KIND OF MAGIC

Dear Spike:

When you were only a few days old, I discovered that I had a special power over you. When you would scream and cry — and indeed, this was common for you — I would hold your little body close to my face and tell you, "It's all right. You're OK. I love you. I love you so much." And soon, you would be out.

Later we discovered that banjo music — Earl Scruggs, in particular — has a special effect on you. And when you were inconsolable, we'd let Earl sooth you to sleep with his Foggy Mountain Breakdown.

Lately, though, old Earl and I just haven't had what it takes. You're going through a mama's girl stage — at least, I think it's a stage — where all you want, when you're tired and crabby, is your mother.

"Mamamama Mama Mama" you cry.

I imagine this is what professional basketball players feel like when they can no longer sink a 20-foot jumpshot or what door-to-door salesmen feel like when they realize they can no longer count on always making a sale or what old politicians feel like when they realize that they're just not as good at rounding up the votes like they once were. It's tough to realize that you no longer have a special kind of magic that you once had.

At least for the moment, nothing in my bag of tricks seems to work. So all I can do, when it's my turn to put you down, is to hold you and rock you and sing to you and let you scream, scream, scream yourself to sleep.

I can't imagine it's much fun for your mother to have to sit through it, knowing that she has the magic to soothe your screams, but we both know that it's best for you, and for us, if you learn that you can't always have everything — or everyone — you want, even when you're throwing a fit to get it.

These are tough lessons, but I suppose that's life.

I hope I find the magic soon, though, for I do so hate to hear you cry.

Love,
dad