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.

The tantrum was a doozie, a 30-minute episode that started out of nothing (she didn’t want to brush her teeth) and ended only after I gave L a long while to cry things out behind closed doors in her crib.

Once she decided she was fine, she was back to normal within seconds.

I, however, am still shell-shocked, and have spent most of the morning wondering about the extent to which this behavior will become commonplace over the next few months.

Some of the other thoughts that have run through my head since the disturbing 7 a.m. “wake-up call” have spanned the gamut from practical to philosophical. How can these little creatures possibly scream so loud? How can they flail about the way they do without breaking bones or dislocating limbs? Why don’t adults throw tantrums the same way?

I’m sure I’ll get answers eventually. Until then, all I know is that tantrums are not fun for anyone involved, and though I love my daughter unconditionally, this was a terrible, terrible way to start the day.

In one corner: Dreaded deadlines, many of which had piled up after extensions and other various schedule adjustments. In the other corner: L, all cute and eager to come into Daddy’s office to listen to “Frosty the Snowman.”

I anticipated how challenging it might be to get stuff done (slowly, I’m getting better at anticipating this), and had asked my mother to come up from the big city to play with L. Having Mom here definitely helped; she was the first line of defense in allowing me to focus on my tasks at hand instead of procrastinating and playing with my daughter all day.

Still, because I’d rather just hang with the kid, it was tough to resist joining in the fun that the two of them were having within earshot of my work-cave.

When the “girls” were coloring in L’s room across the hall, I turned up my music. When they played dreidel down by the tree (yes, that’d be the Christmas Tree; we’re an eclectic bunch), I inserted ear plugs.

Finally, when L was running around chanting about mistletoe, I could no longer ignore her cuteness, and sauntered downstairs for a smooch (or, as it turned out, about 40).

Call me weak. Call me easily distracted. Say whatever you want. I simply needed my fix.

Herein likes the paradox of working at home: Being here for every moment with the baby is the ultimate perk, but on days like today, it’s the ultimate pitfall, too. Just another lesson in the name of work/life balance, I guess. Does anybody ever really figure it out?

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.

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.

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.