IN MANY YEARS

Dear Spike:

Yesterday was my 30th birthday. We celebrated with a hike up Emmigration Canyon, to a place your mother and I call "Little Korea" for its striking resemblance to the outdoor set from the M*A*S*H movie and television series. You hadn't taken a nap before we left, and got a bit crabby just about a half-mile into the hike. And so, as we walked, your mother and I sang to you one of your favorite lullabies, "I Don't Want to Live on the Moon," and soon you were asleep.

I've been dreading this birthday. Back in my parents' day, they used to say you couldn't trust people over the age of 30. These days, they say 30 is the new 20 — but it still felt 30 to me.

But now the day has come and gone and it really wasn't so bad. I spent a wonderful day with you and your mother. And later we saw our friends Rob and Sue, and Gus and Emily. Emily gave you your first-ever Girl Scout cookie, and like the rest of America, you now appear to be hopelessly addicted. There's heroin in those Thin Mints, of this I am quite confident.

In many ways, being a dad has made me feel my age. I think much more these days about things like health insurance, making smart car purchases and buying healthy food. I drive slower. I drink less. And yes, I groan more.

Yet at the same time I feel much younger than I have in many years. I'm less cynical. I strive to be more kind. And I sing and whistle and dance and play more than I have in a long, long time.

There was a time when you would never have found me walking hand-in-hand with your mother in the mountains, singing as though I was a member of the VonTrapp family, completely unconcerned about whether or not anyone else could hear. But things are different now.

They're better.

And as for 30, I think I'll be OK.

Love,
dad