For me, the issue is a lack of sleep; the very same guidebook that has kept me from blogging regularly also is keeping me from putting my head on the pillow for more than a few measly hours a night.

Coffee and other stimulants (all legal, don’t worry) have helped me deal with a good portion of this insomnia. The rest of my secret: Narcolepsy, such as the kind I demonstrated on the chair of my hair stylist this afternoon (Laurel, I hope you realize what a compliment it is when I pass out while you’re wielding scissors near my head).

For Powergirl, the issue is a surplus of sleep; she’s been under the weather for the last few weeks and has essentially gone into a modified form of hibernation to get well.

For L, sleep developments have taken a different turn. Sure, she’s getting the requisite 12 hours a day. And yes, she’s finally off of England time. But we’ve noticed two new problems that smack of an early arrival into toddlerhood.

• All of a sudden, it has become impossible to “transfer” a sleeping L from the car seat into her crib. We used to be able to do this without a peep. Now, however, the very moment we unbuckle her seat, she wakes up and refuses to go down again (no matter how tired she is).
• On some nights—last night included—she has nightmares, and wakes up shrieking like she’s never shrieked before. Eventually, she does calm down and go back to sleep. But to call this development disturbing would be putting it mildly.

Powergirl and I can deal with our own sleep issues. For L’s, however, we need some help.

And so, dear readers, I ask you: Have those of you with children dealt with similar behaviors in your kids? If so, how have you coped? Any input or advice would be appreciated. Thanks in advance for your insight.

The bad news: this scenario likely will occur more frequently in the next year, so get used to it.

That’s my crass way of notifying you faithful readers that things are changing around here, and The Daddy Dispatch will be transitioning from five times a week to two or maybe three times a week (if we’re lucky).

It’s not that I’m getting bored; on the contrary, as L grows I’ve got more to say than ever before. The goal of the blog always has been to paint a realistic picture of work-at-home fatherhood, and the reality is that the whole work/life balance thing is getting tougher. With a newly active baby and new (and exciting!) clients, all of those activities that aren’t mission-critical to the health of my family or my business must take a backseat.

Please don’t take this as goodbye. Please keep reading. Please keep submitting comments. And please keep suggesting this blog to friends.

Thanks again. And Happy Holidays.

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.

Powergirl and I were reminded of it last night, as we spent the night at a swanky resort in the Napa Valley. While we were there, hobnobbing with folks at a work event (for me), L was back here at the ranch, hanging with her maternal grandmother. Everybody in the equation had a total blast.

For L, the treat was hanging with her “Tiki”; the kid loves her grandmothers something fierce.

For my mother-in-law, the treat was hanging with L, who (among other highlights) apparently led a two-hour guided tour of the neighborhood, stopping at every telephone pole along the way.

For my wife and me, of course, it was nice just to get away. We dressed up. We ate fabulous food. We slept in. And we didn’t have to mimic whale sleep (when they snooze, whales shut down only one side of the brain to make sure they continue surfacing to breathe) to keep an ear on the baby monitor.

Granted, at the dinner party, we talked more about L than anything else. And in the morning, on a short hike (from our cabin to my truck), we joked about the baby’s likely reaction to a bunch of rocks covered with moss.

We returned this afternoon to one of the most adorable greetings I can remember. The baby clapped. She jumped. She raised the roof (yes, folks, I’m raising her to be a fan of the WNBA). She smooched. A lot. Like the saying goes, it was as if one night away made our little girl love us that much more. The feelings were mutual.

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.

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.

He learned this immediately. After he and his wife spent their first night home with the new baby, he sent me (and, I assume, others) a text about his son: “[The boy] was the Michael Jordan of crying last night; you couldn’t stop him, you could only hope to contain him.”

After encouraging him to hang in there, that it definitely gets better, I reminded him to be good to his wife.

And really, I couldn’t have given better advice.

Let’s face it: Being sensitive, doing chores and changing diapers all are noble traits/characteristics of a new dad, but when push comes to shove and the kid is crying until all hours of the night; when your woman has cracked nipples from breastfeeding and feels fat and ugly; when your day is ruined by those car seat manufacturers who made their products so complicated, it’s critical to treat the woman as the rock star she is for giving birth and continuing to set a great example.

Even though our daughter is now pushing 18 months, I still try to subscribe to this philosophy. Sometimes, I falter (let’s say this was not the best weekend). Most of the time, I’d like to think I succeed. Either way, I’m always making an effort.

Hopefully, at some point in her life, L notices this approach, and expects nothing less from her partner down the road.

Such was life for me on Tuesday. After spending the first three hours of the day together, the baby I parted ways when the nanny arrived. Then I took off, heading 100 miles south for a bunch of meeting. My last session ran over, preventing me from heading home before the evening rush hour. That means I got home too late to see L before she went to bed.

Talk about disappointment. All day, all I wanted was to get home in time to read the kid “My World” and “Goodnight Moon,” her new favorite pre-bed combo (followed, of course, by a last-minute glimpse out the window to say goodnight to the real moon).

Instead, by the time I got home, she was fast asleep.

I recognize that many fathers (and mothers, for that matter) deal with these kinds of work/life balance challenges every day. I recognize that some parents are lucky to see their kids for three waking hours on any given day. Quite honestly, I don’t know how these moms and dads stomach all that time away. I simply don’t think I could do it.

Then again, I’m totally spoiled. Thankfully, time apart in this house is more of an exception than the rule. Because I’m self-employed, time apart also is reconcilable: I get to make up for Tuesday by spending most of Wednesday afternoon with L.

At this point, our afternoon plans likely will consist of a trip to the plaza downtown and a long session tossing leaves in the fountain. We also may visit L’s favorite machine, the Zamboni.

Whatever we do, so long as we’re together, I’m set. You can’t put a price tag on that.

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.

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.