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?

Because my wife and I are neurotic, however, we’ve prepared my folks with a “little” list of stuff to remember and/or keep in mind as they care for our kid.

The list is three pages long.

Sure, it covers important stuff like medicine dosages (in the event that L gets sick), doctor phone numbers and pre-bed routine. It also touches upon moderately important things such as what L likes to eat, and completely ridiculous things such as the number of hours each day we’d like for her to be outside.

My wife and I treated the document like a manuscript; I wrote the first draft, she edited it (Track Changes turned on, of course), then we incorporated the edits together. As we wrote, we laughed at each other (and ourselves) repeatedly. Still, the thing is printed out and ready to hand over.

My poor parents deserve a medal. Here they are, doing us a favor, and we’ve totally spazzed on them. It’s not like they’re rookies with the whole parenthood thing; they did a damn fine job with me. Hopefully, they’ll see our list as an expression of love—both for L and for them (after all, we don’t want them having to worry about anything).

Mom and Dad, what we really mean to say is, “Thanks.”

• This piece by Todd Mauldin (courtesy of The Good Men Project) about why he blow-dries his son’s hair.
• Some updated statistics from Brian Reid (aka Rebel Dad) about the number of us at-home dads out there.
• A Newsweek cover story (admittedly about a week old) by Andrew Romano and Dokoupil about the need to “re-imagine” masculinity.

Three very different types of pieces, all. Eager to hear what you think. Enjoy.

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.

Case in point: my reunion in Las Vegas with an old friend last weekend. His wife recently delivered their second baby, and I hadn’t seen him since the little girl was born. Naturally, then, our get-together was full of “How’s the baby” queries and hugs all around.

Then I spotted a tiny scratch mark on his cheek. And I knew exactly what it was.

“That from the baby?” I asked him as I pointed to the blemish, knowing full well what his response would be.

“It is!” he quipped. “She’s cute but she has some pretty major fingernails.”

Boy, can I relate. Though I didn’t happen to have any similar nicks last weekend, I’ve had plenty of them, and all of mine came from L’s wolverine-like nails, too. The blemishes are like badges of honor for us new dads, “colors” that shout to the world we are all part of a secret society of men who let their babies scratch because we love them.

As I type this, I’ve got a big fresh mark on my face below my right eyeball. Did I apply Neosporin when the baby sliced me? Absolutely (we are big fans of that product in this house). But will you catch me wearing a bandage over the cut at any point in the next few days? No way, folks, not on your lives.

The phrase: “Bye Bye.” I know this because, in the perhaps biggest stroke of luck all weekend, I was on the phone with Powergirl when the baby decided to play along and bid me farewell.

The moment was so incredible that, well, I couldn’t believe my ears. After the baby’s first “bye bye,” I accused Powergirl of duping me. After her third “bye bye,” I was convinced my wife had set up some sort of audio loop.

But by the fifth time the baby chirped her magic words, I was literally bursting with excitement from the casino floor, randomly shouting at strangers (who must have thought I was nuts) about what had just ensued on the other end of the phone. I told some friends. I told the ticket writers. I even recounted the story to a blackjack dealer or two.

(I was, however, disappointed the baby didn’t tell me to bet on Northern Iowa to upset Kansas.)

Was I bummed to miss this event? Absolutely. But I’ve got to admit: experiencing this milestone on the phone was almost as good as hearing the words in person.

As for that later feat, there’s still time; though the baby went “bye bye” crazy on Friday night, she hasn’t said the words once since then. When she repeats them, you better believe I’ll be ready. Thankfully, I’m not traveling anywhere now for a while.

First and foremost, this new baby—still named L, of course—has ditched the cold (and congestion) that was bugging her before we took off, and is now talking and cooing and yapping like always. She’s also got three new teeth, bringing her current total to five.

What’s more, the kid is eminently more mobile. Before our trip, the extent of her ambulation was army-crawling, during which she’d stagger across the floor like a zombie from some B-rate horror flick. Now, the kid is all-out crawling on all fours; because she still swaggers a bit when she moves, she reminds me of Smeagol from the “Lord of the Rings” films.

(As an aside, we left and the whole mobility thing was a cute little sideshow. The baby is now so fast and so agile that Powergirl and I have rearranged our Saturday to make a special trip to the mall for gates and other baby-proofing accoutrements.)

Of all this new stuff, perhaps my favorite development is her new ability to play catch. Yes, folks, you read that correctly: my eight-month-old daughter can play catch.

Granted, she doesn’t exactly “catch” the ball/stuffed triangle/squeezy-honky thing in mid-air. But once the object lands in her vicinity, she leans over, grabs it and fires it back in my general direction every time.

I’m no baseball scout, but I’d say she’s throwing with a gun like Mets shortstop Jose Reyes. Luckily, neither her hamstrings nor her intelligence resemble the lackadaisical and oft-injured Reyes in any way, shape or form (apologies there to my wife, who is a die-hard Mets fan; I like the Yankees and we have what we like to describe as an “inter-fanatical” relationship).

The bottom line: this post-Vegas L certainly is different than the pre-Vegas one.

All the baby guidebooks warned us development would accelerate rapidly after 7 months or so. I just don’t think we expected the differences to be so dramatic.

That’s all going to change this weekend, though, as we are heading to Las Vegas for a pre-Super Bowl getaway.

We’re leaving the baby with my inlaws, who are delighted to take her. And while both my wife and I are excited at the prospect of sleeping in, eating well, drinking tons, playing poker and answering to nobody but each other, both of us are (understandably, in my opinion) hesitant to be away from L for three nights.

I wouldn’t say we’re worried the baby won’t remember us; by now, the two of us (yes, even I) are over that fear. Instead, I’m bummed I won’t get to experience the little things: her little chirps as she plays with her toy blocks, the way she laughs when I run around like Pee Wee Herman, and, of course, the ritual of putting her to sleep.

Powergirl has her list of stuff she’ll miss, too. Yet we agree we are long overdue for this alone time.

With these conflicting emotions, I guess you could say this weekend will be bittersweet. Under the watchful and loving care of Grandma and Grandpa, the baby will be fine. I only hope the rest of us Villanos manage to get through it without too much drama.

On the plus side, you know exactly what your child is eating at all times. On the negative side, you frequently have nights such as the one I had tonight, toiling over my baby food-cooker for the better part of two hours.

I’m going to Las Vegas to report a guidebook (the 2011 version of this one, to be exact) for the next two days, so I had to cook enough food to refill our stash in the freezer and leave Powergirl with an allotment for L while I’m gone.

On the menu for the evening: pears, carrots and sweet potatoes.

The real challenge was the preparation. Because our food-cooker, the Beaba Babycook, is relatively small, I must dice up fruits and vegetables (and meats, I suppose) before I cook them. Even for someone who is not a perfectionist, this process takes a while. Throw in my aforementioned OCD and I was dicing for the better part of American Idol.

Next came the cooking. The Babycook steamer basket doesn’t hold that much, so I needed to run six separate cycles to get all the food cooked. This actually was relatively easy; I was able to do other stuff while the food cooked.

Finally came the apportionment and freezing process. More than anything, this is monotonous; kind of like pouring cupcake batter into those little paper wrappers over and over again.

Am I complaining? Hell no; I wouldn’t be comfortable any other way with L’s foray into solid foods. That said, though, this extra effort is a lot of work. I now see why so many busy parents just buy stuff from their local grocer.

Evidence of the transformation came this weekend, when L’s existence inspired me to tweak the way in which I have practiced leaving Las Vegas for years.

Before L’s arrival, the last night in Vegas was routinely epic. I’d down at least a dozen Crown and sodas. I’d play poker and Pai Gow all night long. The ritual always was fun as it happened, but it also rendered me completely useless for the evening of my return and most of the following day.

Historically, this uselessness was nothing more than a nuisance to Powergirl. Now, however, with L in the picture, especially after I’ve stuck my wife for three days of single motherhood, it’s just plain inconsiderate.

So this weekend—last night, to be exact—I changed my final-night strategy completely.

First, I stopped drinking by 11 p.m. Then I downed a ton of water, so as to avoid dehydration. Next, I made a commitment to get to sleep before sunrise (for me, especially in Vegas, this does require effort). Finally, I forced myself to nap on the plane home, guaranteeing that I’d be fresh and ready to take care of the baby as soon as I walked in the door.

The minor adjustments paid huge dividends. Powergirl was delighted to be relieved of her single parenting duties. L, as well, was happy to see her Daddy so alive and playful. Personally, I felt actually human (gasp!) all day; a novel concept to say the least.

In the scheme of things, I suppose these minor successes really aren’t that big of a deal. For me, though, they were huge. Did I miss spending most of last night being a drunken jackass? I admit it, part of me did. But this whole new parent thing brings with it new responsibilities to both of the girls in my life, and those responsibilities are more important (and fulfilling) than any night on the town could ever be.