The little punk decided she was too big to nap. So she fought it. All. Day. Long.

Eventually—on her mother’s watch, of course—she dozed for no more than 40 minutes, making it the most sleepless day our L has had since she emerged from the womb more than 15 months ago. I, on the other hand, got zombie girl all to myself, from 6 a.m. until 3 p.m.

The kid yawned practically every hour on the hour, typically a sign that naptime is imminent. Instead, our little L did her best to impersonate the Energizer Bunny, going and going. As if her general behavior wasn’t odd enough, her specific behaviors throughout the day were a bit unusual, as well.

She usually demands that I read her (quite literally) at least a dozen books. She usually motions to go outside. Today, though, all she wanted to do was play with a ratty old Pee Wee Herman doll. And eat a deck of cards.

If the episode weren’t so frustrating, it would have been cute.

Powergirl and I have been reading about how, right around this stage, babies get independent enough to keep themselves awake. Clearly, L has been reading the same books

My reactions to the new L were mixed. At first, I tried in vain to induce some Z’s. When that failed, however, I didn’t fight her at all, following her lead completely (this is why we spent so much time with Pee Wee).

I’m eager to see if this behavior was more of an exception or a trend. Either way, next time I’ll be more prepared to handle it.

The work has been atop my personal queue for a while, and the writing is excellent.

Still, after spending the better part of the last decade admiring Grann as a writer, the preface to his book made me disrespect him as a guy.

The goal of the preface, of course, is to explain why an ordinary dude would even think to go and report a story in a remote part of the Amazon jungle from which few have returned, and go there for an indefinite amount of time. In the process, he reveals that he a) has a one-year-old son and b) took out a second life insurance policy before he left.

I’ve got a real problem with this.

For starters, I’m suspect of any dad who voluntarily puts life-altering work (read: work that requires extended time away) before family, even if it’s the story of a lifetime and the end result is phenomenal.

Second, I question dude’s judgment; while apologists (and Grann himself) might argue that the process of taking out extra life insurance ultimately had the kid in mind, why would any new father put his life (and his child’s right to have a father) in jeopardy for work (and again, voluntary work at that)?

It all seems pretty egotistical to me.

Plenty of amazing male writers (friends David Howard and Shawn Bean among them) have managed to write great books without risking their lives and abandoning their families for months on end. Why Grann had to go there, I just don’t get.

Of course on the surface, it seems the risks paid off. Grann got his story, the book is fantastic and it’s won all sorts of awards.

But we’ll never know how those months without a father affected that child, how months of life with a single parent shaped the baby’s life forever. At this point, for Grann and his family, these are things they can never quantify. I promise you: In my life, with L and her subsequent siblings, Powergirl and I won’t ever have to try.

The poor thing is in agony. Her nose is running, pretty much non-stop. She’s got serious ear pain. And on top of all of that, our prize eater has been almost completely disinterested in food (even her favorite combination of peas and macaroni).

We knew it was bad when she looked at Powergirl and said, “Ow” as she pointed to her ear (though, yes, the fact that she was able to communicate discomfort is, in and of itself, amazing).

I can’t imagine what it must feel like for her (or any other kid, for that matter) to sit there and deal as new teeth come through. I know what tooth problems feel like for me now, and all of my teeth broke through the surface of my gums years ago. To think L is experiencing all of this with no context at all—it truly boggles the mind.

Of course the teething ordeal stinks for us parents, too. Sure, when it’s done the kid will have more teeth. But the crying and crankiness and stuffed-up breathing—if there were a way for me to soak it all up so L could feel normal, I’d do it in an instant.

For now, all we can do is wait until the teeth poke through, and try to make L as comfortable as possible in the interim.

Tonight, that meant lots of books (she loves reading), lots of nose-beeps (for some reason she really likes those too) and lots of back rubs. Tomorrow, it might mean something different. We roll with the punches in this house. For her sake, and for mine, I just hope the teething subsides soon.

Case in point: L’s recent sleeping patterns. The good news: She’s been going down for the night around 7:15 or so, giving Powergirl and me ample time to enjoy quiet evenings together. The bad news: Since she’s getting so much sleep, L has been getting up before the crack of dawn, raring to go.

This morning was particularly rough; by 4:45 a.m., the baby was done with sleep for the night. Naturally, because it’s a weekday (and Powergirl teaches Monday through Thursday), I was the one in line to deal.

We made due. We played. We snuggled. We ate breakfast. Eventually, L went back to bed (on the floor with me, which meant I was too uncomfortable to follow suit).

But, man alive, am I zonked—almost too zonked to concentrate on work.

As I type this post around 10:45 a.m., the two of us already have been awake for a good six hours. The baby is still going strong, dancing to the alphabet song and walking around the kitchen. I, however, am ready for dinner, some Golden Spoon and the next Top Chef.

In the future, Powergirl and I will be careful what we wish for. Every action has a reaction, Mr. Newton taught us. Maybe those 7:15 p.m. bedtimes aren’t as good as they seem.

Perhaps her favorite new word: “No.”

At first, this concerned us significantly. Kids going through the Terrible Twos are notorious for talking back in this fashion, and Powergirl and I feared that L had evolved into the phase a bit early. Then, during breakfast the other morning at our favorite Greasy Spoon, it hit us: The kid has no idea what “No” actually means.

The scene was sheer comedy. We were out at breakfast, trying to feed L some pancakes, when she decided she’d had enough. She waved her arms at us, shook her head, and firmly stated, “No.” Then she proceeded to reach out, pull the pancake from my hand and eat it.

The process has replayed itself numerous times since then. She stands on ceremony, protests with repeated declarations of “No,” then proceeds to do what we ask her every time.

Sure, it’s cute. But of course Powergirl and I now are asking ourselves a) where she learned to say “No” like that and b) whether she’ll ever actually understand the true meaning of the word. After consulting a number of experts (other parents) we believe the answers to our questions are a) by listening to us and b) absolutely.

Of course the $10 million question at this point is: When will she snap out of this? I sure hope it’s sooner rather than later; “No” isn’t really an effective means of discipline when all your child does is mimic.

To make a long story short, my assignment was about spa treatments for men. Two of the four treatments I experienced during my visit were massages. And while both masseuses stretched and contorted my body into positions it doesn’t usually go, the women noted that I had developed a condition known as “Mother’s Hip.”

The condition apparently makes one side of the hip joint tighter than the other. As the masseuses explained, it results when a parent predominantly carries a toddler on one side.

Judging from the colloquial name of the condition, it’s most common in women.

Of course my poor body is proof that Mother’s Hip can happen to dads, too; it’s clear the condition does not discriminate.

I had mixed feelings upon receiving this news. On one hand, I admit it—I was a bit embarrassed that I, a dude, would develop a condition most commonly associated with motherhood and being a mom. On the other hand, I felt an odd sense of pride, as if my achy and out-of-whack hip was some sort of badge of honor.

The bottom line: The masseuses were able to tweak my hip and get it back to normalcy. Now that I’m home and back into the regular routine, how long it will stay there is anyone’s guess.

Sure, I’m delighted that L is walking on two feet like the rest of us. But Powergirl and I have learned the hard way this week that with ambulation comes a new set of responsibilities for Mom and Dad—namely, to watch said infant every second of every minute of every day to make sure she doesn’t walk herself into trouble.

Much of this monitoring has taken the form of spotting; one of us walks alongside or behind L to swoop in and catch her if she’s about to face-plant on, say, a table corner or the tile floor.

Another aspect of it looms over my head like the deadline (or is it “deadlines” at this point?) I’m avoiding as I write this: The now-pressing need to baby-proof every nook and cranny of our house.

Thankfully, I managed to tackle the big stuff before she ambulated—electrical outlet covers, the gate at the top of the stairs, and the dome/barrier/forcefield thingees over the oven knobs.

Now, however, comes the most daunting part: Draw and cabinet locks.

Though she is perfectly capable of screwing in a few (dozen) of these, Powergirl has bestowed this task upon me. I’ve accepted it proudly and happily. I just haven’t found time to get it done.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got all the parts I need; I’ve actually went out and bought the locks when the baby started crawling (because I’m just that neurotic) and have hoarded them ever since. Now I need to get to work—before it’s too late.

Yes, she’s saying it in reference to her derriere. And yes, when she says it, she wiggles her tiny behind like a cat about to pounce. For most of the day today, she said the word roughly 200 times an hour. The house has sounded like that crazy scene in the 1999 film, “Being John Malkovich,” when all of the John Malkovich characters say nothing but “Malkovich.”

Powergirl and I totally brought the whole “booty” thing on ourselves. L loves to dance, and when she does, she twists her little body in all sorts of adorable ways. To encourage her, we say things like, “Shake your booty, L!” and “Go booty, go booty, go booty.”

Because the word, “booty,” is really (easy and) fun to say, L has picked it up and made it her own. Now she’s obsessed.

As I type this, the baby is saying “Booty” to her nine-year-old cousin, who called the house specifically to hear L’s newest word. Five minutes before that, as Powergirl and I were changing L’s diaper, she must have said it 70 times.

The best part of the Booty craze is that it simply never gets old. I just hope she’s still saying it after she learns other words, too.

I’ve got mixed feelings about the development.

On one hand, we’ve had a great summer together with L, and I’m bummed to give that up. On the other hand, two full-time incomes are better than one, and (to be honest), I sort of miss being the primary caregiver for the bulk of the day.

Of course the entire stay-at-home dad experience will be much different now that L is walking and talking up a storm. In May, the last time I was exclusively responsible for L between 7 a.m. and 2 p.m., she was a relatively low-maintenance charge. Now, however, chasing her around and listening to her gab away is exhausting (but, of course, fulfilling) work.

This likely will require me to cut down on those 3 a.m. bedtimes, and figure out some new ways to balance life and work.

It also will require a bit more planning; instead of hanging near the house all day, the two of us (that would be the baby and I) may have to incorporate regular visits to library reading hours and local play groups.

Whatever we do, however we handle it, this next week or so will be an interesting transition.

In the scheme of things, this wasn’t much of a surprise; the kid is adding three to four new words to her vocabulary every day. But, as her father, the fact that she now knows what I and her mother chose to name her makes me bask with pride.

Everyone in the house now has a name. I’m “Daddy,” Powergirl is “Mommy” and L is, well, [insert full name here]. We’ve graduated from pronouns to Proper Nouns.

For a writer, that’s a major step.

I have to be honest: I never thought something like this would grab at my heartstrings the way it has. It’s one of the things I’ve noticed about fatherhood; like flash mobs, seemingly tiny accomplishments (or, for that matter, setbacks) instantly and without warning become totally big deals.

On the one hand, this surprise awe can be overwhelming in a bad way—I had no idea I’d cry with joy when L said her name. On the other hand, these unsuspecting emotions are sort of wonderful, enriching every experience by keeping them interesting.

Of course this probably means I won’t react at all when L finally walks. And that’s fine with me.