IT'S GAME TIME

Dear Spike:

It’s the dead of winter, but you still remember the names of kids you met only briefly on the playground back when the weather was nice. Two months after our trip to Disneyland, you can still recall what rides we went on — and in what order.

You’ve got your numbers down and will proudly sing your ABCs for anyone willing to listen.

You know all the colors. And your command of animal taxonomy would make Carl Linneaus jealous.

“Isn’t that a pretty bird, Spike?”

“Ibis!”

“How about that over there? See that lizard?”

“Skink!”

“Um, that’s a cute monkey…”

“Capuchin!”

You make small talk — in Mandarin — with the folks at the Asian foods market, down the street.

And that little Bugsbunnian reverse-psychology trick we were using on you last week to get you to do things you didn’t want to do? You’ve pretty much turned the tables on us. (And, come to think of it, that may be why your mother and I ended up reading you books tonight a full hour after we told you “no more books, it’s time for bed.”)

I couldn’t be prouder of you, but I’m also feeling a bit panicked.

Because now it’s game time.

It’s not the intellectual curiosity that has me worried — it’s what that sponge-like nature of yours compels of me as I try to teach you to be as decent as you are smart.

I can’t just say “don’t lie,” because you’re watching. And you’re smart, so you’re going to know when I’m not telling the truth.

I can’t just say “be polite,” because you’re listening. And you’re perceptive, so you’re going to know when I’m being rude.

I can’t just say “respect your mother,” because you’re soaking it all in. And you’re sensitive, so you’re going to know when I fail in that regard.

I’m supposed to be teaching you. But in a really big way, you’re teaching me. You’re holding me accountable to the things I ask of you but don’t demand of myself.

You’re making me a better person.

I just hope I can keep up as a father, too.

Love,
dad