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.

Since the moment of truth, the girl has been absolutely obsessed, learning the word, “cards,” and playing with them every chance she gets. Yesterday, she spent 20 minutes inspecting every member of a 52-card deck, over and over and over again. This afternoon, she repeated the process and included me in the game.

This sort of cognitive exercise is the kind of development that would make any parent proud. Considering I spend a good bit of time writing about gambling, however, and that I’m a bit of a poker junkie, the news is downright earth-shattering.

Imagine my delight, then, tonight, when the baby learned to distinguish the four aces from the rest of the deck. (Her favorite, by the way, is the ace of spades.)

And picture, if you will, my smile when L and I sat down with two of her friends (a Pee Wee Herman doll and a metal wall sconce) for a “game” of Euchre. (In case you’re wondering, the wall sconce won.)

Heck, in anticipation of her sign-up for the 2028 World Series of Poker “Main Event,” I transferred $100 from my checking account into one of her savings accounts tonight. Hopefully the buy-in will still be $10,000 when she’s old enough to play. If not, we may have to get her cleaning up some local home games ASAP.

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.

As the name suggests, the pants are critical.

Every time I change the baby, I take her pants off, turn them inside out and put them on my head like a ski cap. Once they’re up there, I make sure the elastic band is hugging the very tip of my skull. This way, when I tilt my head downward, the legs are like soft and fluffy horns.

Next is where the clown voice comes in. Looming over the baby with the “horns” dangling above her, I shake my head around crazily, causing the “horns” to flop around. As they’re flopping, I dig deep for my best Grover-meets-Bozo voice and yell something along the lines of “Panthorns! Panthorns! Oh no!”

The one-two punch of panthorns and crazy voice gets the baby every time. She smiles. She laughs. She often guffaws.

Sure, her reaction is adorable. But more important, my absurdist Pee Wee Herman impression takes L’s mind off the fact that I’m actually changing her diaper—a chore about which she isn’t always very happy.

It’s gotten to the point where she gets giggly during changing time because she knows the “horns” are coming.

If only our respective bosses used similar techniques to make the workday more palatable.

Since the girl started laughing (oh, about ten days ago), she quite literally cracks up every time she sees me or hears my voice. It doesn’t matter if she’s eating, crying or completely distracted by the ceiling fan in our kitchen. For her, Daddy = funny, period.

Of course this new revelation pleases me on a number of levels. For starters, I’ve never been the funny guy among family or friends, so it’s wonderful to feel like Jim Carrey or Jim Gaffigan for a change. Second, her little laughs are so frieking cute that anything to spark them is cause for celebration.

Finally, L’s laughter is contagious, so if I make her laugh, she makes me laugh right back again.

The $10-million question: Do I really warrant all of these chuckles? In other words, am I funny to anyone except my four-month-old?

Surely my work with the whale puppets must be hilarious. And the way I voice some of those other stuffed animals (the stork, for instance, speaks with an Indian accent; Terrence the turtle is a fan of hip-hop) has had to prompt some knee-slapping in the past. I make good (attempts at) puns. Sometimes I even smush the sides of my belly button to make it look like a tiny mouth.

I think that kind of stuff is funny as hell. Then again, I also really like Pee-Wee Herman.

I’m learning that another wonderful thing about being a dad is that when your kids make you feel funny, you don’t actually have to be funny at all. The No. 1 goal is to keep them laughing. If they’re laughing, they’re interested, I once read. At this age, “interested” is a very good thing. Let’s just hope it sticks.

These invisible buddies were with me through thick and thin, hanging around far longer into my adolescence than I probably should admit in a public forum.

Then, one day, the figments of my imagination were gone.

I’ve stumbled on real-life substitutes over the years—including Powergirl herself—but all of these seat-fillers have their own lives, meaning there are times when I compete with some other pretty serious demands for attention.

Now, however, a constant buddy has returned in the form of L.

She pals with me everywhere: to the coffee shop, to the bank, to the doctor and the store. She hangs with me at home, listening to me ramble on about bad grammar, crazy editors and Joe Girardi’s managerial blunders. She even keeps me company while I wash the dishes, fold laundry and do sit-ups on my office floor.

She listens. She thinks I’m funny. Sometimes, especially when I’m speaking in my Pee-Wee Herman voice, she laughs. I don’t even mind it when she cries.

Often when it’s just the two of us, I think back to that (scary and sort of lame) doll that came out in the 1990s titled, “My Buddy.” The doll—made for kids 12 and under—was designed to look like a little kid itself.

Forget that the doll was the inspiration for the movie, “Child’s Play.” The idea was to give children a “friend” to take everywhere. The (admittedly campy) jingle said it all:

“My buddy, my buddy: wherever I go, he goes.
My buddy, my buddy: I’ll teach him everything that I know
My buddy and me like to climb up a tree
My buddy and me: we’re the best friends that can be.
My buddy, my buddy, my buddy and me!”

Call me dorky (and yes, only a raging dork would remember the words to those commercials), but I’m proud to say that L is my buddy, and she is infinitely better than any stuffed baby or imaginary friend could ever be.