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.

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.

As I blogged last month, we needed to get her the document in preparation for our post-Christmas trip to England, her first official international trip. Powergirl and I have been waiting eagerly for the thing to see the ridiculous photo of our little baby inside.

Suffice it to say, the photo did not disappoint (she looks so grown up!).

The passport itself brings our trip that much closer to reality. We’ve been preparing L for the adventure by showing her images of Stonehenge (my wife is an anthropologist, what can I say?) and the University of Oxford, where the aforementioned wife studied abroad as an undergraduate. Of course we’ve also taught her “London Bridge” and other songs that refer to England and the U.K.

Perhaps most important, we’ve been preparing L for the pastime that likely will comprise big chunks of our days: Sitting in front of a fireplace.

Slowly but surely, she’s learning to keep her distance so as not to get burned. Of course she’s also learning that reading books is much more fun when you’re snuggling in front of a roaring fire.

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.

Naturally, then, Powergirl and I were freaked by a lengthy and detailed story that ran in The New York Times last week about cone-beam CT scanning technology that many pediatric dentists are using nowadays.

I won’t spoil the entire piece, but the Cliffs Notes version is this: These cone-beam scans can help dentists deal with complex cases, but research indicates that the machines generate way more radiation than is necessary to tackle everyday issues (cavities, etc.) that afflict a vast majority of kids.

What’s more, the piece concludes that these machines are zapping our kids excessively and unnecessarily, at a time when excessive and unnecessary zapping may cause cancer.

The article also suggests that this could be a case of users embracing technology for technology’s sake; though the machines generate three-dimensional images, in many cases there’s no need for anything more sophisticated than a two-dimensional image.

(As a related side note, I’ve wondered why every movie these days has to be in 3D as well. Isn’t high-definition 2D just fine? I digress.)

Anyway, if you’re a parent of a kid with teeth, give the piece a read.

Initially, the idea was to get out of the house. It had rained for most of Thanksgiving weekend here in Sonoma County, and an afternoon break in the weather provided the perfect opportunity to dodge raindrops and get fresh air. Powergirl and I raced to get L’s shoes and jacket on. Once we were outside, the goal was simple: A walk around the block.

We got one-quarter there before L knelt down and discovered something neither of us had seen, growing beneath two cement panels in the sidewalk. “Moss!” she exclaimed. She squatted to touch it. Five minutes later, she hadn’t budged.

The two of us weren’t quite sure how to react. On the one hand, storm clouds were brewing, and we weren’t sure when it might rain again. On the other hand, the fact that she was so curious about nature had us beaming with delight, and we wanted to encourage it positively at just about all costs.

(Back story on L’s love for moss: During one of our trips to the plaza this summer, she spotted some on a redwood tree and called it grass. I corrected her. She’s been obsessed ever since.)

Ultimately, we coaxed her into moving forward. Over the next 30 minutes—she stopped to investigate seven different patches of moss. Many of these exams were punctuated with newfound adjectives: “Soft,” “Green,” “Wet,” and my personal favorite, “Furry.”

We managed to get back to the house just as the rains resumed. Inside, as L shifted gears and fixated on something else (blocks? Or was it crayons? Or animal crackers?), it all became clear; those tiny patches of suburban Bryophyta—and the wonder they inspired, of course—had made my day. Hey moss, Happy Thanksgiving to you, too.