AND THANK YOU

Dear Spike's Friends:

It's been a while since I last wrote to you, and I've been pretty lousy about checking the comments on Spike's blog, so I just wanted to take this opportunity to thank you all for your kind words, your sage advice and your wonderful support.



Some of you have been reading Spike's letters for more than three years, now. You've laughed with us and cried with us and cheered Spike on, every step of the way, even though many of us have never met.

I can't begin to tell you how fortunate I feel knowing that Spike has developed such a wonderful "cyber family." You're the best, and we love you.



I'm not writing to deliver any big announcement. I promise to keep on putting Spike's letters online so long as you keep coming around to visit.



As you've probably noticed, I've slowed down the pace of my letter-writing over the past year — owing both to my crazy-busy schedule and to the fact that I can now actually have conversations with my beautiful and intelligent daughter. But I plan to keep writing Spike up until she runs off to college — and maybe even after that.



Thanks for reading. And thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for all of your support.

best wishes,
matthew
(spike's dad)

TO OUR LOVE

Dear Spike:

Your mother and I have been married for more than seven years now and although things aren't always perfect, I've never regretted my decision to commit myself to her. She is my hero and my best friend. And I cannot fathom what my life would be like without her.

So it might be strange for you to hear me say that, every now and again, I regret that we got married.

Let me explain.

Today, voters in Maine shot down a law that would have allowed gay couples to marry. In doing so, Maine became the 31st state where voters have decided that the right to marry should be limited to those who look like your mother and I do.

By the time you are old enough to be president, today's vote will be yet another sad footnote in our nation's history. Older Americans, who oppose gay marriage in great numbers, are taking their interpretations of Old Testament scripture to the grave. Younger Americans, those who will be voting for decades to come, simply do not care to mix religion and politics, particularly when it comes to depriving fellow citizens of their rights.

Like segregation and anti-suffrage, this too shall pass.

But today I am sickened. Heartbroken. Angry.

And I am left wondering: What good is marriage?

What good is marriage if it does not represent love?

What good is marriage if it does not represent commitment?

What good is marriage, if it does not represent the will of two people to stand by one another, for richer and for poorer, for better or for worse, forever and ever?

Of course, for most of us — heterosexual and homosexual alike — marriage represents all of those things. Marriage is love and commitment and the will to stand together, through all of life's challenges, because life is too damn hard to stand alone.

But the marriage certificate that your mother and I signed seven years ago? That little slip of paper filed away in a box somewhere in the basement of the Benton County Courthouse in Corvallis, Ore.? That legal testament to our love?

It is meaningless to me. Worthless to me. And perhaps it is fortunate that today we live so far away from the town where we were married, because I feel a burning compulsion to march into that courthouse, demand that piece of paper and tear it up, shred by tiny shred.

Yes, today I regret that we got married. I regret that we felt compelled to ask for a rubber stamp from a government that does not offer that same easy endorsement to anyone who loves the way your mother and I love. I regret that we felt the need to ask permission to love one another from this nation of the people, by the people and for all the jealous, greedy, judgmental people.

I do not regret the way I love your mother. Not one bit.

I do not regret the day I stood, holding her hands and looking into her eyes, and promised to love her, to cherish her, to honor her and to be there for her forever.

I do not regret the dance we danced or the cake we cut or the toasts we made.

Not one bit.

But I'd burn that marriage certificate. By God, I would.

Love,
dad

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ

Dear Spike:

For weeks, you've been telling anyone who would listen:

"I'm going to be a bumble bee for Halloween!"

And so you were. You visited some of our neighbors with a "trick-or-treat, buzz buzz buzz" and claimed enough candy to last you through Christmas.

This morning, when you woke up, you asked if you could go trick-or-treating again. And you didn't seem to understand why Halloween doesn't come around more often.

But we know. The world just can't take this much cuteness more than once a year.

Love,
dad

SMART LITTLE GIRL

Dear Spike:

We went to the teacher's supply store this morning to pick up a box of magnetic letters for the refrigerator door. (Many of the letters we had mysteriously began disappearing as you began using them to spell. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?) After we found a tub of 108 letters — "that's more than four alphabets," I told you — we wandered around the store a bit to see if there was anything else we couldn't live without.

In one corner, there was a rack of small flags from all over the world, and I picked you out a tiny Chinese banner for your room. And so long as we were at it, we asked one of the store attendants if she had a map of China.

"I'm pretty sure we do," she said, leading us to the back of the room, where hundreds of tightly-scrolled maps were waiting in plastic bins. "May I ask why you're interested in China?"

"I'm going to live in China when I grow up," you told her confidently.

The lady took a step back to size you up. "Well, you're going to need a map then," she finally said, handing you the 18-inch roll of paper in a plastic bag.

"Thank you," you said.

"In Chinese," I corrected.

"Xie xie," you said.

"You're teaching her Chinese?" the lady asked.

"Nah, she's teaching us," I replied, explaining about how we'd come to decide to have you learn a language that your mother and I don't know ourselves.

"What else does she know?" the woman asked.

We went over a few of the basics. You told her what colors she was wearing and shared the names of some of your favorite animals.

As we headed up to the front counter, the lady called over some of her co-workers. "Can you tell us some more?" she said.

You obliged.

"She's a pretty smart little girl," another woman, who was ringing us up at the cash register said.

She picked up the box of alphabet letters and read the label. "108 foam letters," she said.

"That's more than four alphabets," you told her.

The woman looked around the room as though she were trying to spot the hidden camera.

"How does she know that?" she asked.

I just kept my mouth shut and shrugged. If people want to think my daughter is the smartest two-year-old in the world, who am I to argue?

Because, for all I know, they could be right.

Love,
dad

WAITED AND WAITED

I'll never forget the day I met disaster.

It was Oct. 17, 1989. The San Francisco Giants and the Oakland Athletics were just about to take the field in Game 3 of the World Series. Your Uncle Mikey and I were in our family's garage, shooting pool, playing darts and listening to the pre-game show on KNBR-AM on my little red-and-black boom box.

And then the world moved. It moved as though God had picked up the planet and was shaking it in anger. It moved as though it were about to break apart into outer space. It moved as I had never felt before and have never felt sense.

The tools hanging on the garage walls shook. A rake fell from its post. Mikey and I dashed out the back door, into the backyard. We wrapped our arms around each other and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

They say it was 15 seconds. It felt like the entire afternoon went by as we waited for the world to stop shaking.

By the time it stopped, I knew: That quake was a killer.

Indeed, 63 people died that day. Thousands more were injured. And I lost the ability to believe that God was always good.

The photos poured over the television. Stomach-churning images of cars crushed between fallen slabs of freeway and people crushed under the fallen facade of an old San Francisco building. Fires raged all night long.

And in the midst of it all, a small miracle: The cities hardest hit by the Earthquake were being represented in one of the biggest contests in all the sporting world. So millions of people who might otherwise have been on the freeways, on the bridges or walking along old city streets, were instead in their homes or packed into bars to watch the game.

So maybe God is good. Or maybe God just has a sick sense of humor.

This was the disaster that stole my innocence. But, of course, it wasn't the last. Or even the worst. Not even close.

A few years later, Los Angeles shook. Seventy four people died. The next year, the bombing of the Oklahoma City Federal Building took 168 lives, including that of one-year-old Baylee Almon, whose lifeless body, cradled in a firefighter's arms, became the iconic image of terror in the heartland.

A year after that, TWA Flight 800 crashed into the Atlantic Ocean. Two hundred and thirty perished.

And then Columbine. And then September 11. And then Columbia. And then Ivan and Katrina and Rita.

15. 2,992. 7. 124. 1,836. 120.

How do I explain this to you? How do I tell you that, even though this world is a very beautiful place, sometimes it shakes? How do I tell you that sometimes it kills? How do I tell you that God is only sometimes good?

On the day I met disaster, your grandfather was at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, getting ready to cover the baseball game. Instead, he spent the evening covering the aftermath of the quake, then drove the long way back to our home across the Bay.

He never told us why it had happened. He just gave us all a big hug and told us that he loved us.

I guess that's all I'll have to offer you on the day you meet disaster. And you will.

Because even though this world is a very beautiful place, sometimes it shakes.

And when it does, I will not waiver. I will not tremble. I will be here to hug you, to hold you, to wipe away your tears.

I will be here. I will wait with you for the world to stop shaking.

And when it does, we will listen for the birds. And we will watch the wind rustle through the leaves of the trees. And we will know that the world is still a beautiful place.

Love,
dad

SAY IT AGAIN

Dear Spike:

You've yet to perfect the pronunciation of the letter 'f,' so when your mother and I asked you where you wanted to go for a hike today, we were having some trouble understanding your answer.

"In the sorest," you said.

"The what?"

"The sorest."

"Um... the source?"

"No, the sorest."

"Can you say it again?"

Finally you grew frustrated and took a long contemplative pause.

"The woods," you finally said. "In the woods."

Even after you perfect your phonemes, there are going to be times in which intellectual, linguistic, social, cultural or technological barriers are going to prevent successful communication with those around you.

There's little in life more important that good communication skills. But faced with the inability to get their point across on the first try, many people just give up.

You, apparently, are not one of those people. And as a result, you're going to have access to a world that few others will.

You're going to see the sorest — and the trees.

Love,
dad

AT THE CENTER

Dear Spike:

Far more people have argued about the Mojave Desert Cross than have actually seen it.

I'm pretty sure I passed it, once, just about 10 years ago, while taking a shortcut from the Marine Corps base at 29 Palms to Las Vegas. But if I noticed the simple, white structure, jutting from the top of a 30-foot rock outcropping, I certainly don't remember it now.

So I would never again have thought of that lonely drive had I not heard, this week, that the U.S. Supreme Court was going to hear arguments about whether the 75-year-old war monument should be torn down in adherence to the principle of separation of church and state.

Turns out folks have been fighting over this for years. Hiring lawyers and filing petitions. Building coalitions and organizing legislation. Fighting and writing and wrything in despair over two pieces of steel pipe, affixed at the center, painted white and planted in the middle of nowhere.

Here's the irony of it all: The people on both sides of this issue are good Christians. The man who filed the original suit asking for the cross to be taken down is a devout Catholic who says he is opposed to the government's exploitation of the most sacred symbol of Jesus Christ's sacrifice. Those who want the cross to remain where it is say they're defending that same sacred symbol against anti-religious zealots who want to destroy all vestiges of God in government.

I wonder if either side has given much thought to the resources that have been squandered in this years-long legal battle. What else could those thousands of hours have done? What else could those millions of dollars have bought? Whose lives could have been bettered — or saved?

How is it possible that neither side has decided to turn the other cheek, as Christ commanded? To give to Caesar what is Caesar's, as Christ commanded? To use what limited resources we have in this world to help those who need it most, as Christ commanded?

There are things in this world worth fighting for. Choose your battles wisely. I often fail in this regard. And so I am in no position to cast any stones — only to offer some advice.

Fight the fights that are worth fightin' — and leave the rest to God.

love,
dad

ON A DATE

Dear Spike:

It was an evening I'll never forget.

I was just finishing up my work for the day when you walked into the room with a suggestion.

"Daddy, you want to go to a movie with me?"

"Watch a movie? Sure, tonight we can do that."

"No," you said resolutely. "Not watch a movie. Go to a movie with me."

I don't know where you got that idea, but I liked it. I liked it a lot. I hopped online to see what was playing — and was pleased to see that Hayao Miyazaki's latest film, "Ponyo," was playing at the small theater just down the street from our home.

An idea began to take shape.

"Would you like to go on a date with me?" I asked.

"Yes please!" you replied.

And our adventure began.

First, we decided, we needed to dress up.

You chose your brown velvet dress, silver beaded necklace and cranberry shoes.

"You look fancy," I said.

"Thank you," you relied.

I put on a suit, my panda bear tie and a fedora.

"You look dapper," you told me.

"Thank you," I replied.

And with that, we set out on our date.

Our first stop was the candy store. You chose a pineapple chocolate and I picked out a mint. As usual, the lady behind the counter let you choose a sucker from the box.

"Yellow!" you decided.

Then we went to the coffee shop for a pre-movie drink. You got a banana-chocolate mlk with whipped cream.

And then we headed next door, bought our tickets, and walked into the nearly empty theater to watch our show.

You loved it. I was just confused. And by the end, we were both hungry — so we walked across the street to get some Lebanese food.

We ordered a sampler platter and a orange blossom limeaid and chatted about the film. After you had explained it to me, I wasn't so confused anymore.

When we were done, you asked for the bill.

"Check please!" you said when the waitress came near.

She brought it to you and then stood there waiting to see what you'd do with it.

"Here you go, daddy," you finally said, handing me the bill.

I'd been hoping to go Dutch, but I really didn't mind paying for such great company. I signed the bill and lifted you from your seat. And when we walked out, I took note of all the other tables and was proud to recognize that I had the prettiest date of anyone in the room.

We walked home together, hand-in-hand.

And I was the happiest guy in the world.

Love,
dad

ARE YOU CRYING?

Dear Spike:

Me: Why are you crying?

You: Because I'm sad.

Me: Why are you sad?

You: Because I'm unhappy.

Me: Um, OK. Why are you unhappy?

You: Because I'm sad.

Love,
dad

DO NOT WHINE

Dear Spike:

It was a bit of a rough day today — well, OK, it was a really rough day. You couldn't seem to stop whining — even when there was nothing in particular to whine about.

We have a no whining rule in our home — and you know it — so you spent a lot of time in the time-out corner. That, of course, just seemed to make you whine more.

You wanted to watch movies, to play in our bed, to have a tea party. All of these things are treats, though, for little girls on their best behavior — so I had to say no. And that, of course, just seemed to make you whine more.

Some folks might find our way of parenting a bit absurd. We don't spend a lot of time telling you what not to do. And unless you look like you're going to be badly injured — say, by running out in the middle of traffic — I don't stand in the way of your bumps and bruises.

Most of the time, when you do something wrong, nature punishes you.

When She's busy, I'm here. And I don't give you a whole lot of second chances. When you do something wrong, I address it and punish it immediately. That way there's no doubt about what I expect of you.

But today was tough. There was obviously something wrong - something I couldn't identify. But rules are rules. So if you're not hurt or sick, you're not aloud to whine.

"Dogs whine," I've told you, again and a again. "Little girls do not whine."

Sometimes it's tough to stick to your guns. Not only because it's simply no fun to punish the person you love more than anything in the world, but because it's just plain hard work. And sometimes — like today — it doesn't seem to work.

But rules are rules.

Let's hope tomorrow is a better day.

For the both of us.

Love,
dad