Dear Spike, Love Dad

YOU ARE FIVE

2012-05-27T08:26:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:
Five years ago, at this very moment, I was in the newborn intensive care unit, waiting to hold you for the first time.
Now you are five. Still tiny. Still tough.
And still loved. Unconditionally. Always.
Love,
dad

A RIVALRY IS

2012-05-18T15:12:00.001-06:00

Dear Spike:

I’m a Beaver. Damn proud of that.

But Oregon State University wasn’t my first choice of schools. When the Navy told me, mid-way into my enlistment, that I could choose to attend virtually any school in the United States that has an ROTC program — tuition free — I first sought enrollment close to my parent’s home in the San Francisco Bay Area.

But after I applied for admission at my first choice, the Navy decided that its program at the University of California at Berkeley was too full and asked me to choose another school.

The University of San Diego?

Nope, the ROTC program there was also full.

I was a bit discouraged, and asked what university was actually open. That’s how I ended up at Oregon State.

I’m so glad I did. That’s where I learned to be a journalist. It’s where I grew the intellectual and ethical foundations that led me away from military service. And most importantly, it’s where I fell in love with your mother.

My time at Oregon State also coincided with a historic shift in the school’s football fortunes. After a record-setting 28 straight losing seasons, the team earned its first winning record in 1999 and then, in 2000, finished 1^st place in the league for the first time since 1964. That same year, the Beavers beat Notre Dame in the Fiesta Bowl, 41-9, in a clobbering I was fortunate to witness first-hand.

The Beavers have generally been a middle-of-the-pack team ever since. And that smarts, given the recent fortunes of the rival team to the south — beneficiaries of an enormous inheritance from a shoe-making sugar daddy whose money has secured a dynasty of sporting success for his alma mater.

Ooooh, they make me so mad.

But I was at said school, this week, to receive an award honoring the work I did last year in Ethiopia. While I was there, I visited the newsroom of The Emerald, the university’s storied student newspaper. And that got me thinking about what a rivalry is, and — at its best — what it should be.

Oregon State doesn’t have a journalism program. So when I attended that school, the staff of its student paper, The Daily Barometer, was a motley crew of English, history, political science and other majors who simply had a passion for journalism. We also had a hunger to prove that we were just as good as the students from that other school. That was part of what drove us to work as hard as we did. It’s what drove a big part of my success and the successes of my friends, too. And for that, I suppose, I really must appreciate the great work being done in the Department of Journalism and Communication at that other school.

That’s what good rivalry does. It makes people work harder and get better.

So while I might gripe about the shoemaker and his personal sports kingdom, I also accept that his largesse is likely helping my alma mater get better, too. (He’s actually given rather generously to Oregon State, too.)

Fair enough. Let the competition continue.

But this is not a free market metaphor, because there comes a point in which the decks are stacked so far apart that competition doesn’t work to make competitors better. And you might see this, in time, if the recently divergent fortunes of these rivals continue long into the future.

Ultimately, when that happens, people stop believing in the spirit of competition. They stop believing in the fairness of the situation. They stop being rivals.

I want you to work hard. I want you to be smart and tough and tenacious in everything you do. I want you to be industrious.

Like…

… well …

… a beaver.

And when you are successful — and I know you will be successful — I want you to be proud of your success. But never forget that your success is just as much a product of things outside your control.

Accept that. Be appreciative of that. And consider the obligations it entails to everyone.

Even to your rivals.

Love,

dad

MIND YOUR PARENTS

2012-05-07T21:11:00.000-06:00

Dear Spike:

Frankly, I’m glad I missed it — for it was, by your mother’s account, the worst behavior she’s ever seen from you.

A little context before I get into the details: You’re a really good kid. You are polite, courteous, generous and kind. You mind your parents.

At least in part, we like to think, that’s because we try very hard to address misbehavior quickly and sternly. When you do something wrong, we identify it, correct it and, where appropriate, punish you for it. Finally, we ask you to account for what you did and why it was wrong.

As such, we don’t have to punish you very often.

But this week, we had to throw the book at you.

Here’s why: You mother last week invited you to the thrift store and, while there, suggested that you might find a small treasure to take home. But nothing struck your fancy and, despite your mother’s prodding, you failed to find anything that you wanted. And ultimately, you just ran out of time.

But when your mother tried to take you by the hand to lead you from the store, you refused to budge.

Someday, maybe when you’re in high school or college, there may be an issue — racism, sexism, classism or some other “ism” that ills this world —of which you feel significantly passionate that you might choose to stage a sit in.

Not being able to find a second-hand treasure at a thrift store is not one of those issues. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. It’s selfish. It’s greedy. It’s spoiled rotten. And that’s just not you.

You cried. You screamed. You flailed.

In re-telling this story, we’ve found, there are plenty of people who have said, “well, she is four years old, after all.”

It’s true, you are four. And that means that we expect that you will approach certain situations more emotionally (and sometimes irrationally) than you will when you are older. But a public tantrum is wrong at any age. And today you’ve been reminded of that.

The week before the fit, you had been pleading with us to purchase a duck to join the chickens on our growing urban farm, and we had been considering it.

That ain’t happening now.

We took away many of your favorite stuffed friends. We took away your computer and television privileges. We took away sweets.

Frankly, you still live a pretty charmed life. But it was a little less enchanted this week, and that seems to have driven the point home.

Little by little, you’ve earned your privileges back. Today, the slate is wiped clean.

But do it again, little one, and we’ll not only throw the book at you.

We’ll throw the whole damn library.

Love,

Dad

I SHOULD SHARE

2012-04-09T23:36:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike,

It’s been a while since I’ve written you — and I’m sorry about that. When you read these letters, someday, you might wonder what happened over the past few months.

Let me start by telling you what hasn’t happened: I haven’t stopped loving you. I haven’t grown disinterested in you. I haven’t grown disinterested in sharing with you the best advice I possibly can give to help you grow into a smart, brave, tough, savvy and kind person.

And no, I haven’t forgotten how to write, either.

I have been blessed with a little girl who, at just four years old, can understand things in ways well beyond her years. You understand subtlety, humor, cause and effect, direct and indirect consequences and even irony — and, quite importantly I think, compassion.

In short, it’s becoming rather rare that I have anything to write to you that I cannot simply tell you. But the details of what’s happening in our family’s life right now are still important. And since you’re still not old enough that you will remember most of these events and experiences, I should share them with you.

Admittedly, I’ve also been busier over the past few months than I have been at any time since you were born. Not even when I was a full-time student, a full-time journalist and your stay-at-home daddy was I as constantly occupied (and often pre-occupied) as I am today.

That’s tough in some ways, but in most ways it has been very good for all of us. The most important thing that you should know is that you and I still spend a lot of time together. During the winter recreation season, which appears to be coming to a close this week, we snowboarded together at least once a week. (More on this, I think, in another letter — but it suffices to say that you shred the pow like no other four-year-old on the mountain.) We still do breakfast together several days a week (including, still quite regularly, at our favorite haunt, The Park Café.) I regularly drop you off at school and pick you up a few hours later. When the weather cooperates, we play an imagination game called “Pick the Fruit.” I am coaching your soccer team and we stay for a few minutes extra, after your teammates have gone home, to continue practicing together. Your mother joins us at every Real Salt Lake home game and, on the weekends, our family regularly makes it a point to visit Liberty Park, the Hogle Zoo, The Tracy Aviary, Red Butte Gardens or the Utah Museum of Natural History. Sometimes we visit the symphony. We also love the library.

And sometimes, I admit, we just curl up together under a good blanket on our comfy couch and watch a movie. Your favorites, as of late, are Winnie the Pooh, The Muppets and The Wizard of Oz. (We’ve set aside the Star Wars movies, for now, after I finally accepted that years of exposure, nostalgia and simple stupidity had left me completely numb to how very violent that series is. (“Here, let me slice off your hand with this laser sword, and oh, by the way, I’m your dad.”) It took your very understandable paranoia around our toy lightsabers (and your mother’s admonition for me to wake up and smell the blue milk) for me to realize that you might not quite be ready for Star Wars yet. Sometimes I can be quite a half-witted nerf-herder.

I’m sorry. Where were we? Oh yes — I’ve been a bit busy.

As it turns out, I’m no less obsessed with being a good teacher as I was with being a good journalist. And as it turns out, it’s been hard to separate myself from my obsession with being a good journalist, so I keep taking on freelance projects. And that little side-job I was doing for the dropout recovery group in Salt Lake City? That’s turned into a nearly full-time gig (and I’m very proud of the work we’re doing, turning dropouts into diploma holders.) And in my spare time, I’ve been trying to run a little community news organization. And in the time that is left, I’ve been trying hard to be a good husband to your mother by taking her on dates and staying up late to watch adult movies…

… wait, no, that’s not what I mean…

… I just mean movies for adults — as opposed to films about stuffed bears, big puppets and fantasy lands located somewhere over the rainbow.

But in truth, it’s your mother who has probably gotten the shortest end of the stick. And she never complains about it. If I’ve got five minutes to spare in my day, she’d prefer I spend those with you or together with our whole family. She’s taken on more work around our home so that I can manage several jobs. Someday I’ll think of someway to repay her for what she does for us. You should too.

You meanwhile, are growing in all sorts of amazing ways. You’ve always been a reflection of your mother and I — and in many ways you always will be. But since beginning school, last fall, you’ve also begun to develop a personality and identity that is an amalgamation of your parents, your teachers, your classmates and your own unique characteristics.

It’s not always pretty. You’ve become a bit whinier. A bit pickier. A bit stingier. You’ve become a bit less brave and a bit more prone to screaming.

Just screaming. Over nothing.

Still, your mother and I marvel at the rarity of the moments that you give us grief. And set against the majority of times in which you simply impress the hell out of us, it’s hardly a trifle. (Nonetheless, it is our job to prevent trifles from becoming more than trifles, so we’re working with you to unlearn some of what you’ve learned.)

And yet, all these other wonderful things that you're learning are just, so...

...

... wow.

Perhaps the most exciting recent development in your life is an insatiable desire to read. You’ve always liked books — but mostly for pictures and for us to read to you. We’ve forced you to practice actually reading the words yourself, and it’s always been something of a chore.

Until just a few weeks ago.

Then: An explosion. Suddenly, it seems, everything just clicked. You read and you read and you just won't stop. Pages and pages. Chapters and chapters.

Just for fun, when it all began, I took out a copy of A Tale of Two Cities.

“It was the best of times,” you read. “It was the worst of times.”

Magnificent.

We’ll get to the rest of the words in that book in due time. Meanwhile, there are marvelous stories about Frog and Toad, Stuart Little and James and the Giant Peach.

You can read those stories now. And, in due time, these letters.

Which gets me to thinking…

…

… maybe I should write more.

Love,

dad

ME WITH YOU

2012-02-10T21:56:00.003-07:00

Dear Spike,

It wasn’t one of my better parenting moments.

You weren’t yet three years old, but you were determined to learn how to snowboard like your daddy. And for weeks ahead of time, that’s all you could talk about.

People who know more about these things than I do say that you’re supposed to start little rippers out on skis. But having never been on two planks before, I wasn’t in any position to teach you — and we couldn’t really afford to pay for lessons —so I figured we’d just find a tiny little board and play it by ear.

We headed up the mountain, I bought a pass (little ones ski free) and we climbed up the stairs to the rental shop.

When we got there, the guys behind the counter looked more than a little disapproving.

“You should really start her on skis, dude.”

“I don’t know how to ski, so…”

“We’ve got lessons.”

“Yeah, we’d just like the gear, but thanks…”

“She’s really not big enough to control a snowboard.”

“But that’s what she wants to do, and I’m going to help her do it.”

I looked down at you. You looked back and nodded. To me, that was enough.

They had a tiny board, and though the boots were a bit big for you, with a few extra pairs of socks we made them a little more snug.

“OK,” I said. “Now all we need is a helmet.”

The guy behind the counter slid over a little black skull-protector.

But when I went to put it on your head, you screamed.

That was, of course, exactly the moment I should have disengaged.

And that was, of course, not what I did.

I begged. I pleaded. I cajoled. I corrected. All the while you were crying. “I’m scared to put it on,” you sobbed. “I’m too scared.”

I could feel the dudes behind the counter looking over at me, shaking their heads in disgust. But screw’em, I thought. They didn’t know how much you’d been looking forward to this. But getting that helmet on your head was no longer about helping you meet that goal – it was about proving them wrong.

And that, of course, was wrong of me.

But try as I might, I couldn’t get you to consent to wearing the helmet.

Still, I’d backed my ego into a corner. I walked out of the rental shop defiantly, holding a screaming two-year-old in my arms, fully aware that I must have looked like the shining example of a bad ski dad.

I took you up to the lodge, bought some hot chocolate and began to negotiate. You wanted to snowboard, but for reasons I still don’t understand, you were scared of the helmet.

I ended up spending the next couple hour pulling you in circles around the lodge. We took a picture. Then we headed back up the stairs to turn in your gear.

“And how did it go?” the rental guy smirked.

“It went great,” I lied. “She was fantastic.”

Truth is that he probably couldn’t have cared less. Whatever. I just wanted to be right.

That was in the spring of 2010. By the time winter had come ‘round again the following year you had recrafted a memory of that day that doesn’t quite match mine. In your version of events, you were “a really, really, really, really good snowboarder.” And when the first snow hit, it seemed that all you could talk about was “going back to the slopes.”

But I’d learned my lesson. And we took things nice and easy. I bought you your very own helmet and we worked together to decorate it with stickers. When it came time to put it on there was no problem.

We probably spent a half-dozen days together at Brighton last year. Most of the time, we did one or two runs on the bunny slopes and called it a day. (It’s good to live close to the mountains!) We bought a harness and a leash so that I could help you stay up without breaking my back.

And now you are four — still, I’m told, too young to snowboard.

Except for one thing.

You shred.

You’ve actually been shredding for a while now — but you get nervous whenever I talk about taking off the harness — so even though I usually just hold the leash with a lot of slack, I do keep holding it.

Then, a few weeks ago, I caught an edge and dumped over. I didn’t want to pull you down, so I let go.

And you just took off.

I caught up a few hundred yards later, grabbed the leash and you were none the wiser.

But it was clear you were ready. When we got to the bottom of the hill, I told you what had happened.

Last week, we tried out a few very short sprints without the harness and leash.

And today, we headed up the Majestic Lift on a glorious “Lilac Day” (that’s what you’ve taken to calling unseasonably warm winter days.)

“OK,” I said. “You’re ready to go the whole way without your leash.”

I expected some pushback. Maybe some tears. Instead you just wiggled your hips toward the slope.

And away you went.

I could hardly keep up.

“I’m doing it!” you screamed. “I’m doing it all by myself.”

And you were. But in every turn you made, in every wobble you pushed through, in every hockey stop you came to, I felt a lot of pride in you – and a little bit of pride in me.

You’re doing it yourself — but you were taking a bit of me with you.

I suppose that’s what parenting is all about. And, of course, that’s the trick — giving more good than bad. And, if we do it right, giving much, much more good than bad. There have been times during our adventures on the slopes where you have probably learned some things from me that you’d be better without.

Ego and stubbornness, for example.

I think, though, that you’ve also learned a bit about the value of patience, of bravery and of pushing yourself to do things even though some people might tell you that those things can’t be done.

Come to think of it, maybe that’s just another way of seeing ego and stubbornness.

I suppose the trick isn’t just learning the good things from your parents — it’s learning how to make good out of the things you learn.

When we got to the bottom of the mountain, I tackled you, butted my helmet against yours and kissed your cheek.

“You did good,” I said. “You did so good.”

Love,

dad

THE GREAT WALL

2012-01-05T21:02:00.000-07:00

Dear Spike:

There are many wonders in this world. But the one of which you’ve been most acquainted — ever since you began to study Mandarin — is the Great Wall of China.

It’s in your books. It’s in your movies. It’s in some of the songs that you sing and many of the stories you’ve been told.

And today, it was under your feet.

I circumnavigated the globe for the first time when I was just 19 years old. I’ve visited enormous castles, ancient cities and mountaintop civilizations. I’ve flown alongside fighter pilots and floated through the air in zero gravity. I’ve ridden horseback through a herd of stampeding buffalo. I’ve been to war.

I’m not awestruck by many things.

But this was a special experience for me. When I was a young boy I learned about the Great Wall and marveled at the idea of a barrier that stretched across an entire nation. And the very idea that this incredible edifice was built without the tools and technology we have in the modern world was simply mind-boggling.

It still is.

But today I saw it and touched it. And that alone would have been enough.

But I got to do it with you and your mother. And as I watched you hike those steep, uneven steps — thrilled by where you were and what you were doing — I realized that the adventures I’ve had might likely be eclipsed by the adventures you will have.

And that left me even more awestruck than I was before.

Love,

Dad

P.S. — Your grandfather visited the wall in 1996 when the Major League Soccer team for which he was working made a trek to China to play some exhibition matches. When he returned, he brought your grandmother a blue and white quilt with stitched-on pandas. Your mother loves that quilt — but your grandparents wouldn’t part ways with it. We thought we’d find something similar when we ducked into a few gift shops near the wall, but we were astounded to find — 16 years later — the exact same pattern of quilt. We purchased the last one in the shop (and another, with dragons and other exotic creatures, for you.)

IN TIANANMEN SQUARE

2012-01-03T20:59:00.000-07:00

Dear Spike:

We couldn’t be more proud.

Just minutes into our flight from San Francisco to Beijing, you were making small talk with one of the flight attendants.

“Do you live in China?” she asked you mother and I after you ordered some apple juice in Mandarin.

Then today, outside the Temple of Heaven, a young man complimented your accent. And later, with riding in the back of a pedal cart, you sang songs along with the driver.

Awesome.

But while we’re proud of your developing language skills — and excited by the way your eyes lit up today as you realized how valuable your second language can be — the biggest compliments you received today had nothing to do with your ability to shoot the breeze in Chinese.

“Doc,” a former Army medic who is one of our fellow travelers on this tour, said it best: “You were better behaved than most of the adults on this tour,” he told you on the bus ride back to our hotel after a 12-hour day in freezing temperatures and biting winds that started in Tiananmen Square, weaved through the Forbidden City, featured a visit to the Heavenly Temple and a tour of a silk factory.

He wasn’t kidding. You were.

Love,

Dad

THE PAST YEAR

2011-12-31T16:11:00.003-07:00

Dear Spike:

I'm not quite sure when or why I did it, but at some point I began posting all of my Facebook status updates in haiku form. I like the brevity, simplicity and the self-indulgent quirkiness of it. And I suppose I just figured that if something takes more than 17 syllables to explain, it probably isn't something that needs to be shared with everyone I've ever known.

Over the course of the past year, I’ve written more than 200 of the little ditties. This morning I gathered them all up as a way to take stock of the past year, and I noticed a few themes that I thought were interesting.

First, it’s clear that I spend a lot of time worrying about Oregon State University’s football team and the Real Salt Lake soccer team. Second, our family apparently spends a ton of time with our friends Chris and Ashley; many of my tiny poems were about them. Third, I think about you a lot — you are mentioned quite a bit in this collection. Fourth, I spend a lot of time thinking about work — both writing and teaching. And fifth, you seem to be a little bit of a racist — there are several posts in there about how you apparently think all black people look alike and all Asian people should speak Chinese…

… um, we’re working on that.

The collection of haikus also gives me a good glimpse of many of the ways that made this year so special. And it was very special, indeed.

It was the year that I left full-time newspapering and you and I broke off our daddy daycare arrangement so that I could begin teaching full-time and you could go to pre-school. You fell hopelessly addicted to snowboarding. I went off to Ethiopia with my good friend and colleague, Rick, to report on ritual tribal infanticide. We traveled to Wyoming to watch the National High School Finals Rodeo (and you and your mom kept going — all the way to South Dakota — to visit Mount Rushmore.) The Afghanistan War entered its 10^th year. The Iraq War ended. Our whole family got toy light sabers (seriously, that was a big deal.)

All in all, it wasn’t a bad year.

And we’re getting off to a pretty good start on the new one. We’ll spend the next week in Beijing, hiking the Great Wall, touring the Forbidden City and eating all sorts of wonderful things.

Ready?

San…

Er….

Yi …

Happy New Year!

Love,

dad

Resolved: A year of

life, love and laughter with my

friends and family.

First e-mail addressed

to "Professor LaPlante." This

is hilarious!

First class has come and

gone. I'm still alive. So are

all of my students.

Funny watching snobs

Find out their Sundance choices

Are sold out. Sorry!

Thank you, Auburn, for

saving me from a lifetime

of humility.

Wow, it's true: Teachers

get paid peanuts. Good news is

that I'm used to that.

Lawyer up cowboy

There's a new copyrightin'

sheriff in this town.

Um, 'I' before 'E'

except after RNC

and the GOP?

Dinner, movie with

a woman who is not my

wife. How scandalous!

It's not enough to

spoil my daughter as I

juggle all my jobs.

Trying to capture

the problems of Sudan in

one concise column.

She fell in the snow.

Got back up and shredded some

More. That is my girl.

Benchmark! Spike and I

Ordered our entire lunch

In Mandarin. Yum!

"hey man," the student

writes. "Y didnt i get full

points." Gee, let me think.

Just saw "page one" at

Sundance. I'm not comforted

And not afflicted.

A late night, early

Morning with my college pals.

Flashback: OSU.

Sundance: "Pariah"

Absolutely amazing.

Touching. Beautiful.

Really, people of

Sundance: you are just not that

important. OK?

3 degrees out, but

no complaints here. Alaska

buddies would mock me.

Sorry about the

Cryptic Facebook update, but:

I think that went well.

Spike: "Are you ready

for some football? Yeah? Me too.

Boo-yah!" Kick ass kid.

Army leader says

he would rather not invade

Mexico. Ya think?

Class today was great.

Experiential learning

Is so rewarding.

Too-good-to-fire

Sloan, finally out. Making

room for something great?

Missing my girls this

Week. I can't wait to be home.

See you Wednesday.

Didn't play one hand

in Vegas. But going home

early, so I win!

Awesome news tonight:

My friend Bill is moving to

Green Street. Party! Yeah!

Wi-fi, indoor play

area, fruit and oatmeal

Mickey D's. Who knew?

Happy birthday dear

Heidi happy birthday to

you-oooo-ooo-ooo-oooo

Like a mad viking

sailing over the the end of

the world. Laugh like that

Hey Dave. Comfy in

The owner's box? Come down here

And take some tickets.

Ch-ch-ch-changes:

Just accepted a teaching

gig at Utah State.

"Professor" makes me

cringe, but feeling ready to

make this transition.

Proud and grateful for

the opportunities I've

been given lately.

Go Real Salt Lake

Go-oh-oh Real Salt Lake

Go Real Salt Lake!

Couldn't believe this

guy. Who the hell put him in

charge of marketing?

Blood, fire and... bras?

Are miracles in the eye

of the beholder?

Neue, which published one

of my Cuba pieces is

now archived online.

Seeking a buyer

for infanticide piece. Your

suggestions welcome.

We told Spike today

about preschool. She jumped. I

cried. Gonna miss her.

"You care about me"

revelations from two kids

in class this week. Win.

Super performance

by Real Salt Lake. 4-1

over Becks, L.A.

Powder. Pure as coke.

And yes, every little bit

as addictive. Sweet

Lost breadmaker part

was in the top of the bag

in top of the can!

Olave is a

Monster! Real Salt Lake scores

in Costa Rica!

Spike went with me. So

sweet when she told those old men:

"thanks for your service."

Congress, White House: Wake

up. These are the lives you're so

blithely screwing with.

I love you, Phillip

Morris: One of the sweetest,

saddest films I've seen.

Just got locked out of

The New York Times for the first time.

Pay? Nope, not this month.

Turbotax tells me

we owe a bundle. We've been

very blessed this year.

While doing taxes

today realized my last raise

was back in '05.

Realizing that my

students come with some pretty

hefty baggage. Yikes.

Sent monster check to

IRS. Don't mind; just wish

G.E. paid its share.

Broke all of my food

rules last night. It was great, but

paying for it now.

Tribune to LaPlante:

Don't let the door hit you on

the way out. Classy.

Oh. My. God. Real

Salt Lake is in great shape for

Next Wednesday. Woooo!

Sad to learn of the

death of Tim Hetherington.

Comrade and great bloke.

A little comfort

For the afflicted. My last

Sunday in The Trib.

Leaving Brighton with

Spike the super shredder. What

An awesome season.

So excited to

See these lovely crazies here

In Salt Lake City

And this might very

well be the last story I

write for The Tribune.

An all-nighter? Yup.

It's grade time, and that schtick ain't

just for students. Word?

Still proud to be a

Real Salt Lake fan. Onward

To MLS Cup

Eight days left before

Ethiopia. Now the

hard work all begins.

Cleared my stuff out of

the Trib. Thursday roast and then

I'm done. Feeling good.

Back from the bush. All

is going better than we

could have imagined.

One last day in the

cradle. My God, the graves I

have seen. Africa.

Two customs agents

for three hundred people. Nice

Job America.

Hanging with Bono

and The Edge and thinking of

my friend, Rick Egan.

Tomorrow Spike turns

four! So proud of my smart, brave,

tough and kind daughter.

All great things must come

To an end. But RSL

We still love you guys!

A student called me

"Hitler" and aA Nazi" in

an e-mail today.

Memorial Day

Snowboarding on ten inches

Of fresh powder. Yeah!

Student who called me

"Hitler" now sending veiled threats

of violence. Lovely.

Police escort for

Threatening student. Glad that's

Over. Craziness

Feeling a little

like Charles Foster Kane. Circa

1895.

Fourth birthday present:

Five shots at the doctor. My

Daughter is so tough.

Beginning to think

I might not be as good at

Poker as I thought.

Never discouraged,

Spike plays her 3-wood from the

Liberty Park rough.

Still thinking about

mango pudding. Thanks Ashly

and Chris. Awesome night.

Falling asleep while

grading papers. Wish these kids

were better writers.

So lucky to have

such lovely birthday wishes

from such awesome friends.

A song for my wife.

I call it: "The Googolplex

and a small brown goat."

Party: Liberty

Park, North East corner. High noon.

Saturday. Bring meat.

I'm still awake? Damn

you iced tea and the British

ship you sailed in on.

Last call: Liberty

Park. Northeast corner. Party!

Noon. Bring meat. Have fun!

Writing. Rewriting.

Writing some more. This story

Is kicking my ass.

Hours later, The

Writer looks back and wonders:

"What good did that do?"

Huntsman-Obama

in Twenty-Twelve? Stranger things

have happened. Read on.

Waaaah! Lebron hurt my

feelings! He's so smug and mean!

Whatever people.

Another day and

another rewrite. Word by

word, it gets better

Congratulations

to my good friend Jeff Key on

his first New York show.

Draft to editor,

check! And now, onto the next

project. Never done!

Reluctantly crouched

at the starting line. Watching

Cake at The Gardens.

Chris and Ashley at

The Cake concert. She's going

The distance. Ooooooooh yeah!

Note to Mandarin-

Speaking daughter: Not ev'ry

Asian knows Chinese

At Mister Popper's

With my little penguin girl.

Happy Father's Day

Junk food, cigarettes

and fraud, oh my. The food stamp

debacle. Read on.

My God, are these kids

really communications

students? Heaven help

Karl Rove is a big

liar, and some other facts,

at The Center Mass.

Wah wah wah. It's just

so damn hot. Stop complaining,

people. It's summer!

Congratulations

Alex and Keriann. Our

Neighbors and our friends.

Wow. Giants still top

NL West -- with fewest runs

scored in MLB.

"OK, we'll take that

one." "Oh, that one? It just sold

five minutes ago."

Grades are out. Edit

is complete. Now to launch a

news website. Busy.

Go Real Salt Lake.

Beat these grade-schoolers. And get

Back to CONCACAF.

Spoiled celebs: Please

stop glorifying your choice

to drop out of school.

Belly up to the

watering hole. Presenting:

The Liberty Well.

Back on Radio

West on Wednesday. Listen

in at Eleven.

Soccer referees

have the toughest job in sports -

but this was awful.

On Radio West

Today: Why don't people watch

Women's sports? Tune in!

Special thanks to Ash

McDash for shooting this piece

for Liberty Well

Is it too late to

rename my daughter Abby?

Hey, I'm just asking.

Taking my girls to

China this winter. Spike's so

excited! Me too!

I'm proud of what our

part-time, two-man, volunteer

shop has done so far.

I wish I was in

Germany today. Go Team

USA. Win it!

Can't feel bad about

that. Japan played with heart and

never gave up. Win.

Twenty-five minutes

Ago: Monsoon. Now: Clear blue

Skies. I love summer.

My God! The Harvest

Moon. I could reach out and pluck

It out of the sky.

Pitch black. Driving through

Oil fields. Wyoming re-

minds me of Iraq.

My feminism

put to the test: Spike wants to

be a bull rider.

OK, Oregon

Trail fans: What landmark did we

visit this morning?

Yes, there's a reason

I've seen the Flecktones more than

Any other band.

Dear God, I know we

don't talk much, but could you send

us Jürgen Klinsmann?

The world awaits my

amazing daughter, who got

her passport today

Tahoe vacation

If life could be better I'm

Not quite certain how.

Say what you will 'bout

Utah. This shit would never

happen there, hombres.

Lord knows I'm not the

perfect husband. So I feel

lucky to have her

What slogan should I

wear on my shirt on my first

day at Utah State?

So impressed by all

the other new recruits at

USU. Love it!

Proud of my little

footballers. But man, they're bad.

Always next season.

Cool to see Brandon

Griggs and Kristy Griggs on my

laptop screen today!

Spike went off to pre-

-school today. She was fine. Her

mom and I? A mess.

Me: Hey look! Who's that?

Her: "Hello Andy Williams!"

Me: "That's Olave."

My friend and his buds

Designed this product. Perfect

gift for a shower.

Now I need someone

who is no longer Mormon

but still on the roles.

My return to the

Trib: A story about life,

death, faith and baseball.

Our first big scoop at

The Liberty Well. More where

that came from, Tribune.

First day of classes

at USU today. I

think I'll just sleep in.

"No late assignments."

"Even if my mother dies?"

"I'll need an obit."

One of my clients

is looking for a temp in

SLC. Details:

The Liberty Well

Now starring local foody

Ashley Detrick. Yeah!

Old: Some in my class

are closer in age to my

daughter than to me.

One of my students

wrote about a "cereal

rapist." Cheerios!

OSU our hats

Are off to you. And after

That, shirts and pants, too.

My poor little Spike

broke her big toe — right in time

for soccer season.

Salt Lakers: Check out

the newest version of the

Liberty Well site:

Out with the boys for

Musical theater. Thanks

Scott Sommerdorf.

I don't think that my

Beavs will win the BCS

title this season.

Here's to the next de-

-cade. May she be a damn sight

better than the last.

Just secured my next

season at Brighton. I'm now

ready for the snow.

Hosting Radio

West Thursday. Theme: National

Anthem. Your thoughts, friends?

One player on time

For practice. This is why I

Shouldn't volunteer.

Incredibly proud

of my friend, Leah Bryner,

who just passed the bar!

From The Liberty

Well: Salt Lake won't enforce its

dumping ordinance.

Utah just picked up

yet another BYU

fumble. Whoooo! Go Utes!

One hundred and six

pounds of tomatoes later,

ready for winter

Yes, I know you were

taught that way. You must unlearn

what you've learned, Jedi.

Diyar's dying wish

was to be buried in his

home nation. Please share.

Account now set up

at Wells-Fargo. Please share this

story with your friends.

Just had to tell a

student that they likely won't

pass this class. I'm sad.

Great to see local

media jumping on this

story. Momentum

Dropped off dad's cash for

Diyar. Was told many had

come earlier. Yeah!

Facebook sent me an

e-mail to tell me it would

send me less e-mail.

Found a carpool friend.

But it feels like I have won

The time lottery.

USU must be

the king of the "just about

almost an upset.

Consolation: This

Just further demonstrates how

Bad BYU is.

Utah reporters

risk undeath to cover the

human-zombie war.

Pretty good work from

my reporters on Day One

of Zombie News Week.

If you only read

one thing about zombies this

evening, read this:

Ernie Pyle they

ain't, but in four days their work

has really improved.

Happy the Beavs won't

Go winless this season. But

it's still not pretty.

Delta forgot to

Schedule pilots for this flight.

What else did they miss?

At two hundred bucks

a night, you'd think free wi-fi

wouldn't be so hard.

Condescending New

Yorkers. Screw you and your lame

ass contemptuousness.

Midwestern friends: How

do you navigate when there's

no topography?

San Francisco here

I come. Right back where I start-

-ed from. La la la.

My teaching heros:

Heidi, my mom, Mr. Nish

And now, this woman...

OSU fans first:

I've got two extra tix to

Beavers at Utah.

Occupy San Fran.

protested me today. (And

Bush and Murdoch, too!)

Well, the last decade

was certainly nice. Now,

back to reality.

Congrats to Chhun Sun,

Writer, friend and funniest

Facebooker ever

'Bacon' power — for

a reporter, that's the best

thing about Facebook.

Sometimes this season

I've wished it was possible

To root for The Ducks.

Night's highlight: When the

Concrete convention guy tried

To start a fight. Lame.

All of my Utah

gear has been put away for

the week. Go Beavers.

Proud of my student,

Kristi, for her first gov'ment

records article.

OSU our hats

are off to you. RSL

our shorts are off, too.

Congrats Utes. Even

bigger props, though, to Real

Salt Lake. Three-nothin'!

Matt, Leah, Ashley,

Chris, Heidi and Mia. Great

Night with great people.

Built my whole lesson

around this nasty little

bastard today. Win.

Fictionist at the

10-year Radio West bash.

Talk about that, Doug!

Spent the evening

with my daughter making this

movie. Oscar please?

Thank you to all of

you who supported this work.

Now please go share it.

Making premature

Plans to go to LA for

The MLS Cup.

The story has nine

hundred Facebook "recommends."

Help us hit a grand?

China's just two months

away. First non-work trip in

so long. I am thrilled!

Vet-specific courts:

Unconstitutional pass

or earned benefit?

Talked about Mingi

with KCPW

host Jeff Robinson.

Good points. But is The

Trib ensuring such standards

for "Close-Up" cit-jos?

Did you know that the

Bill of Rights doesn't include

Camp-outs? It is true

Big insurance hikes

for my Tribune friends. Too late

now too unionize?

Highland High's "The Wiz":

White kids in black roles. Ease on

Down the awkward road.

Heidi: "In China,

we should ask to see the place

where everything's made."

Thanks, Jeremiah

Stettler for your endorsement

of my campaign. Score!

Verizon user?

Keep Big Corporate Brother

Away from your life.

I don't even care

about the rest of the game.

Beaver touchdown. Cool.

Yup, that's more like it.

But OSU, my hat's still

off to you. Go Beavs.

Spike's second movie:

You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll watch it

again and again.

It's a proud day for

the academy in the

Beehive State today.

Ivory tower?

I've been working since 5 in

the bloody morning.

Apparently Spike

Has decided she wants to

Be a prize fighter

A Jedi she is.

Uses the Force, this youngling

Does. She's A New Hope.

Wisconsin versus

Michigan State. Don't know these

teams. But what a game.

Note to Pac-12: That's

what a championship looks

like. Now: Go Badgers.

I feel like I just

lost a member of my own

team. God Speed, Bomma.

Does Salt Lake's new

mobile camera system

violate your rights?

Students applaud on

last day of class. Not quite sure

what they're telling me.

Five years ago we

deported them. So what good

did all that do? None

Interviewed by the

BBC on, of all things,

the Euro? OK...

And they said it would

never happen. Congrats to

Nate and Brook. God speed.

Visas for China

arrived today. So stoked for

vacation. Wànsuì!

Finally, all my

grading is done. (And so is

all of my whiskey.)

Whining Utahns: If

it's really that bad, you can

always move away.

Iraq ends. Our tribe,

like those worlds away, clings to

the myth of martyrs.

Spike's got a "mean girl"

in her life. She won't be the

last. Oh, what a world.

From my brilliant friend

Jessica Ravitz, the best

Santa piece ever

Watching Monday Night

Football and playing dress up

dolls with my daughter.

On Dinosaur Train:

A Solstice Special? Why do

dinos hate Jesus?

Daughter and wife are

Laying in the foyer in

Swimsuits with comics.

A new approach to

the gay rights fight. Hypocrites

should be warned. Karma.

I wrote this five years

ago. Still get a Christmas

call each year from him.

Heidi says she can't

Eat baked potatoes without

Thinking of Chhun Sun.

Addicted to a

sitcom? What the hell? Aren't I

smarter than this junk?

Proud of my former

students, who launched this cit-jo

enterprise this year.

Jason Segel in

Benny Beaver shirt? "Mother"

is my new fav' show.

Reading Spike her book

for the first time. Eight chapters

in, she's hooked. Awesome.

Twenty-eleven:

More than two hundred haikus.

Lots of brevity.

THE MEAN PEOPLE

2011-12-15T23:00:00.001-07:00

Dear Spike:

You were working on a picture when I arrived to pick you up from day care the other day. A pink and purple unicorn, I think it was.

You looked up, acknowledged my presence, and resolutely returned to your artwork.

“Wanna stay a while so you can finish it?” I asked.

“Yes please,” you said without looking up from the page.

“OK.”

I perched on the edge of a bookshelf, right behind you, and chatted with the day care instructors. They always seem so happy to have an adult to talk to. Go figure.

You just kept on working on the picture.

On the other side of the table was a tall girl in a pink shirt. We’ll call her… oh, I don’t know… how about “Larry”?

“Uh-oh!” Larry said, patting you on the arm. “Your dad is leaving you!”

You turned around in an obvious panic to find me still sitting exactly where I had been. You turned back around and scowled at the little girl, who laughed and laughed.

“You tricked me,” you said. “And it’s not very nice to trick people.”

The girl laughed some more. A few moments later, she tried the trick again.

“It’s not very nice,” you said once more as she laughed alongside another little girl. “And it’s not very nice to laugh at people.”

I was very proud of the way you responded. I just wanted to let you know that. I also wanted to let you know that Larry won’t be the last person to be mean to you. Not even close.

And girls, it seems, can be especially cruel to one another.

You consider Larry a friend, but over the past few days, as I’ve asked you questions about her, something has become very clear: Larry is a mean girl.

I didn’t think the “Queen Bee” phenomenon started this early in life, but apparently it does.

“She won’t let me play with Ella,” you told me. “Because she says that Ella is only her friend and so she can’t be my friend.”

“She says I’m not very smart.”

“She says that I can only play with her when she wants to play with me. Today she didn’t want to play with me.”

Yup. Mean girl.

Today was your preschool Christmas concert. All the kids wore pajamas and, in her princess nightgown, it was hard to not think of Larry as just another adorable kid.

But when you all lined up to begin singing, Larry began elbowing you out of the way.

You held your ground. On the next song you changed places so that you wouldn’t be standing next to her. Again, I was very proud — and even more so as the carols continued and you decided, apparently all on your own, that the songs would go well with a bit of interpretive dance.

That’s my girl.

I could be over analyzing this situation. And maybe I am. But I think I might have gotten a glimpse today at why Larry is so mean to you. That’s what happens, sometimes, to kids who stand out.

Let’s be clear: That’s not an admonition to stop standing out. Not at all. Being different, kind and smart — these are the things that make life worth living. I want you to stand out — even if it means that sometimes, you’ll get knocked around a bit by some mean girls (and probably some mean boys, too.)

It won’t always be easy. So it will be important, when you’re going through those moments, to remember a few things:

First and foremost, when it seems like nobody cares, remember that your mother and I love you. Unconditionally. Forever.

And next, when it seems like it will never end, remember that life gets better. And better. And better some more. (But only if you are different, kind and smart. If you’re not, then your life will not get any better. It will just get lonelier. Because mean people get really boring after a while.)

And finally, if it ever begins to feel like the mean people are right about you, remember that they are not as different as you (they don’t have the courage.) They are not as kind as you (they don’t have the heart.) They are not as smart as you (they don’t have the brains.)

That’s right, my little one: You’re like the Lion, the Tin Man, the Scarecrow. In the end, you’ll get your just rewards.

And those mean girls? They’ll just melt away.

Love,

dad

PLAYED WITHOUT RULES

2011-11-05T00:03:00.001-06:00

Dear Spike,

We picked fruit out of the air.

Apples and pears. Peaches and plums. Mangoes. Pineapples.

There is no fall in the Land of Make Believe. No winter. No climates prohibitive of tropical fruit farming.

At your instruction, I released an armful of coconuts onto the platform aside the playground slide, then plucked one from the ground, centered it over an invisible brick, and hurled it downward. It split open into two perfect bowls and we didn’t lose a drop of milk. It’s brilliant what you can do when it doesn’t matter what you do.

We drank the milk, became thirsty, split another, drank some more. We turned the apples and pears into pies. The peaches and plums were jellied. The mangoes…

… hmmm …

… I guess we forgot about the mangoes. Easy thing to do when you’re working with invisible ingredients, I suppose.

The pineapples we cut into spears and ate off skewers. After a while, we’d had our fill and so, quite logically, it was time to stand lookout for sharks.

It might have been five minutes. It might have been 15. It could have been an entire afternoon. Amazing thing, that.

We played without rules. And honestly, I can’t remember the last time I did that.

Oh, I think I do a pretty good job of encouraging your imagination, but I’m always trying to mold it a bit, too — particularly when I see an opportunity to sneak in a smidgen of education.

“OK, so now you have one pony in each hand. And if I give you another pony…”

Or when I sense ridiculous gender constructs sneaking into your pure little mind.

“Let’s play princesses,” you say.

“Let’s play princesses who are superheros or scientists,” I say.

So it goes.

Same too, I admit, when you’re playing with other children. I try very hard not to interfere when others are rude or hurtful to you — figuring that you’ll benefit most from learning how to deal with these situations on your own.

But you’ve got a tendency to be a bit bossy. And I reckon I step in a little too often just to try to rein you in.

On this day, though, I was your first mate. Your wish, my command. I didn’t mind.

What joy.

We did it again the next day. And again the day after that.

My to-do list is 25 items long and getting longer by the day. But all I can think about, lately, is when we’ll get to play that way again.

It’s been a very long time since I visited this place. Thank you for inviting me.

Love,

dad

ON THE FIELD

2011-10-04T15:50:00.000-06:00

Dear Spike:

For three weeks you sat patiently on the sidelines. Watching. Waiting.

It wasn't fair. But, then, life isn't fair is it? Four years old and you already knew that — even before you broke you toe.

When it was finally time to step back onto the field, you did so tentatively. And tentative, of course, doesn't win soccer games.

And when you did engage the ball in our scrimmage, someone stepped on your foot. I think it scared you, more than it hurt you, and you came to me and asked if you could go sit out again.

I obliged.

But then, perhaps five minutes later, I looked over to the side of the field and saw you sprinting, somersaulting, bouncing up and doing it again. Clearly you were fine.

"Spike!" I yelled. "Get back on the field! If your foot is feeling good enough to fool around over there, it's feeling good enough to come back and practice."

And then something happened.

You rushed into crowd of players. You punched the ball out of the melee. You dribbled to the goal. You shot. You scored.

And then you did it again.

Wow.

It's been two weeks, now, and I have not seen that level of play from you again. You've been tentative again. Cautious. Defensive.

Maybe it was just the result of pent-up desire to be on the field. Maybe, once you realized you were OK, something inside of you just opened up. And maybe it closed down, a bit, again after.

That's fine. We'll move at your pace. And I'll just keep raising the bar, little by little by little.

But it's so neat to know it's in you, somewhere.

Love,

dad

SING THE ANTHEM

2011-09-16T19:59:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

Sometimes when my colleague, Doug Fabrizio, is out of town, I get to fill in as guest host of RadioWest, an hour-long interview program on a local public radio station.

Doug is exceptionally good at what he does. And even though I always have the support of a great team of producers, his shoes are exceptionally hard to fill. So I often turn to my friends and family for questions, ideas and inspiration on the subject of the day.

Thursday's topic was the National Anthem, which celebrated its 197th birthday this week and was recently mangled in a public performance by pop star Cyndi Lauper. It could have been a rather dry subject, so I sent out an all points bulletin seeking some advice.

My father was among the first to reply: Without going into too much detail, he suggested I look for a recording of Jose Feliciano’s performance of the anthem in the 1968 World Series.

I did — and it proved great fodder for conversation that morning. Feliciano’s rendition was absolutely amazing. But his Latin jazz reinterpretation of the old English drinking melody upon which our anthem was based proved highly controversial. Some suggested that the young, blind musician had disgraced our nation’s song. Others said he should be deported (which would have been a difficult task since the singer was, by virtue of his birth in Puerto Rico, an American citizen).

I’d like to share two things with you today:

The first is Feliciano’s hauntingly beautiful adaptation of the Star-Spangled Banner, which reminds me, as I hope it will remind you, that our nation is full of good people who sometimes need a little help to appreciate our ever-changing world.

The other is this message, which I received from my father a few hours after the radio program:

I remember the Feliciano controversy like it was yesterday. I was a freshman in high school, and my English teacher had us writing essays each week on any topic we chose. It was maybe the fourth or fifth week of school, so maybe only the second or third time we wrote. I remember writing that if anyone was entitled to sing the anthem in "new" way, it was a blind man of color. Mr. Farrington gave me such positive feedback that I began thinking for first time that maybe I could write for a living.

My father went on to have a successful career as a writer. But he would be the first to tell you that he’s much prouder of his children’s accomplishments than his own.

And he has much to be proud of. Today, his daughter is the publisher of a magazine. His oldest son is a journalist and professor of journalism. His youngest son is an amazingly gifted songwriter.

Consider that.

From Francis Scott Key to Jose Feliciano…

From Jose Feliciano to Gerald Farrington…

From Gerald Farrington to Richard LaPlante…

None of those men could have predicted the effect that their lives would ultimately have on a few siblings from the last generation of the 20^th Century…

Let alone a child from the first generation of the 21st.

What a legacy. What a country.

Love,

dad

THE BACK SEAT

2011-09-15T19:54:00.000-06:00

Dear Spike:

Your mother and I were in the car's front seats, engrossed in a conversation about something or other, when we suddenly became aware of a song, coming from the back seat.

"The Care Bears love me... but not my friends

The Care Bears love me... but not my friends!

The Care Bears love me, they love me, they love me...

But nooooooot..... myyyyyyyyyyy... frrrrrrrriends!"

Love,

dad

A LIFETIME AGO

2011-09-11T23:53:00.000-06:00

Dear Spike,

I woke up this morning from one of the worst nights of sleep of my life. And I only say that I "woke up" because I did manage to doze off just enough to have several nightmares, all of which involved a deranged gang of killers that was chasing me and, to my greater horror, a teen-aged version of you.

I rarely remember my dreams. But this one was pretty vivid. Strange.

You don't look bad with purple hair, by the way, but I wasn't so happy with the tattoos. Pin-up girls? On your forearms? Really?

There was a soundtrack, too. A John Phillip Souza march, of all things. I'm not kidding. It was the craziest thing.

But in the early moments of the morning, when I was still trying to separate the dream world from reality, it was at least something to laugh at. I wasn't comfortable talking about the other parts of the dream, at first. Too real. Too early. But the Souza stuff? That was something I could tell your mother about when she asked.

And as soon as the words fell from my lips, I realized what had happened.

Souza. Military marches. Terror. Ten years.

I know lots of people are saying today that it seems like it was just yesterday. But that's not the case for me. It seems like a lifetime ago.

The last decade has brought, in no particular order, an end to my military service. A marriage to your mother. A move to Utah. Three trips to Iraq, among a half-dozen other international reporting assignments. Your mom got her master's degree. Then I did. And then, a few months ago, I got a brand new career.

We've lost your mother's Gaga. My grandmother and grandfather, too. My sister married, divorced, remarried, had a beautiful baby boy. My brother moved in with us. And then he moved out.

And, of course, there was you.

Sure, I remember that day like it was yesterday. But it doesn't seem like it was yesterday.

It was a lifetime ago. For me. For you. For our broken nation.

Guantanamo. Abu Ghraib. Predator drones. Endless war. Black ops budgets bursting at the secret seams. All the while, more debt, more debt, more debt for our nation.

What a fucking legacy.

This is just a date. No more and no less important than any other, despite all of the attention. But I will say this for Sept. 11, 2001: It is the date by which I count, forward and backward, to nearly every other event in my life.

So in that way, I suppose, a decade is meaningful.

I wonder and worry at what the next decade will bring. By the time it passes, you'll be about as old as you were in my dream last night. (But please, dear God, not with those tattoos.) You'll be old enough, by then, to understand what happened on that terrible day. And you'll be old enough to know what has happened ever since.

What a nightmare.

But here, in the spirit of optimism, is to the next decade. May she be a damn sight better than the old one.

Love,

dad

YOUR BIG TOE

2011-09-07T00:17:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

It was bound to happen.

What, with all this, bull-ridin', half-pipe jumpin' and professional soccer playin' you've been talking about lately, it was clear you weren't going to be leaving this home without a few bumps and bruises to show for it.

But we didn't really want those bumps and bruises to come so soon.

I was in my office, up north, when I got the call from your mother.

"Calm down" she told me.

"I am calm," I said. "Why wouldn't I be calm?"

"Because of what I'm going to tell you — which is why I said you need to calm down."

"But..."

"Promise!"

"Promise what?"

"That you'll be calm."

"Um... OK."

You were exploring our basement — a veritable death trap, to be certain — when you came upon my weight set. Somehow you wrestled one of the 10-pound barbell weights off the rack.

It fell on your foot, crushing your big toe.

For the record, I'd like to point out that I took the news rather well. And I'd like to think that I would have done so regardless of whether or not your mother first made me pinky swear to stay calm.

She, for the record, was doing an admirable job of holding it all together. And she did everything right to keep you calm and get you the help you needed.

She (quite wrongly) blamed herself. (This is definitely more my fault than hers — and you get some blame, too, for touching things you shouldn't be touching). But in any case, your mom didn't dwell on any of that until well after I'd arrived (two hours later) to find you both sitting calmly in an examination room, waiting to look at the X-rays.

There were dark circles under your eyes and you chin was trembling, but you did your best to wear a brave face.

"I tried to hold it up, but it was too heavy for me," you explained.

The doctor came in and looked at the pictures. There was a distinct line down the middle of the distal phalanx of your hallux.

Or, in other words: the little piggy that went to market had a boo-boo.

It could have been a lot worse. Still, the doctor sentenced you to three weeks in a hard boot. Looks like I'll only be coaching a bunch of other parents' soccer players for a while. Sorry kid, but those are the breaks...

... um ...

... no pun intended, really.

As you know, I try really hard to find lessons in all of life's little adventures. Sometimes, I'm sure, I try too hard.

So I won't serve up some platitude for you to consider. Not today. You've got enough to worry about right now.

So I'll just say this: You'll be better soon. I promise.

Love,

dad

THROUGH THIS STORM

2011-08-28T22:43:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike,

The sky is falling in great wet sheets. Above the clouds, an angry voice screams. The night pulses with electricity.

But you are asleep in your bed. And you do not stir. Not as the lightning strikes. Not as the thunder booms.

On the eve of your second week of preschool, I think you are still exhausted by the first.

You made us proud. You didn't cry or protest when we dropped you off that first day — truth be known, there was little we could do to hold you back when that door swung open.

On the second day, a little boy said mean things to you. You resisted any temptation to respond in kind. So proud.

Yes, you are learning things there that we could not teach you here at home. Still, it comes at a cost. The days are long. And you haven't yet figured out how to use nap time for its intended purpose. You're so very tired.

I'm glad you're sleeping through this storm. You need your rest. Another week of school begins in just a few hours.

You're doing great.

Love,

dad

IT IS TIME

2011-08-21T23:31:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike,

It is time.

Not just because you are now four and this is what four-year-olds do. You are. And it is. But you do not do things just because others do them. If you did, you would not be you.

But it is time.

Not just because I have taken a new job and, as such, will be unable to stay home with you. Indeed, my life is changing. And indeed, that will change yours. That is not the reason for this change.

But yes, it it time.

Not just because you have decided it is time. You have, of course, done just that. But you are, of course, only four. And four-year-olds — for all that they do — do not get to make decisions like this.

But yes, my dear and beautiful and brilliant daughter... my tiny little friend... my most important thing... it is time for you to go to school.

And why is it time? If not because you are four? If not because our lives have changed? If not because you really want to?

It is time, my child, because it is time. Because you are ready.

You are ready to learn things that your mother and I cannot teach you: How to make yourself heard above the din of a crowd. How to be yourself, even as you are surrounded by others who want and expect you to be like them. How to follow and how to lead.

These are not always easy lessons to learn. There will be some who do not like you, do not treat you well, do not value the things that you value. There will be some that you will follow, wrongly, into trouble — and you will be held accountable as though you did it all yourself. There will be some that will say and do things that make you angry — and you will be expected to show them kindness and compassion.

Yes, I expect much of you. Yes, I recognize that you are only four.

But you are the best parts of your mother and the best parts of me. And I don't mind saying that we're not half bad people, as people go.

In any case, the privileges you have in this world make you royalty. Much has been given to you; much is thus expected from you. No matter that some have more and do less. You are not those people.

You are you. And your mother and I have done everything we can do, to this point, to make you the best you possible.

Now, increasingly, it is up to you. And, of course, the rest of the world — for we do not learn and change and grow in a void.

I do not fear that influence. Yes, the world can be a very terrible place. But even before you arrived, we knew that we would love you more than anything in the world, and we would not have brought you into this world if we didn't believe that, in the great balance, there is always more good than bad.

There is always more hope than fear.

There is always more faith than doubt.

And there is always more love than hate.

For four years, we have been the ones who have led you to these lessons. Now, increasingly, the world will take your hand.

We are proud of you. We are excited for you. And we will always be here for you.

It is time.

Love,

dad

OF YOUR CHOICE

2011-08-02T22:39:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

Look, it's true: We named you — your real name, that is — after a professional soccer player. And yes, it's true: You were at your first professional soccer game before you even tipped the six-pound mark on the scales. And yes, it's true: I've got a soccer cleat tattooed on my right arm.

So it was much to my great joy that you slipped on your very first soccer jersey last week. You wanted number 4 — the same number as your father wore on nearly every team on which I played as a kid (although I think you simply wanted it because you are four years old.) The team roster had you assigned to number 3, but somehow you wound up with the digit of your choice. Score.

Skill wise, you've got this game down. But alas, pre-school soccer isn't much of a skill game. And bunch ball upsets you — as well it should.

But every time I see you on the field, looking hesitantly — and from afar — at the crush of boys and girls around the ball, I feel a bit panicked. What if, on the basis of this experience, you decide that soccer's not your thing?

Today I asked you what your favorite sport was. You said it was basketball. You've never played basketball. You've never watched basketball.

But there it was.

"How about soccer?" I asked you later on.

"Yes," you said. "Soccer is fun."

I guess that's good enough for now. As for the future, I suppose we'll see.

And if you do decide that it is not for you, I will not love you any less.

But no, you cannot change your name.

Love,
dad

IN THOSE SHOES

2011-07-27T02:20:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

I last saw Tim DeCristopher at the Salt Lake Hilton, where the Utah Democrats were holding their annual convention and he had just given a nominating speech for Bill McDonnell, a candidate for the vacant seat of the House district where our family lives.

Afterward, I pulled him aside.

"I guess Bill didn't mind the idea of being nominated by a convicted felon, eh?"

Tim looked down at his shoes. And I worried that my joke might have been ill-timed and insensitive.

"Nah," he said finally with a smile. "Funny thing is I've been asked to give two speeches today."

When we were done chatting, I shook his hand and — as I sometimes do — reached over with my free hand to squeeze his arm. I was surprised to feel his bicep bulging underneath his shirt and then, upon quick reflection, realized that it made perfect sense.

Tim has long said that he's prepared to go to prison for what he's done. He's also made it clear that he'd rather not. I'd be trying to bulk up, too, if I were in his shoes.

Of course, I'm not in his shoes. Couldn't fill them if I tried. I'd like to think that I'm a brave person, but I'm not that brave.

In recent weeks, some people have compared Tim to the Rosa Parks of the environmental movement. I don't know if that's true or not. If it is, it's safe to say that you'll one day understand the context for all of this. If not, a little background:

It was back in December of 2008 that this all began. George W. Bush's eight-year presidency was coming to an end, and some environmentalists believed his administration was rushing to sell off oil and gas leases before the next president could order a more thorough legal and environmental review. It was in the midst of this that Tim walked into a U.S. Bureau of Land Management auction in Salt Lake City and began to bid for a few plots in an attempt to keep energy developers off the land for a few precious weeks.

He won one. Then another. And before suspicious BLM officials suspended the auction, Tim had the rights to 14 leases in eastern Utah — and no way to pay for the $1.8 million he'd bid to get them.

Our government was not amused. And although his supporters quickly raised the money to pay for the leases, Tim was charged with disrupting the federal auction. The case went to trial earlier this year. The judge wouldn't permit Tim to argue that his actions were a necessary step in the battle to prevent climate change. He was convicted on all counts, but permitted to remain free on bail until his sentencing.

That happened today. Tim was sentenced to spend the next two years in prison.

We're a nation of laws. And I've only known a few people in my life who would dispute that those laws aren't a vital part of what hold us together as a society.

That doesn't mean that every law is just — or that the law is always justly applied.

They aren't and it isn't.

But Tim knew that when he walked into that auction. And while he understood the consequences, he believed the stakes were much, much higher.

In a non-violent way, he raged against something he believed to be unjust.

I stand in awe.

Now, I should make something clear: I've always felt that as entrenched and corrupt as our system can be, there are still ways to effect change meaningfully within the system. That is, after all, what eventually brought the oil leases to a halt — a lawsuit was filed against the government, a judge issued a restraining order and President Obama's administration ultimately suspended the leases.

But Tim could not have know any of that was going to transpire. Seeing what he thought was his last, best opportunity to disrupt the sale, he acted.

Illegally? Yes.

And bravely, too.

Our actions often have consequences. And when you accept those consequences as a cost of doing what you believe is right, you're walking in the footsteps of some very amazing people.

My God, I'd hate to see you in those shoes. But I'd be very proud, too.

Love,
dad

GOING TO CHINA

2011-07-13T01:56:00.001-06:00

Dear Spike:

We're going to China.

Love,
baba

SECONDS TO GO

2011-07-10T14:59:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike:

You're four. That makes you a little bit squirmy. And even though you love soccer, 90 minutes is a long time to sit, to watch, to wait, to wonder. The beautiful game gives us an opportunity to practice our patience. And sometimes it tests our patience.

It did today. The U.S. national team was up 1-0 over Brazil with 25 minutes to play in the quarterfinals of the Women's World Cup when Marta — the most dominant player I've ever seen in any team sport — darted into the box, beating two U.S. defenders before Rachel Buehler caught up to her. Marta took a handful of Buehler's jersey. Buehler had a handful of Marta's. The referee called the American for the foul and gave Buehler a red card, to boot.

Penalty kick. Brilliant save. Jubilation. The Americans were down a player, but they were still up a goal. But the referee ruled that goalkeeper Hope Solo had left her line before the kick and ordered the shot retaken. The replays show otherwise, but what does it matter? Marta converts. One-one. Back down to earth we came.

Overtime. Marta again. Brilliant finish. Damn.

Your countrywomen spent the next 30 minutes knocking on Brazil's door. Were they still down a player? I couldn't tell. They were determined. They were ferocious.

And then, with seconds to go, it happened: Megan Rapinoe sends a cross to the six. Someday I'm going to teach you about this spot — the perfect spot — that forces a keeper to commit forward and pulls her dangerously off her line. The cross sails over Brazil's defenders. It sails past the outstretched fingers of the keeper. And it sails perfectly into the path of Abby Wambach, who heads it firmly into the back of the net.

Seconds to go. Seconds to go. I've been watching the replay for the past two hours and I'm still getting shivers. Seconds to go.

Kicks from the spot are a horrible way to resolve a soccer contest, but at least there is resolution to be had. I called you over to me and held you before the television screen.

"Watch this," I said. "This is history."

The U.S. converts its first shot. Brazil too.

You squirmed a bit. You're four, after all, and you'd never seen this strange game-after-a-game before.

The U.S. converts again. Brazil too.

You ran off for a moment and I called you back, pulling you onto my lap and whispering into you ear.

"Trust me," I said. "You don't want to miss this. You really don't."

The U.S. converts another.

And then ...

...

...

...

... Hope Solo.

The shot came in hard and left. Solo, arms outstretched like Superwoman, punched it away.

We leaped together in joy. You chanted with the crowd, half a globe away: "USA! USA! USA!"

After that, you squirmed no more.

The U.S. converted its next shot. Brazil too.

Up 4 goals to 3 in the shoot out, it all came down to Ali Krieger, who put her shot in the lower corner to give the U.S. women a victory.

We screamed and hugged and jumped up and down. You watched the women celebrate on the television and — for a moment, I think — you pretended to celebrate alongside them.

We watch a lot of soccer in this home. I don't think you'll remember this moment above any other. But I've got a sneaking suspicion that it'll stick with you in other ways.

For a moment you were able to clearly and concretely see the way that patience can pay off. And that is one of the most beautiful parts of the beautiful game — because it's one of the most beautiful parts of life.

Love,
dad

AT WARP SPEED

2011-07-01T02:40:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

I start teaching full-time in August. Between now and then, I've been working for a school dedicated to helping high school dropouts re-enroll and re-engage — a job that I hope to keep, part time, after my professorship starts. Meanwhile, I've got a half-dozen freelance projects up in the air and have been doing some copy writing for a friend's business.

Oh yeah, and today I helped start a newspaper.

OK, well, it's not really a newspaper. It's more what you'd call a "hyper-local" website. Our good friend Alex and I began working on it a few months ago hoping for an excuse to be curious now that neither of us is getting paid, any longer, to stick our noses in other people's business. It's not much, yet, but we've got high hopes.

I suppose all of that makes me a bit of a busy guy, but I assure you that I wouldn't have it any other way. Sometimes I feel like one of those sharks — the kind that have to keep moving to keep oxygen running through their gills.

Yeah, that's me.

I do try to slow down, though, to enjoy the things in life that can't be savored at warp speed. Today you and I took a bike ride through the park and stopped at our favorite cafe for breakfast. Tomorrow I was thinking we might make some pancakes and smother them with fruit.

It's good to keep busy, but it's wise to take breaks, too. I hope you'll learn how to effectively do both. And when you can find the things that make you feel like you're doing both at the same time, you've hit the jackpot.

Love,
dad

JUST SO HOT

2011-06-23T22:48:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

It broke 90 today. Maybe hit 95 in some parts of the city. Whatever, it was hot. And summer only just started.

Seems like just yesterday that everyone was complaining about the cold, wet spring we'd been having. Heck, it practically was yesterday — well, it was last week, in any case.

Last week!

"Oh my heck," they were saying. "I just don't know why summer isn't here yet."

And then, this week: "Oh goodness gravy, it's just so hot!"

Here's the thing about Salt Lake City: We're sitting at about 4,300 feet altitude, so winters are pretty damn cold. We're also sort of in the middle of the desert, so summers are pretty damn hot.

And there's really not that much in between. A bit of a wet fall, a wetter spring — neither lasts too long.

None of it's intolerable. The cold stuff comes along with an awesome snowpack in the Wasatch Mountains — almost 800 inches this year, in the canyons. I went snowboarding on Memorial Day in a foot of powder. The warm stuff opens up those very same canyons for hiking an biking and camping and bird watching. It's all minutes from our front door.

Don't complain. It's silly. It doesn't change anything. And it disrespects the very forces of Mother Nature that hold us here.

It's supposed to drop back into the 80s for the rest of the week. Nice stuff.

Don't get used to it.

Love,
dad

EVERY DAMN TIME

2011-06-11T01:24:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

Your fourth birthday fell on a Saturday. We celebrated on that day with your grandparents and then, the following Saturday, with your friends. You and the gang painted flower pots, costumed up for an impromptu street parade, and devoured a (pralines-and-cream) ice cream cake. It was a dandy time.

My 33rd birthday came the following Wednesday. It wasn't such a dandy time.

We were planning to go out for a fancy family dinner that night at my favorite restaurant (the delightful and delectable Mazza — which also happen to be your favorite restaurant) but you had a bit of a melt down while trying to decide which bow you would wear in your hair.

And so you went to "time out." And while you were sitting there in the corner, whimpering like a wounded Yorkshire Terrier, your mother and I changed out of our swanky clothes and resigned ourselves to an uneventful, un-birthdarific evening.

I'm not telling you this to make you feel guilty. That's not my style and, besides, my birthday has never been all that important to me.

I tell you this because I want you to understand what happened after we canceled dinner:

You screamed. You flailed. You sobbed. You gasped. You begged. And you cried, off and on, for the rest of the night.

And even though you're a well-behaved kid, (the best kid I know, in fact,) we knew this was going to happen, because there ain't nothing you like more than puttin' on the Ritz.

Truth is, it would have been a lot easier to just let you get over the small hissyfit you were having about that damned bow, then clean you up and march ever-forward to Mazza. That certainly would have been easier for your mother and I, but would have been wrong for you — because it would have deviated from our standard parenting procedure.

That is to say: When you commit the crime, you serve the time — every time.

Every. Damn. Time.

So sure, this was supposed to be a special night — but any other time, your little melt down would have resulted in the cancellation of whatever fun thing we had planned for that day. And while folks can (and probably do) criticize our parenting on a variety of levels, I don't think anyone would ever accuse us of being inconsistent with you when it comes to discipline.

And I really believe that is the reason why nights like the one we experienced on my birthday are so rare with you. You understand our expectations. You understand what happens when those expectations are not met. You make decisions accordingly.

That's not to say that you don't occasionally make the wrong decision (as evidenced by Wednesday night's tantrum, you most certainly do make the wrong decision sometimes.) But you never have to guess — and so you have very little incentive to test our limits.

Someday you'll probably have your own kids. And I'm certainly not the type of guy who will be standing over your shoulder to tell you how to raise'm right. Everybody parents differently, after all, and it's not my place to criticize — so I'll just offer this observation: The most convenient decisions for parents are not often the best decisions for their children.

And come to think of it, that's not just a good rule for parenting. It's a good rule for life: The most convenient decisions are not always the best decisions for anyone.

That doesn't mean you always have to do things the hard way. It just means you should always at least consider the hard way, along with its costs and its benefits.

Earlier this evening, we made another run at going out for a fancy birthday dinner. Afterward, we went next door for some gelato.

And you were an absolute angel.

It was the best birthday present ever.

Love,
dad

OUR BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION

2011-05-27T21:07:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

Today is your fourth birthday — and we certainly made the most of it.

We started the day with a tradition that I hope you will continue to uphold as your grow older: We gave your mother a present — a emerald bracelet — to thank her for everything she did to bring you into this world.

And then it was your turn. You made out like a bandit, but your favorite presents, by far, were the two costumes that your grandmother hand-stitched for you: A Cinderella dress and a cowgirl outfit. Both are lovely, but my inner feminist prefers the latter — and indeed, that's the get-up you wore as we took our birthday celebration to Liberty Park.

We started the day at the Tracy Aviary — one of your favorite places (and, conveniently, just a short walk from our home) where we took in a bird show (your mother and grandmother both were chosen to participate) and fed a flock of Sun Conures. You bravely let the curious little birds jump onto your arm and eat an apple slice from your fingertips. And your smile was as bright as their rainbow-colored feathers.

Next to the aviary is a small amusement park, and your grandfather and grandmother treated you to turns on the Ferris wheel, carousel and other rides. We ate over-priced hot dogs and sweet potatoes fries from the park's concessionaire, and then we headed home to set up your new tent in the backyard.

In the evening, we shared a meal of your choosing (soup, salad and bread) a cake that you made with your mother (homemade chocolate with green butter frosting and candied pansies).

In the end, today will likely melt into all the other birthdays of your young life. You might not remember it all that clearly — if you remember it at all.

But I assure you, we all had a blast.

Love,
dad