This weekend, during a 40th birthday celebration for my sister-in-law, I did something similar.

My stunt didn’t involve a swaddle; considering I was out at a bar with my wife’s sisters and their respective mates that would have been awkward. Instead, the escapade revolved around a sippy cup—L’s preferred method of drinking milk these days.

Earlier in the evening, during dinner, my mother-in-law had given us a sippy cup we inadvertently left with her during a visit on Friday. Because we went straight from dinner to grab our nightcaps, neither I nor Powergirl had a chance to stash the cup with our stuff. So we brought it with us. To a tiki bar.

You can imagine what transpired from there. On top of all the wine from dinner, that first mai-tai was (relatively) uneventful. By the second one, yours truly was pouring drink into the sippy cup and slurping it like L herself.

The verdicts: Sucking from those little buggers takes some work! No wonder L usually seems so labored after a long drink. Also, it’s very calming to clutch the cup and slurp away.

Perhaps there’s a new invention in my future. Yard-long beer cups, consider yourselves warned.

You can imagine, then, why the events of this morning have me breathing fire. I was awakened by the incessant barking of my neighbors’ two damn dogs.

Yes, these are the same dogs that create brown spots when they pee on our lawn, the same dogs that terrorize our cat every day. One of them also is beast that left a string of poop on our driveway back when Powergirl was pregnant (for those of you who’ve been there, you know animal feces is one of the biggest no-nos for pregnant ladies).

I suppose I could sit here and publicly assail the canines for their chronically inconsiderate behavior. That, however, would be anthropomorphizing them; in this situation, the only beings who are consistently inconsiderate are the lousy humans who live next door.

Am I overreacting? Is this type of situation a byproduct of zero-line California living? Could it be that, on this subject, I’m just a jerk? Perhaps.

But let’s be frank here, people: This stay-at-home Dad gets one morning every week to myself, and I’m not letting anybody (outside of this family, of course) ruin it again.

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 escapade started out swimmingly. No traffic between home and one of my favorite local Mexican restaurants. Grabbed a beer. Sat down at an outdoor table. Placed the order. Slugged back monster sip of aforementioned beer. Exhaled a calming sigh of relief.

That’s when it hit me: I was still wearing my pajamas (not Calvin Kleins, mind you; something far more, well…ghetto).

And I didn’t care one bit. It was the kind of morning—the kind of day, really—where we stay-at-home parents don’t give a crap about how we smell or what we wear. Readers, if you’ve ever flown solo with your kids, I know you know what I’m talking about. And you know you’ve been there, too.

Every now and again, parenthood requires so much selflessness that you forget what it means to be selfish at all. That’s not a complaint, it’s a confession. I’m not saying I like looking like a bum. I am, however, saying that sometimes, “bumminess” is not the end of the world.

The most classic example of this philosophy came after lunch in the local Blockbuster.

I was picking up a “True Blood” DVD for Powergirl, and when I made my way up to the check-out, the guy behind the register definitely noticed my attire.

“Dude,” he said, nodding toward my nether-regions. “I love the shorts.”

I chuckled and replied with a simple, “Thanks, man,” as I headed for the car. It was evident that Video Bargainville totally was jealous of my get-up. At least someone other than L appreciated it, too.

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.

This morning, she picked up an animal flashcard with the letter G and said, “Gecko.” Then, while Powergirl was making coffee, L looked up at the coffee machine and said, “coffee.” While counting grapes over breakfast, she counted to three (with minimal help). Finally (and perhaps most adorably), the baby stroked my wife’s face and said, “pretty.”

These developments came after accomplishments from earlier in the week; milestones that included repeat words such as “Power” and “Orca,” and an important new word: “Yankees.”

Granted, you could argue that in all of these cases, the baby was simply repeating words she’s heard time and time again. Still, there is no disputing the fact that the kid’s tiny brain is evolving in front of our eyes. It truly is a wonder to behold.

Of course Powergirl and I now are placing wagers (always for burritos in this house) on which words the baby will say next. My money is on “Good morning,” a phrase with which she’s been struggling for nearly ten days. Another possibility: “Snoopy,” as she and I are headed to the Charles M. Schulz Museum in Santa Rosa this afternoon.

Whatever L says next, you can bet this word nerd will respond with excitement. There’s nothing like watching a little vocabulary grow.

But an essay this week on The New York Times “Motherlode” blog discusses a different kind of seven-year disillusionment: One with your kids.

The story, written by Alison Patton, is a candid look at the author’s realization (and subsequent disgust with the fact) that her children have picked up some of her worst attributes. Because this epiphany came for her right around the seven-year mark with each kid, she draws the parallel to the proverbial seven-year itch.

It’s an interesting—and bold—line of thinking, and definitely worth a read.

(Full disclosure x2: The Times is a client of mine, and a friend of mine helped Patton with her piece.)

While I could never see myself falling “out of love” with L or subseuquent children, I certainly can understand an ocean of guilt upon realizing one’s previously perfect and naïve little baby (or babies) has (or have) inherited some of the parts of yourself you hate most.

If, for instance, L is even remotely as obsessive-compulsive about stuff as I am, it will be very hard for me to forgive myself. If she flies off the handle as quickly, I, too, may go insane.

Patton’s bottom line, however, is a good one: No matter how “disappointed” some of these developments might make us, no-one is perfect—not us, not our spouses, and definitely not our kids. The sooner each and every one of us comes to terms with that notion, the better (and more forgiving) all of us will be.

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.