Dear Spike, Love Dad

THE BOO-HOO SONG

2009-07-09T23:37:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike:

Today you bit your mother so hard that she bled.

Tomorrow you will get nothing resembling lenience from me. You'll get one chance to do everything your mother and I tell you to do. And if you don't, you'll be singing the boo-hoo song in the time-out chair. And if that doesn't work, we'll start taking your stuffed animals hostage.

Oh yeah, that's how I roll.

Love,
dad

POURING SOME HONEY

2009-07-09T02:07:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

I hear you were very brave — and I couldn't be prouder. But I am very sorry you had to meet the business end of a honey bee earlier this week.

You were on a walk with your mother clear on the other side of the park when it happened. You were batting away some nasty summer gnats when a bee landed on your hand. When you tried to swat it away, too, it sank its stinger into you.

You were still sobbing, a bit, when you finally made it home, but you held up your hand rather proudly to show off a tiny red spot on your finger.

You held out that same hand, yesterday, as I was pouring some honey into a coffee mug.

"Some honey, daddy?" you asked.

I obliged, dropping a dab on your finger.

"Mmmmmm," you said as you tasted the thick golden liquid. "Some more?"

For a moment, I felt like helping you make the connection between two moments — one sweet and one painful.

But then I thought better of it.

"Here you go," I said, squeezing another drop from the bottle. "Enjoy."

Love,
dad

PICTURES DON'T LIE

2009-07-06T01:41:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike:

From one day to the next, you look and seem the same to me. I know that you're growing bigger and bigger, smarter and smarter, but I cannot see it.

But, as they say, pictures don't lie. And the ones your mother shared with me recently told a thousand words about how you've grown over the past year.

In the first, taken just after your first birthday, you walk through a narrow waterpark stream aided by your grandmother's hand. You're cautious, feet fixed in the water and weight low to the ground. Your hair is soft, short and swept to the side.

In the second, taken just after your second birthday, you navigate the same stream all alone. You're confident, tip-toeing through the water with carefree abandon. Your hair is set up in pig tails.

My how you've grown. My how you have changed. I can only imagine what next year's photos might reveal.

But I'm happy to wait to find out.

I love this moment in your life, just as I did the last. And I am savoring every moment.

And taking lots of photos.

Love,
dad

YOUR REAL NAME

2009-07-03T09:03:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

Last week, inexplicably, you demanded that we start calling you by your real name...

...

...

... Banana Dog.

"Banana Dog?" you mother asked.

"Uh huh, Banana Dog," you replied.

"Um, OK. Hello Banana Dog," she said.

"That's right!" you beamed.

This morning, you decided, you needed a new name.

"I'm Walrus the Fob," you explained.

"Um, OK," I said. "Good morning Walrus the Fob."

"Good morning, daddy," you replied.

I think I like this.

Love,
Buck Duck Brahma

TELL A STORY

2009-06-29T22:20:00.005-06:00

Dear Spike:

Your imagination is blossoming like a summer rose, full of color and life and fragrance — an absolutely beautiful thing to watch unfold.

This evening, as I was working on my computer in the shade of our porch, you came outside wearing a set of butterfly wings and one of your mother's silk scarfs. "Would you like to come to a birthday party, Daddy?" you asked.

Well, who could say no?

"You have to wear this hat," you said, handing me one of your mother's straw hats with a purple bow.

No problem at all. I dutifully put on the hat and followed you into our home to find a table with a Play-dough birthday cake and a gang of costumed animal sitting on pillows all around.

"We've been playing birthday for the past half-hour," your mother explained, herself wearing a funny hat and scarf.

"You set this all up?" I asked her.

"No, she did," your mother replied, gesturing in your direction.

Later in the evening, you were bouncing on our bed like a caffeinated monkey on a trampoline when you suddenly decided you wanted a change of pace.

"A cave!" you cried, diving under the blankets. "Mommy and daddy come, too."

We all ducked under the blanket together and you began to tell a story.

"Once upon a time, a long, long time ago..." you began.

The story was about Goldilocks, the Three Bears — and you.

"... and then they all cleaned up the house together," you explained.

You can make a telephone out of anything. Once when we were out to dinner with your Uncle Papa, you spoke to Barack Obama on a pickle.

This afternoon, your mother tells me, you were on the line with someone of even higher stature.

"She was talking to God," she told me.

I wonder what She told you. Maybe tomorrow you'll tell me all about it.

Love,
dad

CHAIRMAN AND SPECIAL

2009-06-24T23:18:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

When we named your stuffed cat "Chairman Meow" we thought we were being quite clever. Turns out that the word for "cat" in Mandarin is "mao," (or so you tell me) so we could have named the little furry feline "Chairman Mao" and been just as savvy and ironic.

It wouldn't likely change the way you feel about him, which is to say that he's pretty much your best inanimate friend in the world — except for maybe your favorite blanket, a sea green knitted throw you've taken to calling "Special."

You go pretty much everywhere with Chairman and Special. And you won't go to sleep without them. Not without a fight, at least.

Which is why I am, at this moment, sitting on the folding table of the laundry room in the oh-so-posh Desert Inn Hotel, across the street from Disneyland, while you, just upstairs, are fighting sleep like a death row inmate being dragged down the green mile.

In retrospect — goodness, I say that a lot these days — we may have played up this Disney adventure a little too much. We've been talking about it since your birthday, nearly a month ago. And each day of this long trip, we've reminded you that your impeccable behavior would be rewarded with a visit to the Happiest Place on Earth.

Hell, we might as well have called it Mickey Mecca.

You didn't get much of a nap today after playing on the beach with your new friends in San Clemente (turns out you like the ocean after all, but that's another happy story.) So when it came time to put you down to bed, tonight, we thought for sure you'd fall fast asleep, visions of Tinkerbell dancing in your head.

As it turns out, though, you were a little too excited to slumber. In fact, you were pretty much bouncing off the hotel's wall paper.

But you were tired.

So you were a little upset.

And then upset turned into cranky.

And then cranky turned into sick.

And then you puked macaroni noodles all over the hotel bed.

And all over on Chairman.

And all over Special.

It fell to me to find a laundromat — and luckily there was one just downstairs from our room — to clean all that up.

But I've got the easy job. I really don't envy your mother, who at this moment is sitting at your bedside trying to keep you calm so that — in 31 minutes when this drier has run through my buck-fifty and I appear heroically at the foot of your bed holding your freshly-washed friends — you don't respond by puking all over your best buddies again.

If all goes well, though, you'll be curled up with Chairman and Special very soon.

And in any case, I've learned my lesson. I'm not saying the "D-word" again until we're walking down Main Street, U.S.A.

Love,
dad

AS WE DID

2009-06-24T00:22:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

We'd been planning on spending the a good part of this week lounging on the beach, making sand castles, splashing in the waves and collecting shells.

You took one step into the ocean and decided otherwise.

"No!" you screamed. "I can't. I can't."

Your mother and I looked at each other with mutual — and utter — confusion.

First of all, where in the world did you learn to say "I can't"?

And secondly, what do you mean you can't? It's the ocean. It makes up three-quarters of the planet's surface. It's a sunny day in Venice Beach. What could possibly be the problem?

Maybe given a few more days, you'll find out that you really do like the beach. But it was a bit sad for both your Oregonian mother and Californian father to realize, in the midst of your panicked screams, that our Utahn daughter isn't going to have the same relationship with the ocean as we had growing up, chiefly because she's just not going to see it as much as we did.

OK, it wasn't a bit sad. It was a lot sad. A whole lot sad. My daughter's afraid of the sea — I'd never felt so guilty for moving our family to Utah as I did on Monday.

Still resolved to get you better acquainted with the beach, but not to scar you for life, we took a break today and instead took a hike a Malibu Creek State Park to the place where the show M*A*S*H was filmed. At the sacred spot, some volunteers have set about recreating the camp's footprint with ropes and stakes and helpful signs. They even recreated the famous 4077th camp sign, next to which we stood for a photograph that will stand as proof of our family's nerdy obsession with a show that ended nearly a quarter-century ago.

We then marched up the path of the old helicopter landing pad, found a patch of shade and sat on the hillside and listened to you tell stories about what you saw in the "camp" below.

"There's Colonel Potter," you said.

"Where?"

"Hiding in the trees... Hello Colonel Potter! I can see you!"

"Who else do you see?"

"Klinger!" you said. "And Radar and Hawkeye... Hello Hawkeye!"

Funny what you pick up from your parents. And funny what you don't.

You appear to have picked up our love for an old television show — but not for the ocean. I guess one out of two isn't bad, though if I had a choice, it would be in the opposite order.

But I guess parents don't really get a choice about those sorts of things. Kids pick up some passions and pass on others.

Tomorrow we'll try the ocean again. And I'll love you no matter what happens when we get there.

Love,
dad

Today we decided to

KEEP IT UP

2009-06-22T15:33:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

What a trooper you've been.

Halfway through our trip, you're clearly starting to feel the strain of jumping from place to place, sleeping in strange beds and visiting pretty much every last one of the 37 million residents of California.

But you've remained in pretty good spirits — and for the most part, you've remained on your best behavior, too.

Keep it up, kid. Disneyland awaits.

Love,
dad

SARDINES FLY BY

2009-06-16T14:13:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

We spent the morning at the Monterrey Bay Aquarium. Your mouth hung anchovy agape as you watched the tuna, sharks and schools of sardines fly by.

Now it's nap time. We blown up an air mattress in the back of the car for you, but — no surprise — you don't seem to want to sleep.

Still, life is good. The sun is beginning to burn through the clouds. There's a cool southern breeze blowing over the bay. We've got nowhere to be and no schedule to keep.

Life. Is. Good.

Love,

dad

LONG AND SHORT

2009-06-11T21:44:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

Your mother seems to be on the road to recovery. And barring a turn for the worse among the other members of our family, it looks like we'll all be on the road to California in a couple of days.

It's a trip that feels quite a bit overdue. Your cousin Stas was born way back in March and we still haven't met the little guy. How can you miss someone you haven't even met yet? Because that's how I feel.

While we're in Los Angeles, we'll take a turn through Disneyland — a belated birthday trip for you to the purported Happiest Place on Earth. Stas and his parents are scheduled to join us there, as will your Gaky and Papa.

Along the way we'll do a bit of sightseeing, hit the beach, pitch a few tents and, undoubtedly and repeatedly, listen to Uncle Mikey's song, "Keep Moving," — your favorite tune for drives both long and short.

Best of all, we'll all be together, having an adventure.

Love,
dad

LIKE CRAZY CAKES

2009-06-09T23:52:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

This is not the way your mother intended to start her summer vacation.

She called me from school yesterday afternoon. "Please come and get me," she said. "I'm sick."

Boy, was she ever. Green in the face and unsteady on her feet, she walked to the car as though she'd just been hit by a logging truck.

She was feeling a bit better today, but not enough to head back for the last day of school. Your Auntie Sue said goodbye to the class — a good third of which was missing, apparently having been brought down by the same bug your mother has.

It's because of the apparently hyper-contagious nature of you're mother's current ailment that we decided it would be best to keep you and her apart, today. So it was that, for the first time in the two years that you've spent on this planet, you went a whole day without a hug or a kiss from your mommy.

It took a while, but you ultimately seemed to understand the funny new don't-touch-mommy game we were playing — although you did attempt a few end runs around the no-contact clause of your contract, today.

"Mommy is very, very sick," you said.

"That's right," I said.

"She needs to go to the doctor," you said.

"Could be," I said.

"I'm a doctor!" you suggested.

One neat thing about this otherwise unfortunate arrangement is that it gave your mother a chance to watch us in action as we went about our daily routine. As I got your ready for a morning run, fixed your lunch and read you books before your nap, she watched from the sidelines.

"You know, you're a pretty good dad," she said a few times today.

I smiled and shrugged. I think I am a pretty good dad, but it felt good to hear her say that.

I don't usually get to watch over you from wake-up to bed-down, so today was quite a joy for me. I even got to take you on a date to the Lebanese restaurant down the street from our home while your mother rested. And you were absolutely lovely company.

I know the day was torture for her, though. She loves you like crazy cakes. And to have to spend an entire day without being able to nibble on your little toes or blow on your tiny tummy or nuzzle into your little neck was simply too much for her to bear.

She cried a lot today.

In the end, it might not matter that we kept you apart. Like a game of viral Risk, your little body might already have been conquered by the same microscopic army that's playing "When Johnny Comes Marching" with your mother's immune system right now. Mine, too, for that matter. Ugh.

I'm hoping, though, that we've managed to save you that pain. Not just for your sake, but for your mother's, too. She missed you a lot, today, and I'd hate to think that she'd gone through all of that for naught.

No matter what happens, though, you should know that your mother loves you so much that she's willing not to hug and kiss you.

And that's a lot of love.

Love,
dad

ALL I NEED

2009-06-03T20:45:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

Lately I've been wandering around this place and wondering just who owns it.

Your mother and I are ones whose names are listed on the mortgage, of course. But as I walk from room to room, I see less and less that belongs to us and more and more that belongs to you.

There's a soccer goal in the dining room. A tricycle in the living room. In the kitchen there's... a kitchen — a plastic replica that took me several hours to piece together (thanks again, mom.) The bath tub is filled with rubber toys. The front porch is home to two strollers (one that goes fast and one that goes really fast.) My office is staffed with your stuffed animals. Your mother's sewing room is littered with dress-up outfits.

Not even our own bedroom is our own bedroom. When I woke up this morning I was spooning a stuffed hippo. And I swear he had this funny little grin on his face.

I'm not complaining. When you're around, this stuff keeps you engaged and entertained. When you're not, it reminds me of you.

But, it's true, you do seem to have accumulated quite a bit of stuff in your two years on this planet. And that gives me a bit of pause because your mother and I aren't exactly "stuff" people. We're not into trinkets or gadgets or glam. We're not big on fancy clothes or expensive furniture.

I'm not too concerned that any of these things will turn you into a material girl, but it's probably worth noting, nonetheless: All of this stuff is nice, but none of it will make you happy.

For that you need freedom and enlightenment and music and love. For that you need fresh air and beautiful sunsets. For that you need quiet moments, a comfortable bed and good friends.

For that, you don't need anything or everything.

You just need you.

That's all I need, too — just you. And you're mother, too.

All the rest of this stuff is nice. But it's just stuff.

Love,
dad

LOVE YOUR MOTHER

2009-06-02T02:48:00.001-06:00

Dear Spike:

Even though she sometimes tries to push me off the bed when I'm sleeping, I love your mother.

It's an unconditional sort of thing.

Love,
dad

VISITING THE DOCTOR

2009-05-31T02:06:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

Your mother's plan was pure genius.

For as long as you've been able to sit upright, you've been terrified of the doctor's office. Just as soon as you see Nurse Tara — the one who give the shots — you start looking for the exits.

In most situations, you're a pretty cool cat. But every time Tara asks us to strip you down to be weighed, you go a bit bonkers.

You cry.

You squirm.

You scream.

It's all really sort of embarrassing.

So with your second birthday approaching — and your two-year check-up impending — your mother had one of those lightbulb-above-the-head moments. She hopped online and found a bag of toy doctor equipment. Then, figuring that you wouldn't be satisfied with a plastic toy stethoscope, she found you the real thing. She also picked up two books about visiting the doctor.

By the time your appointment came round, you were ready. Doctor's bag in hand, you marched into the office as if you were making a house call.

And then you saw Tara.

You cried.

You squirmed.

You screamed.

But by the time Dr. Schrwiever arrived on the scene, we'd calmed you down a bit. And you were more than happy to let her check your vitals — a stark improvement from our last visit, when the poor doctor had to leave the room for a bit for fear of sending you into complete hysterics. You were eager to let her listen to your breathing and check out your eyes, ears and throat. And we were proud as pup when the doctor showed us that you had shot up in weight a bit — enough so that you were finally actually on the chart! (Albeit hugging the bottom line.)

When Tara returned — with a shot, I'm sad to say — you once again flew into a rage. But you recovered nicely, afterward, even if, for the next two days, you complained that "Tara hurt me." (We keep insisting to you that she was simply doing what your parents asked her to do, but you're not buying it.)

All told, though, your mother's plan worked rather well. You don't like getting shots (who does?) but you kept your cool for most of the appointment, which is all we could have hoped for.

Meanwhile, your "check up gear" have fast become your favorite playthings. And it's probably worth noting that you look stellar with a stethoscope dangling from your ears.

You bedside manner does leave a little something to be desired. ("You are very, very, very, very sick," I heard you tell one of your stuffed animal patients this morning.)

But nobody's perfect.

Love,
dad

WHATEVER IT IS

2009-05-28T17:44:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

"Let's clear the air on something right now before it becomes a problem," your mother tells me, out of the blue.

I swallow hard and look up with her with my best whatever-I-did-I'm-very-very-sorry face.

"When your daughter says, 'Mommy met a man' she's talking about the guy who loaded the bag of chicken feed into the trunk. That's all, OK?"

Whew.

I'm glad we got that straightened out. And I'm glad that your mother still doesn't know about whatever it is that I've screwed up today — and, alas, there is probably something that I've screwed up today.

Love,
dad

EXCEPT IN RETROSPECT

2009-05-26T21:38:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike:

When you're a parent, you get to say a lot of big words like "retrospect."

For instance, in retrospect, it might have been a good idea not to spend the past two weeks talking about all the fun we're going to have on the occasion of your second birthday, because now — on said birthday's eve — you're so giddy with anticipation that you can't get to sleep. And it's going to be a bit tough to make good on all those exciting promises tomorrow if you can't keep your eyes open.

Lesson learned.

There have been a lot of those over the past two years.

For instance, if you want your daughter to be excited to see you after a week away from home, it's best not to do something to drastically alter your appearance, as I did when I shaved my beard on the way home from Cuba, last year.

And if you don't want your kid to puke up rotten milk all over her bed covers, it's a good idea to make sure she hasn't hidden a bottle under her pillow during nap time so that she could have an extra few sips before bed.

And if you decide you want to teach you daughter to spell the word "fun," it's a bad idea to laugh when she mispronounces the letters "F-U-N" as "eff-you-man" — because that's the way she'll spell that word for a long time to come.

I've learned what songs make you laugh and which ones make you cry. I've learned how to hug you when you say you need a hug and how to hug you when you say you don't. I've learned that I need to remind you every day that, even though your mother has gone off to work, she'll be coming home soon.

I've learned all this because, in retrospect, there was a time that I should have done something else.

There are very nearly 7 billion people on this planet — and every single one of them had parents. And every single one of those parents had parents. And every single one of those parents had parents. And so on and so on until our Eve.

You'd think, with all that experience, our species would have developed a full-proof plan for parenting. Of course, we've got nothing of the sort. Even good parents — and I think your mother and I are good parents — manage to screw things up quite a bit. Hence the little girl in the room right next to ours who, in between adorably off-key choruses of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" has been chanting "birth-day! birth-day! birth-day!" for the past 30 minutes.

The trick is not to screw up in any irreparable ways — and so far (I think) we've managed to guide your little ship past any catastrophic crashes upon the rocks of life.

I guess we won't know for sure, though, except in retrospect.

But we're doing our best. And we're having a lot of fun.

That's "F-U-N," by the way.

Lesson learned.

Love,
dad

EVEN MORE ADVENTURES

2009-05-22T00:52:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

I'm sleeping alone tonight while you and your mother are on an adventure — in a tent in our backyard.

Your mom has been getting you ready for this all week. When the evening finally came you couldn't contain your excitement. You even asked to go to bed early.

I can tell that your mother is getting excited too. In just a few more weeks, she'll begin her summer vacation. Then you can have even more adventures like this one.

And maybe sometimes you'll let me come along.

Love,
dad

EVER GREATER EXPECTATIONS

2009-05-18T06:25:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike:

I'm guessing the lady at the hardware store's check-out stand asks everyone the same question: "So watcha makin' hon?"

"I'm building a book nook in the attic for my daughter," I told her.

"Ahh, that's sweet," she replied. "How old is she?"

"She'll be two later this month," I said as I slid my credit card through the machine.

The lady looked at me with a puzzled expression on her face.

"Two year olds don't read, hon," she said, handing me a receipt.

"Um, mine will," I said.

"Well, sure sweety," she said, already turning to the next customer, "good luck with that."

We get this sort of thing a lot.

When you were about three months old, I was chatting with a pregnant colleague about potty training, when another coworker walked by.

"Potty training?" he said to me. "What do you know about that? Your kid isn't potty trained."

"Actually, she uses the toilet pretty regularly," I said.

"No she doesn't," he said.

I gave him the best "whatever, jerk" look I could muster, then turned back to the coworker with whom I'd been conversing. I explained how, as long as we were perceptive to your needs, you were more than capable of doing your business in the toilet.

But the nosy coworker was undeterred. "So you're saying that you just hold her over the toilet and she goes?"

"Something like that."

"She's probably just peeing because she's terrified that you're going to drop her," he said. "Good luck with that."

At the park, a few days ago, we were practicing your colors in Chinese. Another parent walked by.

"Do you mind me asking what language that is?"

"Mandarin," I told her.

"Oh, is her mother Chinese?" the woman asked.

I looked down at my Irish-pale daughter. "Um, no," I said. "We just thought it would be good for her to know another language."

"Oh, us too," she said. "My daughter's learning Spanish."

"That's great" I replied. "That will be very important."

"You know, Chinese is much too hard for a toddler to learn," she said. "You should start with something else."

"Thanks," I said. "But I think she's doing pretty well with this."

"OK," she said. "Good luck with that."

Sigh.

When other parents ask me for advice, I share what we've learned — all our successes and all our missteps. But I'm not in the habit of dolling out unsolicited advice. And no, even though I'm really proud of you, I don't really care to compare you to their kid. I just don't feel the need.

Everyone develops differently. You took a long time to walk, but you talk like a champ. You're one of the smallest kids on the playground, but you're pretty fearless when it comes to tackling the big kid toys. I'm certain that you'll excel at many things. And I'm sure there will be some things that you'll struggle at.

It all comes out in the wash.

But it's true that we have big expectations of you. And so I never set out with the assumption that you can't do something.

So yes, I believe you'll be reading this year. Maybe not War and Peace, but definitely Dick and Jane. And yes, that infant potty training thing worked out quite nicely, thank you very much. And yes, I'm pretty sure that your ability to learn Mandarin is only limited by how much exposure we can give you to that language.

But our love for you isn't conditional on any of those things. You don't win any more love for being bright than you would if you were the dumbest kid on the block. In fact, all you really get for exceeding our expectations are even greater expectations.

That might sound like a raw deal. And I suppose that in some ways it is.

But the way I see it, it's your own darn fault.

Love,
dad

SLEEPING FOR REAL

2009-05-13T23:38:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike:

Right around the time we were getting ready to ship you off to bed, you walked into our room dragging a box top, your special green blanket, and a stuffed bear.

You set the box top down, laid down inside of it and pulled your blanket up over your body.

"Um... exactly what are you doing?" I asked.

"Sleeping," you replied. "Shhhhhh."

That wee bit of über-adorableness was all it took to win a pajama party with your mother and father. We slid a disc into the DVD player, hopped into bed and snuggled in.

Now, you're sleeping for real, taking up more than your fair share of the bed, and I'm trying to keep from falling over the side.

Maybe I should have just let you sleep in the box.

Love,

dad

JUST LIKE THAT

2009-05-08T01:05:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

I was working a late shift in the office, last night, when I got a call from your mother.

"I'm about to put the baby to bed," she said. "Would you like to say goodnight?"

And thus began our very first phone conversation...

"Hi Daddy!"

"Hey baby, how are you doing?"

"Good. What you doing Daddy?"

"I'm working, honey. Are you getting ready for bed?"

"Yes."

"OK, well, have a happy night-night."

"Happy night-night."

"I love you."

"Love you Daddy."

It's a strange thing talking to someone on the phone who, such a short time ago couldn't say a word. It made me realize just how much you've changed in the past year.

These days you speak in (nearly) complete sentences, you tell jokes, you make rhymes, you translate food names and numbers and colors into Mandarin, you sing on key and you spell words like "cat" and "mom" and "pig" and "fun."

You choose your own clothes, you take yourself to the potty, you say "please" and "thank you" and you're even showing signs of being able to control those terrible twos, before two ever starts.

Today your babysitter's daughter was sick, so I brought you along to a meeting at a coffee shop near our home. You sat patiently, watching Sesame Street and drawing on my notebooks for a good hour, but after a while you started to get a bit bored, and decided that you were going to start throwing donut crumbs all over. When I stopped you, you cried. But that didn't last long.

"What are you doing right now?"

"Throwing tantrum."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Bad."

"What do you say?"

"Sorry Daddy."

Just like that, it was over. And that's been par for the course, lately.

That's not to say you don't ever test our patience. You've picked most your mother's favorite flowers from the garden before they ever had a chance to fully bloom. You seem to enjoy throwing food on the floor when you're done eating. And sometimes, when you decide that you just don't want to go to sleep, you turn into quite a cranky little gnome.

That's all part of growing up, too. And you're growing up so fast.

Love,

dad

THESE BUSY TIMES

2009-05-06T02:16:00.001-06:00

Dear Spike:

Someday, when you’re old enough to read all these letters, you might notice a gap between April 23 and May 6 in which your father didn’t write a single word for you. In the nearly three years I’ve been penning these letters, I’ve never let such a long period go by without so much as a word for posterity.

My devotion to you has not waned in these weeks, nor has your life suffered from a lack of interesting episodes, worthy of documentation and contemplation. This has simply been a busy time for me, a period in which converging deadlines at work and school have left precious little time for other pursuits.

You’ll have these busy times too, one day — times in which you won’t have the time or energy to visit with your dad via whatever communication technology is in vogue at the time.

And I’ll understand. Everything you’re mother and I are doing for you, right now, is designed to prepare you to live a healthy, independent, successful and fulfilling life. In the midst of all that, I’m sure there will be many days — and maybe many weeks — that we will not have the opportunity to communicate. I’ll love you nonetheless.

Then there is that chance — slim, I hope — that I will not be there at all. One day I’ll simply have written my last word for you. You’ll have to take it from there. A gap of two weeks will turn into four. Four will turn to eight. And so on and so on forever. I hope that when that day comes you never feel as though I was too busy for you in the times I could have been.

You’ll never suffer from a lack of my devotion or interest in your life. But if you ever feel you’re suffering from a lack of attention, you are free to ask for an adjustment to our lives.

For you should never doubt that you are the most important thing in my life. And I will do my vest best never to give you reason to even contemplate it.

Love,

dad

ALWAYS WILL BE

2009-04-23T02:09:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike:

I still call you my baby. No doubt I always will. But with each passing day, it's getting harder and harder to see you as anything but a little girl.

Some of the benchmarks are obvious:
• Your obsession with the swings at the park. "Not the baby swing, daddy," you tell me. "The big girl swing!"
• The way you contemplate questions and give meaningful answers. "Who is my girl?" I ask. "Mamma is a girl and me is a girl," you say.

But the benchmarks that are most profound are usually the ones that are most unexpected.
• The way you've taken to saying "yeah," and "nope" and "OooooKay!"
• How you sometimes sing yourself to sleep: "Imalida tea pot short and stout, heresmahanda heresma.... zzzzzzzzzzzzz!"

You're getting bigger, and taller, and heavier. Yet when I hold you in my arms, and especially when your head is resting on my shoulder, you're still my baby.

No doubt you always will be.

Love,
dad

HOW IT IS

2009-04-21T01:09:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

You're just in the next room over, but I miss you.

I guess that's just how it is when you love someone as much as your mother and I love you.

I can't wait for tomorrow.

Love,
dad

IN PROPER ORDER

2009-04-19T00:59:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

It's taken some time for me to get used to the addition of school work to my already busy routine, but three weeks into this little adventure, I'm feeling good about the decision.

For the most part, I've been able to keep my academic obligations from taking too much time away from you -- which was my chief concern going in. And although I'm a shameless procrastinator, I've been dutifully working and reading ahead, which I'm hoping will translate into more days like the one we've got scheduled today -- a family hike in the mountains near our home.

Although I fully intend to keep my priorities in proper order, like anything else that steals away a part of the day I know there will be times in which this will interfere with our ability to spend time together. Please forgive me. I'm trying to better myself and, in doing so, put myself in a position to better our family.

But if you need me, I promise I'll be here for you.

It's nice to do well in school. But it's better to do well in life.

Love,
dad

REALLY NOTHING CUTER

2009-04-09T21:06:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

You've escaped your bedroom four times already tonight. I'm beginning to wonder whether it was such a good idea to take apart your crib.

On the other hand, there's really nothing cuter than seeing you try to sneak into our room in your pajamas.

Love,
dad