FOR THREE YEARS

Dear Spike:

Three years ago this evening, your mother and I were cuddled together on the couch, watching Chevy Chase, Steve Martin and Martin Short in The Three Amigos in a desperate, yet ultimately futile, attempt not to think about what was ahead.

Nine months of pregnancy had come and gone. Her contractions were getting stronger and stronger.

You were on the way.

Here's what I wrote to you as we awaited the point in which your mother's contractions were close enough to warrant driving to the hospital:

There’s no feeling like this in the world. It’s Christmas Eve mixed with the top of Disney’s Matterhorn. A little bit of the pre-soccer game jitters. A little of the apprehension I had the first time I went to war. Airplane turbulence. Raging hunger. Communion prayer. It’s they way I felt when I stared into your mother’s eyes the night we were married. It’s the way I felt when we kissed behind the curtains at the reception the night before. It’s a little bit of staring out over the ocean. It’s a little bit of standing on the side of a cliff.

A few hours later, you were born — all four pounds, nine ounces of you. And I waited for all of those feelings to go away.

And I waited.

And I waited.

It's been three years, now, and I still feel the same way I did on that day. Every time I look at you. Every time I think of you.

I've had my share of adventures. More than most, I'd be willing to bet. I've been shot at by insurgents, Tasered by police officers and threatened by murderers. I've stood toe-to-toe with presidents, generals, astronauts and elephants. I've climbed mountains, jumped out of airplanes, landed on aircraft carriers and rode horseback ahead of madly charging buffalo.

But nothing compares to the adventure that began three years ago this evening. Nothing compares to you.

For three years you have enlightened me, entertained me and challenge me. For three years you've exceeded every lofty expectation I've ever had of you. For three years, you've demanded that I exceed the meager expectations I have of myself.

Some people ask: Where does the time go? But I don't feel that way. The past three years have been the best of my life — and I've known it. Every passing moment, I've known that I'm experiencing the best moments of my life. And when you know something like that, you savor it. You chew on it. You ponder it.

This evening, before you went to bed, you hugged me for the last time that you'll hug me as a two year old. And I swear that hug lasted forever.

No, there's no feeling like this in the world.

Happy birthday.

I love you.

More than anything.

love,
dad