Dear Spike,
Now you are 10.
I'm not sure that, when I wrote you for the first time many months before you were born, I could have so much as imagined what this day would feel like.
Pressed to guess, I reckon, I might have said a child's 10th birthday must make her parents feel overwhelmed with a mixture of pride and sadness. With hope and nostalgia. And certainly, most certainly, with some bewilderment over where the last 10 years went.
There's some of that with me today, I suppose. But not much. For I am proud of the woman you are becoming, and I am saddened by the realization that we're likely past the half-way point of the years in which we'll live together. And I am hopeful, for you have given me no reason to feel otherwise about your future. And I am nostalgic, for who is not when a benchmark is reached?
But I'm not feeling any of those things overwhelmingly right now. And I'm not wondering at all where the past 10 years went.
It went on car trips to the West Coast and stroller rides around the park, to soccer and baseball and football games, to banjo music and broken dishes, to New Year's celebrations and Halloween costume making, to first steps and first meals, to tree planting and poker playing and M*A*S*H reruns.
It went to weddings and funerals, to sleepless nights and trips to Disneyland, to times in which we were together and times in which I went away. To silent movies. To outdoor concerts. To splash in fountains and dig in sandboxes. To playing silly games and singing silly songs.
It went to China and Mexico and Canada. To the World Cup Final. To the Grand Canyon and Yosemite and Yellowstone. It collected Young Ranger badge after Young Ranger badge. It went on hikes and climbs and floats. It went by bike and horseback.
It went to swine flu and broken bones and scrapes and scratches and scars. It went on motorcycle rides. It went to school. It went to your grandparents' new home. It went to memorizing the Bill of Rights. It went to learning Chinese. It went snowboarding and snowboarding and snowboarding some more.
It went to ice skating and roller skating. To soccer and indoor soccer and beach soccer and more soccer. To braces and hat tricks and hauls.
It went to watch the sun hide behind the moon. It went to see the ocean. It went on roller-coasters. It threw up a lot.
It went to loss and heartache. It went to new beginnings.
It went to new elections. To understanding that the world is a very, very complicated place. To worry for hurting friends. To hope. To relief.
It went to Star Wars. To Phineas and Ferb. To Psych.
It went to building independence. To making new friends. To big decisions. To changing schools. To our favorite bakery, again and again. To reading books with your mom. To reading books by yourself. To school plays and college lectures. To drawing pad after drawing pad after drawing pad.
It went to us. And it went to you becoming you.
Love,
dad
Now you are 10.
I'm not sure that, when I wrote you for the first time many months before you were born, I could have so much as imagined what this day would feel like.
Pressed to guess, I reckon, I might have said a child's 10th birthday must make her parents feel overwhelmed with a mixture of pride and sadness. With hope and nostalgia. And certainly, most certainly, with some bewilderment over where the last 10 years went.
There's some of that with me today, I suppose. But not much. For I am proud of the woman you are becoming, and I am saddened by the realization that we're likely past the half-way point of the years in which we'll live together. And I am hopeful, for you have given me no reason to feel otherwise about your future. And I am nostalgic, for who is not when a benchmark is reached?
But I'm not feeling any of those things overwhelmingly right now. And I'm not wondering at all where the past 10 years went.
It went on car trips to the West Coast and stroller rides around the park, to soccer and baseball and football games, to banjo music and broken dishes, to New Year's celebrations and Halloween costume making, to first steps and first meals, to tree planting and poker playing and M*A*S*H reruns.
It went to weddings and funerals, to sleepless nights and trips to Disneyland, to times in which we were together and times in which I went away. To silent movies. To outdoor concerts. To splash in fountains and dig in sandboxes. To playing silly games and singing silly songs.
It went to China and Mexico and Canada. To the World Cup Final. To the Grand Canyon and Yosemite and Yellowstone. It collected Young Ranger badge after Young Ranger badge. It went on hikes and climbs and floats. It went by bike and horseback.
It went to swine flu and broken bones and scrapes and scratches and scars. It went on motorcycle rides. It went to school. It went to your grandparents' new home. It went to memorizing the Bill of Rights. It went to learning Chinese. It went snowboarding and snowboarding and snowboarding some more.
It went to ice skating and roller skating. To soccer and indoor soccer and beach soccer and more soccer. To braces and hat tricks and hauls.
It went to watch the sun hide behind the moon. It went to see the ocean. It went on roller-coasters. It threw up a lot.
It went to loss and heartache. It went to new beginnings.
It went to new elections. To understanding that the world is a very, very complicated place. To worry for hurting friends. To hope. To relief.
It went to Star Wars. To Phineas and Ferb. To Psych.
It went to building independence. To making new friends. To big decisions. To changing schools. To our favorite bakery, again and again. To reading books with your mom. To reading books by yourself. To school plays and college lectures. To drawing pad after drawing pad after drawing pad.
It went to us. And it went to you becoming you.
Love,
dad
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