Instead of taking up some issue or theme, today I'm going to sit back, relax, and chronicle the aimless pleasures of a still-new dad hanging with his two-year-old girl on the first warm day of spring.

It begins with one of those funny nonsense conversations one has so often with a toddler. Larkin and I are at the kitchen window, and she's standing on the sill, watching the morning sun navigate trees and rooftops. I stand behind, lightly bracing her. "Dada," she says, "get away from my window!"

"Your window?" I say. "Actually, it's my window."

"No actually it's mine."

"Actually, it's mine."

"No actually, it's mine." This will go on and on, Monty-Python style, till one of us finally caves in. Today it's Larkin. "Dada and Larkin both have windows," she says, calling a truce.

With that settled, at 9 a.m. we walk over to a neighborhood salon called Fashion Flair. Larkin is way overdue for a trim; her hair hangs in her eyes, and when she plays on the couch it goes crazy with static electricity, so that her head resembles a giant dandelion. "My haaaaiiirrr!" she shrieks — barely two, and already having bad hair days. At the salon she sucks a lollipop as the friendly Sophie snips away at her blond bangs. Haircuts are borderline traumatic, and I try to keep Larkin distracted. "Tell Sophie where Mommy works," I tell her.

"In the school," she says.

"What does she do at school?"

"Plays like a teacher."

"And where does Daddy work?"

"In the TV room," she says, and Sophie laughs — aha, so we finally learn the truth about the writer!

The haircut finished, we drive to the library for an hour of reading and romping in the children's room, then head outside to loiter in the town square. Larkin finds the newly-planted sapling where she plays a favorite game, holding on with one hand while revolving in speedy orbits, as I sing a made-up song:

Round and round, round and round,
This little girl goes round and round.
The tree grows up, the tree grows down
But the little girl just goes round and round!

After five minutes she's dizzy, staggering wildly, and I have to tear her away.

At home, it's lunch and her nap, and I cram some work in (no, not in the TV room!). Then we go back outside. The day has grown warm and lovely, pastel blue sky, buds and blossoms everywhere, birds chattering. "I chase you, squirrel!" Larkin yells, jolting across the lawn in her jerky, lumbering gait. She returns, pushing her plastic shopping cart. "I bringing you some groceries, Dada. We have a delicious picnic!"

She unloads the groceries — twigs, leaves and a rock — then brushes her hands clean. "Lets go sploring," she says, and heads over into the yard of our neighbors, Sara and Abel, an elderly couple who live with their son, David.

"Sploring" consists of Larkin tromping around while calling out "What's this, Dada?" and "Look at this, Dada!" There's plenty to explore in the Tangarones' yard. The pile of gigantic slate slabs, culled from a sidewalk repair. The little blue fishing dory resting upside-down on its trailer. The cluster of tall pines, beneath which Larkin finds an enormous pine cone, almost the size of a lobster. It's big, she says, turning it over carefully.

Nearby stands a doghouse, long unused. Larkin squats and peers in.

"Where the doggie go, Dada?" She has a lot of questions these days, and they're not always easy to answer. I sigh, remembering Dave's beloved German shepherd, Schatzie.

"He died," I say. "He got sick, and he died."

"That's sad."

"Yes, it is. David was very sad. He misses his dog."

"The doggie died, and the people cry wa-haaa!" She feigns a piteous wail.

After a while Sara and Abel come out to join us. Larkin gives them a tour of their own yard, leading them around the far side of the garage to a narrow passage along the next neighbors' fence. "I haven't been back here in years," Sara chuckles, picking her way among tree roots and cinder blocks.

We chat for a while, and eventually I notice Larkin hiding behind the fishing boat, standing stock still. The telltale sign. "Do you have a dipe?" I ask.

"No," she insists, "I'm clean." But I know otherwise, so we say our goodbyes and head home. Upstairs she twists free and races down the hallway toward my office. "Hey," I say, "don't we have a dipe to change?"

"I gotta check my messages," she calls, and slams the door.

It's hilarious, living with a toddler — the daily unveiling of new words and expressions; the crazy attitudes. When Larkin demands the afternoon's third reading of Angelina's Birthday, and I try to set a limit ("Just one more time, OK?"), she practically rolls her eyes. "Yes, Dada," she answers, "whatever you say." Where did that come from? Then there's her adamant vow as she traipses through the Fashion Flair, convinced there's another lollipop for her somewhere, even though we've told her (untruthfully) that they're all gone.

"I search everywhere!" she shouts.

But some of my favorite moments are the very quiet ones. At the end of our day together, I am carrying her into her room to put her to bed when I hear an excited intake of breath. "Look Dada!" she says. "Look at the star!"

She points toward the window, blocked by a room-darkening blind. At 7 p.m. on the first warm day of spring, it's still light outside — light enough for a tiny pinprick hole in the blind, one I've never noticed before, to create a perceptible twinkle. "It's a beautiful star," Larkin says in a hushed voice.

"It is," I say. I ask myself: Does she think it's real? That's hard to know. To a toddler, exploration and imagination are one and the same; and I kiss my daughter good night, feeling a thrill of gratitude, and the loveliness of being present in a child's unfolding sense of wonder.