For me, the issue is a lack of sleep; the very same guidebook that has kept me from blogging regularly also is keeping me from putting my head on the pillow for more than a few measly hours a night.

Coffee and other stimulants (all legal, don’t worry) have helped me deal with a good portion of this insomnia. The rest of my secret: Narcolepsy, such as the kind I demonstrated on the chair of my hair stylist this afternoon (Laurel, I hope you realize what a compliment it is when I pass out while you’re wielding scissors near my head).

For Powergirl, the issue is a surplus of sleep; she’s been under the weather for the last few weeks and has essentially gone into a modified form of hibernation to get well.

For L, sleep developments have taken a different turn. Sure, she’s getting the requisite 12 hours a day. And yes, she’s finally off of England time. But we’ve noticed two new problems that smack of an early arrival into toddlerhood.

• All of a sudden, it has become impossible to “transfer” a sleeping L from the car seat into her crib. We used to be able to do this without a peep. Now, however, the very moment we unbuckle her seat, she wakes up and refuses to go down again (no matter how tired she is).
• On some nights—last night included—she has nightmares, and wakes up shrieking like she’s never shrieked before. Eventually, she does calm down and go back to sleep. But to call this development disturbing would be putting it mildly.

Powergirl and I can deal with our own sleep issues. For L’s, however, we need some help.

And so, dear readers, I ask you: Have those of you with children dealt with similar behaviors in your kids? If so, how have you coped? Any input or advice would be appreciated. Thanks in advance for your insight.

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.

Daddy, it turned out, was only a last resort.

I’d be lying if I didn’t internalize this treatment at least a bit. In general I’m a bit emotional, but throw into the mix a milestone birthday and very little sleep and you better believe I’ve been a bit raw.

That said, at least fundamentally, I understand this is simply par for the course for those of us lucky enough to experience parenthood.

The rational part of my brain knows that L is going to go through dozens (if not hundreds) of phases of this kind over the next 18 years. I also know that as she gets older (read: as she becomes a teen-ager), I likely will find myself on the other side of this equation frequently.

Still, at least here and now, swallowing the pride can be rough.

To this point, I’ve “dealt” with the situation poorly; making snide comments to Powergirl about how L would rather hang with her. Ultimately, however, this type of reaction is unfair to L because it implies blame. The baby is doing nothing wrong. Neither am I. It’s just a phase. The more easily I can remember that, the better off everyone in this family will be.

Never mind I’ve been working crazy hours. Forget, for a moment, that we’re refinancing.

Really, the parachute-sized bags under my eyes (and the Olympus Mons of a zit forming on the right side of my face) are attributable to one being and one being only. Her name is L. Little, little L.

She’s not doing it on purpose; something about the time change has totally screwed with her schedule. Even though we only set our clocks back one hour, L has been getting up two to three hours earlier every day. When she’s up, she’s up for good (also a variation from her usual theme). Oh, and she isn’t napping any longer than usual either.

Curious, right? Powergirl and I certainly think so, and some of my other parent friends report similar realities.

What makes our situation particularly exasperating is that we actively sought to prevent it before our trip to Vegas. All week last week, we kept the baby up longer and later in an attempt to switch her to the new schedule. Before we left, she seemed to be doing great.

Then, of course, this. Ugh.

Needless to say, in college and high school, I remember loving the switch to DST because it meant an extra hour of sleep. My, how times have changed.

I’ve previously established on this blog (and elsewhere) that I’m a die-hard Yankees fan. Back in the day, when I actually paid money to attend ballgames in person, I was vociferous. Now, from my living room couch in northern Sonoma County, I still yell a bit during highpoints of a good game.

In anticipation for this year’s playoffs, however, I’ve perfected the art of silent cheering.

It’s simple, really: I open my mouth to scream as I would normally, only I pretend I’ve got laryngitis. I don’t yell. I mouth. As if I’m lip-syncing. With no sound at all.

No, I’m not jazzed about impersonating a mime. But as a dad, you do what you have to do.

Surprisingly, this exercise is almost as cathartic as cheering at traditional volumes. The release isn’t the screaming itself; it’s the tense-and-release ritual of preparing your body to scream (and, of course, any associated body movements).

Tonight, with every run of the Yankees furious comeback, I “screamed” with reckless abandon. I fist-pumped. I pointed. I gyrated my pelvis. And upstairs, the baby didn’t even make a peep.

Will this strategy yield similar results on future nights? Only time will tell. For now, however, to this point in the postseason, I’ve got complaints at all. I’m sure the same holds true for Powergirl—and our daughter (who continues to sleep soundly in her crib).

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.

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.

To wit: She fell asleep on my chest while we sat on the couch.

The setting was remarkably ordinary. Powergirl was napping upstairs. L and I were playing with the baby’s bath toys (yes, she even likes playing with them outside of the bath) on the couch. The Yankees game was on in the background.

At some point, probably while Wally the Walrus was chatting with Ollie the Octopus (think I have an overactive imagination?), the baby rubbed her eyes, wiggled her way over to my chest and squeezed her tiny head into the crook of my neck.

Then she clutched the collar of my T-shirt, jabbed her knee into my ribs, and fell asleep within seconds.

As she clung there breathing softly into me, I started thinking about the last time she did such a thing voluntarily (read: without me trying desperately to get her to fall asleep). The answer: July 2009, when L was no more than three months old, and still needed to sleep once every two hours (now we’re lucky if she sleeps for a total of two hours per day).

We stayed locked in this impromptu embrace for about 25 minutes. I was afraid to move, lest I awaken her, so I sat and gently caressed her little back. Every moment, I reminded myself to soak up how complete and loved the little koala made me feel.

To some extent, I felt I had to; I know that as our L learns words and starts walking and eventually asks for Fun-Dip and Taylor Swift records, today’s wonderful surprise may never happen again.

I bore the brunt of a particularly long weekend this afternoon. I was out reporting a story for one of my clients, the San Francisco Chronicle. I was driving on a windy road through the Anderson and Knights valleys from my home in Sonoma County to the Culinary Institute of America at Greystone in Napa County. And, basically, I fell asleep at the wheel of my truck.

Thankfully, I was alone in the vehicle. Even more thankfully, I dozed off on a straightaway, and managed to wake up before my truck ended up giving me a closer look at some old oak tree.

The experience freaked me out. I pulled off the road. I dumped cold water on my head. I even did jumping jacks. I tried everything in the book to snap myself out of the sleep-deprived daze I was in. In the end, the only thing that worked was a ten-minute power nap.

Biologically speaking, this sort of shutdown isn’t exactly a surprise. My average day involves watching L from when she gets up (6:30 a.m.) until about 2 p.m., working from 2-6 p.m., running, dinner, then working again from 10 p.m. to 1 or 2 a.m. There’s not a lot of time in there for rest.

Luckily, by body doesn’t give in to exhaustion when the baby is around. I’m sure this is because she’s moving too consistently for my body to realize just how tired it is.

(I bet it also has to do with the fact that my neuroses are working overdrive when I’m charged with caring for her; those God-given suckers are more potent than any adrenaline or energy drink.)

Still, today’s bout of narcolepsy begs the question: Is it possible to be a stay-at-home parent and a full-time (or mostly full-time) freelance writer without being a zombie at least some of the time? My hunch is that the answer is a resounding no. Now I just need to be more careful—and come up with better ways to deal.

Today was no exception. The nanny left at noon, and the baby and I proceeded to spend the next three hours crawling all over the house.

We started downstairs and did the equivalent of the Indy 500 around the living room (we even made one pit stop). Next, we tackled the stairs—seven times in rapid succession (right now, she only goes up; when she reached the top each time, I carried her to the bottom and she started again.

Finally, we went “ferry-chasing” upstairs, as she followed an inflatable (and miniature, of course) Alaska Marine Highway System ferry while I pushed it from one room to the next. (Oh, the things that entertain these babies.)

By 3 p.m., after her marathon crawl, L was so tired she could hardly keep her eyes open. I shushed her for maybe three minutes, then plopped her on the bed next to me. The two of us napped for nearly two hours—we were so out that neither of us woke up when Powergirl came home from work.

It was, quite simply, the best part of my day.

Snoozing with L is like cuddling with the most loving little kitten ever. She’s so warm, so snuggly. She breathes heavily, like purring, and I can feel her tiny breaths on my chin when she’s facing me.

During most naps, she wraps her entire hand around my finger. Today, she fell asleep with her tiny hand on my stubbly cheek.

Don’t get me wrong, napping with a baby can be hard work—I never really fall into a deep sleep because I’m always worried she’ll wake up and somehow scale The Great Wall of Pillows that I erect on the far side of the bed. Still, today, snoozing with my sweetheart made me the happiest Dad on Earth. It was a glorious way to start the week.