’s winter break). We’ve even got our rental car. Until last night, though, we didn’t have our plane tickets.

The holdup: L. We’re not taking her as a lapchild this time around, which means we need to buy her a separate seat. Because she’ll only be 18 months at the time of departure, there has been some confusion at Virgin Atlantic over what sort of safety precautions we must take for her to ensure she stays firmly planted in that seat for takeoffs and landings.

Here in the U.S., the solution is simple: You bring your carseat and use it on the plane (as an aside, here’s an interesting post by a friend of mine on this and related subjects).

For international flights, however, it appears the situation is more complex. A number of customer service representatives told us we can’t bring our car seat on board. Other folks have told us we need to use a special safety seat provided by the airline (which I’m not crazy about).

I’m still not sure what we need to do, though we did go ahead and book our tickets last night.

For now, we’ve reserved one of the airline’s special safety seats, and we’re planning to check our car seat as luggage. Something tells me that situation is going to change, since I have a sneaking suspicion the airline-sponsored child seats aren’t designed to protect 18-month-olds the same way they protect older kids.

Have any of you readers had experience with this? If so, what insights can you share? I wouldn’t say we’re panicking yet, but we’d definitely like some advice. And who knows—perhaps the entire incident will end up being fodder for a travel story down the road. Thanks in advance.

For the first 13 months of her life, she seemed to shun this common quality, instead displaying a fierce independence about which Powergirl and I could only joke. No, guys, the baby seemed to say, I won’t let you feed me X—either I give it to myself or I’m not eating it, period.

These tendencies finally appear to be changing. Over the last ten days or so, the baby has developed a bit of a co-dependent streak. The object of her clinginess: Moi.

I’m not sure how I feel about this new thing. I mean, sure, I’m flattered (and not-so-secretly delighted) that the baby is obsessed with her daddy. On the flip side, however, it’s not exactly healthy (for her or for me) that she cries every time I leave a room, not to mention that it undoubtedly hurts her momma’s feelings just a bit.

Most of the literature I’ve read on the subject (see this and this) says her fascination likely is just a phase; that over the course of the next few years, the baby will latch on to a number of other people, places and things.

To what extent can I trust these reviews? If you’ve got experience with these kinds of developments, please speak up.

All week, friends have been emailing me with sob stories about their own experiences on airplanes without changing tables.

Then, tonight, after just declaring her as a lapchild for another flight (admittedly on United again; part of the problem is that we live in a city where there aren’t many cheaper or more convenient alternatives), I’m convinced these airlines just don’t give a crap (pardon the pun).

This time—literally, moments ago—I had the presence of mind to ask the customer service agent when I had him on the phone about changing tables. “No,” he said from Singapore or the Philippines or wherever he was located, “I’m sorry, sir, but none of our planes are [sic] outfitted with changing tables for babies anymore.”

While I know his statement wasn’t entirely true (as I mentioned in my letter to United, we have flown their planes between SFO and OGG, and some of those had changing tables), perhaps the company proclaims not to have them so as not to disappoint travelers like me.

Still, the facts are disturbing. How does the FAA allow planes not to have changing tables? What’s more, how, with all of the family travel-oriented coverage out there, has nobody made an issue of this simple fact? Does any of you readers share in my outrage? If so, speak up, and please provide suggestions for changing babies in a sanitary fashion mid-flight.

Plans among dads I know are mixed. Some are psyched to spend the day engaging in “me time,” whether that means 18 holes at the local golf course, three hours in front of baseball or NASCAR on TV or poker with some buddies. Others are all about family, and don’t want to spend a moment away from the very kiddies that have made them dads.

One friend, when grilled at a birthday party yesterday evening, said he’ll spend Father’s Day doing “whatever [his wife] tells me to do.”

All of these varying opinions have me thinking about the purpose of Father’s Day as a whole. Is it to take a day off from all of the typical duties of being a dad? Is it to celebrate daddyhood by embracing it even more tightly than normal? Is it just to inspire our families to say thanks?

I’ve checked some history on this one. The first Father’s Day is believed to have been held in 1910, through the efforts of Sonora Smart Dodd (a woman) of Spokane, Wash. As the story goes, Dodd had heard a church sermon about Mother’s Day and felt dads should have some sort of honorary day as well. A tradition was born (though it didn’t become national law until 1966).

I plan to spend next Sunday hanging with my wife and daughter. We’ll have breakfast at our favorite Greasy Spoon, play in the park, go to the pool and grill on the patio before bedtime.

Personally, I’d say there’s no better way to celebrate being a father than by being with the people who’ve made me a dad. In my book, those dads who see Father’s Day as an excuse to check-out just don’t get what this fatherhood thing is all about.

Naturally, then, we grownups are somewhat wary of taking her as a “lapchild” on Monday’s 5.5-hour plane flight from San Francisco to Lihue, Kauai.

How will the baby fare? How antsy will she become? How will we be able to deal?

We’re not too worried about a total meltdown; though L has trouble sitting still from time to time, she isn’t big on shrieking (which is good, because neither one of us has any patience for screaming kids on airplanes).

Instead, I’d say, we’re mostly concerned about our ability to keep L busy. We’ll bring some toys, but we can’t bring too many of them since space in United’s Economy Plus section is limited. We also have to be judicious about the toys we bring; we can’t bring toys that make too much noise, out of respect for our other passengers.

I’ve run some numbers and have determined that we really will only have three hours of flight to occupy her. My math: One hour total of eating + 1.5 hours of sleeping = 2.5 hours of busy time.

Still, three hours is lots of time. And there’s only so much aisle walking I can do. For those of you parents who’ve done this before, what’s the secret? Any recommendations/suggestions will be greatly appreciated.

The good news: Today Powergirl took the baby for her first-ever swim lesson at our gym (she loved it and didn’t want to get out of the pool). The bad news: For some bizarre reason that neither of us can figure out, this weekend L decided she is afraid of the bathtub, and she refuses to submit for a tubby without crying hysterically.

Each situation deserves further reflection.

According to Powergirl, the baby loved the pool, kicking and frolicking like a 16-month-old. She managed to get underwater a few times. She also apparently mastered the art of jumping from one step to the next.

Of course I saw none of this first-hand. It’s not that I was busy; I opted not to go because I know I’m far too neurotic and high-strung to have stayed calm. (As an aside, I did inquire at the gym about taking a triple-shot of bourbon into the pool with me to calm the nerves. Not surprisingly, the manager laughed at me, then gave a resounding “no.”)

At some point in the future, I hope to work up the courage (or work out my angst) to accompany my girls on one of L’s swim lessons. Until then, I’ll have to settle for second-hand.

The tub development, however, is one I’ve experienced for myself.

L’s behavior toward tubbies changed markedly this weekend, and since then we’ve been grasping at solutions to make things right.

Upon the suggestion of our nanny (whom we love, by the way), we tried buying L new bath toys. That didn’t work. We also have taken turns climbing into the tub with her (it was my turn tonight). That didn’t really work either.

Our next strategy is to face backward so she can’t see the drain or any other feature that might be scaring her. If that doesn’t work, we may have to break out the heavy artillery (aka sprinklers).

Whatever happens in the tub, juxtaposing that situation with L’s grand time in the pool raises some perplexing questions. Why would she hate one self-contained area of water but love another? What’s more, how (if at all) can we replicate the pool experience in the tub to feel more comfortable there?

Any suggestions on this subject are welcome. At this point, Powergirl and I are out of answers.

I wore my pajamas (mesh shorts and a t-shirt) all day Monday and Thursday. I didn’t brush my teeth at all on Tuesday. And, in perhaps the most disgusting development, I haven’t shaved since May 12, making me look like I’m trying to sport a playoff beard like the guys on the Chicago Blackhawks.

Under normal circumstances, these developments are gross but manageable—because we live in the far northern reaches of Sonoma County, I don’t have to interact with many people unless I’m on an assignment.

Today, however, the situation was dire: I had to motor into the city for a meeting.

Lucky for me, the facial hair hasn’t graduated from George Michael to Sasquatch. Still, I felt gross, and sincerely hope none of my clients judged me as unkempt.

The reality is that given the time constraints of most weeks, something in the schedule has to give, and it’s usually my own hygiene. Quite frankly, I don’t understand how more stay-at-home and/or work-at-home dads don’t experience the same dilemma. Gentlemen, what’s your secret? Enquiring minds want to know.

The story, which reported on a study in the current issue of the Journal of the American Medical Association, analyzed 43 previous research projects on the issue, and confirmed that about 10 percent of men whose partners are having babies suffer depression during the time period ranging from three months before the baby is born through the baby’s first birthday.

What’s interesting about this number is that it’s twice the usual rate of depression in men, and that it’s essentially in the same range as post-partum depression in women.

The new study went on to suggest that the riskiest period for the father is when the baby is 3 to 6 months old. Some of the (indirectly mentioned) culprits: Exhaustion, new financial stress, disruption in sex life.

While I found the NPR story interesting, I have to wonder how much of this is overblown (and, by extension, disrespectful to women). Let’s face it: there are biological, hormonal reasons behind post-partum depression in women. Nothing on Earth—not even a push toward something as noble as equal parenting—can create the same conditions for us guys. Instead, for men, all of the potential factors are external.

Can we men really suffer from post-partum depression? Can we legitimately equate our post-partum suffering and/or troubles to those of our wives? I think it’s a stretch; what do you think?

This possibility was daunting; because my wife and I are both Italians from New York, we speak like sailors, and that’s not the kind of stuff you want a kid mimicking.

The parroting hadn’t started by the time I left for a business trip on Wednesday. By the time I returned yesterday, however, our little bird-loving L had become a little birdie herself, and is now chirp-chirping stuff she hears us saying.

She’s not mimicking everything; instead, she’ll echo random words, without warning.

Today, for instance, my second day solo with the baby since coming home, she learned “clock” and the color, “red,” in this fashion. She also managed to say, “tree,” “truck” and “brachycephalic.” (OK, she didn’t actually say “brachycephalic,” I’m just making sure you’re all paying attention.)

Yesterday, I swear she said, “wine.” Yet she also tried to mimic another word I uttered while attempting to change her diaper. That word had four letters, started with s and ended with t.

Thankfully, she couldn’t master the curse. But the fact that she tried makes it clear: Now, more than ever, Powergirl and I need to watch what we say. We’ve discussed fining each other for foul language around the kid. We’ve also contemplated cursing in other languages for a while.

How did you readers tackle this delicate situation? Is there any hope for foul-mouthed New York transplants such as us?

He and I volleyed a number of messages back and forth, sharing our respective schedules to try and explain how and when we managed to balance work and parent responsibilities. Then he dropped this:

“I now measure my free time in one-minute increments. And I hate squandering any of it. I get so angry now when I, say, watch a TV show and it sucks. Or I’m watching an NHL game and it takes them five minutes to review a goal. C’mon! I’ve got things to do!”

At first, I laughed at these sentiments, thinking he phrased them this way to get me to chuckle (he is a pretty funny writer). The more I thought about it, though, the more I came to realize that fatherhood has made me feel the same way.

After all, this is precisely why I’ve given up on “American Idol,” why I can’t stand the NBA playoffs (those last two minutes are torture!) and why my new rule at the coffee shop is to go somewhere else when there is a line of five or more. It also explains why I have no patience for restaurant servers who clearly see I’m with a kid but still take 20 minutes to take our order.

Do some of you other new dads feel the same outrage? If so, how do you deal with it? Thanks in advance for your candor.