Dear Spike, 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 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

AS SHE IS

2011-05-08T16:10:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

Today is Mother's Day. And as it happens your mother is working overtime on your behalf today.

Sometimes, the things in life that could most certainly go without saying are the most important things to say. And in this spirit, let me say something about your mom:

She's amazing. And she loves you like nothing else in the world.

You're a lot like your mother — more and more every day — and I figure that's a wonderful thing, because there is no better person on this planet for you to be like. If you are kind as she is, and if you are passionate as she is, and if you are capable as she is, then you will grow up to be a very amazing person.

As she is.

It's been a very long couple of days for me here (and you both, there, I know) — and the days ahead are almost certain to prove to be even more challenging for all of us. But I am strengthened by the absolute knowledge that you are in the absolutely best hands in the world.

Be good to your mom. Today and always.

Love,
dad

MAKE US HUMAN

2011-05-07T08:34:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

You cried off and on all morning long. But when it came time to say goodbye, you were very brave.

“I’ll miss you,” you said as we knelt together on the drop-off curb near Terminal 2. “But you will be home soon.”

“Yes,” I said. “I will be home soon.”

A bird flew past my luggage, landing on a bench nearby. “Can I chase it?” you asked.

“Not today,” I said. And with that your mother lifted you off the ground and hefted you into your car seat.

One more hug and a kiss — awkward as I leaned into the doorframe with my heavy rucksack on my back — and then I lumbered away. Heartsick.

I love and hate these trips.

The hate part is easy to explain. I hate leaving you.

The love part is tougher to put into words. This is not, by any stretch of the imagination, going to be a comfortable trip. It will take me six days of hard traveling to get to my destination in southern Ethiopia. Once there, we will camp outside of a tribal village and, over the next week, work to build trust with local villagers enough to get them to share with us a dark and disturbing secret. I don’t love the mosquitoes, the parasites, the burning hot African sun. I don’t love the prospect of dealing with layers upon layers of government officials who do not want me to share their shame with the world. I don’t hate those things, per se, but I don’t love them, either.

But I do love the prospect — however slight it might be — that my work might matter. It might change some lives. And, in this case, it might just save a few, too. That’s why I love this. That’s why I leave you.

It’s easy to love something. A person. A work of art. A job. A place.

And it’s easy to hate, too. (Far too easy, I’d say.)

But those things that make us feel both emotions at the same time — those things are what make us human, I think.

And I am feeling very human today. I’m anxious, excited, giddy and sad. I’m wary and tired and curious and proud.

I’m ready. And I’m not.

I will miss you, dear little one. And I will think about you every minute that I am away.

Love,
dad

P.S. — Dear Spike's friends: To learn more about out project, and what you can do to support it, visit mingistoryproject.blogspot.com

FROM THAT SPARK

2011-03-31T00:48:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike:

I'm not sure how it escaped me — and I'm not sure how I finally remembered, either — but this evening as I was sitting with your mother, it suddenly occurred to me...

... we have been together for 10 years.

I first met your mom in the kitchen of an apartment I shared with two roommates, Adam and Joel, in Corvallis.

I don't have the best memory in the world, but I remember that moment vividly.

She was wearing a pink sweater and black pants. He shoulder-length brown hair was pulled into a single ponytail. And she had the most striking eyes — one significantly more green, the other significantly more blue — I'd ever seen.

Just one problem: She was dating Adam.

Over the next few weeks we got to know each other, usually while waiting for Adam to get ready for their dates. He always seemed to take a really long time. And I didn't mind that one bit.

While she waited, we chatted. And while we chatted, we might have even flirted a bit.

And why not? She was funny and sassy and confident and intelligent. Absolutely beautiful. And while it seemed that she and Adam were having a good time together, it never seemed that their relationship was destined to be more than a college romance.

I learned that she was a local girl – she lived in north town with her parents. She learned that I was a bit of a cad — after a long relationship had gone sour, I was... um... exploring my new-found freedom.

I was getting close to graduation. She was in her freshman year. We both needed to take an astronomy class — and we agreed to take it together. At least, we reasoned, we'd have something to talk about when she was waiting for Adam.

Then, one day, Adam came home and told me that they'd broken up. No big deal, he said. They just weren't meant for each other.

And I started counting the days until our astronomy class began.

It didn't take long for me to convince her to ditch class...

... first for lunch at the New Morning Bakery, where we sat next to one another and she glibly mocked my vegetarian diet ...

... next for a picnic at Avery Park, where we shared strawberries and a bottle of wine and watched the Marys River trickle by.

I liked her. She liked me. But I was, I admit, a little standoffish. She knew I'd recently been seeing several women — and I didn't want her to think that she was just another one of the bunch.

Then, one evening, we took a stroll through her neighborhood and wound up facing one another on a sliding platform in the playground at her old elementary school.

I leaned forward. She did too.

I've shared a lot of great kisses with your mother, but none so soft and tender as that one. Ten years it has been, and I can still feel the wetness of her lips. I can still hear her stuttering breath as I touched the back of her neck. I can still see her coy smile as we parted.

It was only a matter of weeks later that we were living together. And just a matter of months before we were engaged. We were married in your grandparent's backyard on a stunning August night.

Ten years, we've been together. And while things are not always perfect — nothing in life is perfect, you see — I wouldn't change a thing.

Because out of that first meeting, there was a spark.

And from that spark, there was a kiss.

And from that kiss, there grew love.

And in that love, a family began.

No, nothing in life is perfect. But I couldn't imagine how it could be any better, either.

Ten years it's been. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Love,
dad

MY LITTLE PARTNER

2011-03-23T01:14:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

Your mother called today with the good news: "She got into Highland," she said.

Yes.

Fist pump.

I might as well have learned you'd gotten into Harvard.

There weren't many openings at the preschool we'd chosen for you, but just the same we really weren't looking anywhere else. This school — mostly for the children of Salt Lake School District employees — seemed to have the right combination of location, curriculum and price.

We sat you down in the hallway to tell you the news.

You jumped for joy. I beamed with pride.

And then I went into my room and cried.

For nearly four years you've been my little partner at home. It hasn't always been easy, but we've played games and taken walks. You've gone with me on assignments and waited patiently for me as I've hurried through my writing chores. We've read books, watched movies, made cake. We've spent entire days at the park, in the mountains, at the pool.

Now I'm off to a new job and you're off to a new school.

Well, not for a few months more, at least.

So here it is: The last hurrah. You and me, kiddo. And, oh my, how we're going to make the best of it.

Carpe vicis.

Love,
dad

FRIENDS WITH CARS

2011-03-22T00:44:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

He's got long blond hair and a devilish smile. And the other day he came rolling up in a PowerWheels Jeep.

"I just got a new car," he yelled out from across the street. "Want to go for a ride?"

Suddenly, your mother says, the future flashed before her eyes. Someday, she realized, some good looking young person is going to pull up to our home in a real car, rev the engine a few times for good measure, and invite you for a ride.

But the way I see it, you've got two choices in life: You can accept the future or you can't. And either way, the future is coming — or it's not, which is really not a very good outcome. So I've come to terms with the future, and much of what it entails...

... I think.

So yes, someday you will have friends with cars. And yes, someday you too will drive.

There will be parties. And concerts. And dates.

And inevitably you'll want to wear something that I don't want you to wear.

And inevitably you'll want to do something that I don't want you to do.

I get that.

I also know that you'll not always make the decisions that I would wish for you. About all your mother and I can do about that is try our damnedest to give you the confidence, morals and support it takes to make good choices in hard situations.

And I know you will. Mostly.

As for all those other times...

... well...

... please wear your seat belt.

Love,
dad

BIT O' GREEN

2011-03-18T00:05:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

Today is St. Patrick's Day. And although your ancestors came from all over this big, green earth, the biggest piece of 'em came from one big, green island.

You're Irish, kid. So today is your day.

Or something like that. Truth is that St. Paddy's is for everyone. That's what I really love about it. Each year on March 17, it doesn't matter if you're black, brown, white or whatever — so long as you're wearing a bit o' green.

Still, your heritage gives you the right to be particularly proud on this day. I think that's OK. It's good to be proud of who you are and where you came from — just so long as you share it equally with everyone.

Love,
dad

THOSE ROUGH WATERS

2011-03-03T22:39:00.004-07:00

Dear Spike:

I always said I'd go down with the ship. But the ship is sailing on. And, it would appear, it is doing so without me.

After a decade of chasing scoops and beating deadlines, I'm leaving my job as a newspaper reporter.

The reasons are myriad, but not all that complicated. I love what I do and would be very pleased to know that I could do it for the rest of my life. But the future of the newspaper industry is murky, at best. More than 30,000 newspaper employees in this country have lost their jobs in the past three years. Hundreds of papers have stopped the presses.

I was perfectly aware that this could happen when I got into this business. I'll never forget the day that my father came home, arms wrapped around a cardboard box, after the newspaper at which he worked closed its doors in 1993. I'll never forget the look on his face.

So yes, I knew the waters would be rough.

But damn the torpedoes, I said. Full steam ahead, I said.

That was before you came. I've always been willing to go down with the ship, but I'm not willing to bring you down, too.

And thankfully, I knew something:

The year after his paper closed, your grandfather helped bring the World Cup of soccer to the United States. Two years later, he helped found Major League Soccer (we benefited from his hard work just the other night when we watched Real Salt Lake defeat the Columbus Crew 4-1.) When he'd seen enough of the ugly side of the beautiful game, your papa bounced back into the newspaper industry for a few years before finally landing in the New Haven Unified School District, where he helps keep students, parents, teachers and administrators connected to their schools and to one another.

At every step along the way, he found purpose and satisfaction and joy.

And so I knew that I could too — no matter the ship on which I sailed.

Since shortly after you were born, I've been working toward making a transition from journalism to teaching. And today all that work came to fruition. I have accepted an offer to become an assistant professor at Utah State University.

The job comes with a lot of great benefits — not the least of which is the time and freedom to continue to commit acts of journalism. Yes, I'll be keeping my toe in those rough waters.

But the new job also comes with some sacrifices.

For the past three years, I have been blessed with the ability to work at home, with you by my side. It wasn't always easy to juggle my duties as a father with my duties as a journalist, but you helped me make it work. I would not trade the time we spent together for anything in the world.

Next year, you'll go off to school — and I'll be commuting to a job that is 90 miles away from our home. The department chair has pledged to help me arrange my schedule in such a way that is conducive to being both a good teacher and a good father and husband. I'm so grateful for his support, but it's still safe to say that there will be days that you and I won't see much of each other, if we see each other at all. That's going to be hard for me.

The trade-offs are weekends without the prospect of breaking news. School holidays. Summertime.

And, yes, a little bit of security.

That's not to say that these waters couldn't get rough, too. They very well might. But, at least for now, we sail on smoother seas.

Love,
dad

AND JOYFUL NOISE

2011-02-25T02:34:00.003-07:00

Dear Spike:

You laugh like a maniac. Like a mad viking sailing over the the end of the world. Like a mathematician who has woken up from a strange and colorful dream — only to find pi solved on a crumpled up napkin by her bedside.

It's frightening. And oh so beautiful.

Never stop laughing like that, OK? Whatever it is that you see in this world. Whatever it is that inspires that cackle, that guffaw, that whoop, that hoot. Whatever you feel, deep down inside when you're suddenly overwhelmed by that great and joyful noise.

Don't ever lose that.

I'm just guessing here — being long of this world, I suppose it's just hard for me to understand — but I think what I'm seeing is the hysterical manifestation of epiphany. You're at this beautiful point in your life in which you've begun to recognize things for what they are and for what you imagine them to be. All at once. You see and smell and taste and touch and develop ideas that belong to no one but yourself. You're creating irony and paradox all of your own making – and only of your own understanding.

Or maybe you're just laughing. What the hell do I know?

No, no — here's what I know: Something is happening in that tiny head of yours. Something miraculous. Something sweet. Something that I'm unlikely to ever understand. Something that, alas, you're unlikely to remember when you are as old as me.

But try. When you're alone, if you must (for yes, it's true, some people will not understand.) Try to laugh as you once did.

Like a frog who has found a princess' kiss. Like a mosquito zipping headlong into a flame. Like a wild beast in defiance of the brightest hunter's moon.

Laugh like a maniac. Laugh.

Love,
dad

OUR FAVORITE CHINESE

2011-01-21T19:22:00.002-07:00

Dear Spike:

We've long since lost track of how many words you know in Mandarin. You're far from fluent, but you can identify all the most important people, places and things out there; you can answer simple questions and you can ask — politely — for the things you want.

Your mother is picking things up quickly also. She's gonna have a pretty gnarly English accent, of course, but she's got a lot of words under her belt.

And then there is me. I've always been a little bit tone-deaf, and Mandarin is a tonal language. I'm lousy but I'm trying.

So it was a real confidence booster today when you and I went to our favorite Chinese restaurant and — working together — successfully completed our order in Mandarin. (I think Mandy, who was waiting the tables this afternoon, was being quite forgiving, but I'm still tacking this one up in the wins column.)

Feeling rather good about ourselves, we decided to do lunch in Mandarin.

We had soup. Hē tāng.

And drank water. Hē shuǐ.

And had vegetables. Chī shūcài.

With rice! Fàn!

While we ate, you schooled me on all the animals on our Chinese Zodiac place mats, and Mandy came by every few minutes to fill our water, praise your Mandarin and correct my pronunciations.

Toward the end of our lunch — just like every meal we eat, no matter the language — I noticed that you really hadn't eaten much off your plate.

"Chī Fàn!" I pleaded. "Chī Fàn! Eat Rice!"

Finally stuffed, you turned to me and said:

"Daddy, I'm eating so much rice, I'm going to get Chī funny."

Really? Chinglish puns?

Zhēn bàng!

Love,
dad

OF THE TIME

2011-01-15T23:03:00.002-07:00

Dear Spike:

Your mother and I moved your bed into our room earlier this week when you were running a fever. For two nights you sweated it out, right next to us, moaning and crying through the night, ripping the covers off, then burying yourself underneath the blankets, then ripping them away again.

We finally beat back the mercury, but three days later your bed remains in our room. You don't seem to want to go.

Tomorrow we'll force the issue, but tonight we relented. We rationalized that you still have a cough that has been keeping you up through the night, but the truth is that we just like to hear you snore.

When you were a baby, I would bolt upright in the middle of the night and rush over to your cradle just to make sure you were still breathing. I hear that's not an uncommon thing for parents to do, but I always felt a little bit silly afterward. Still, I liked to run my fingers through your thin wisps of hair, to kiss you gently on your forehead, to pull your soft blanket up to your chin.

I still do.

I won't be able to do that forever, of course, and I think I've made peace with that fact. Like everything else in life, you have to enjoy the moments that you're given today because, by definition, those moments won't be around tomorrow.

I want to let you know that I've been trying really hard to remember that these days.

As I try to figure out how best to juggle three jobs — each without a definitive time schedule to guide my work — sometimes I worry that you might end up feeling like you're just one more ball being tossed into the air.

I'm working not to let that happen. Last night you and I went out to pizza and then to a movie, where we chowed down on a $7 bag of popcorn, sipped on a $4 cup of fruit punch and nibbled on some cupcakes that we had sneaked into the theater. Next week, assuming you're feeling better, we'll head up the mountain to spend a morning on the bunny slopes. And next month we're going to Disneyland.

But I'll tell you something: None of that means anything. You can't quantify good fatherhood based on hours devoted, calories consumed, money spent or activities completed. In fact, I don't think you can quantify good fatherhood at all.

If you could, though, I suppose that part of the equation would have something to do with discipline. Not just for you — although that's certainly very important — but for me. You see, I would love nothing more than to spend our time together watching movies and eating sugary foods and racing down the slopes on our snowboards and spinning round and round at the Mad Hatter's Tea Party. That would be a lot of fun for me. And it would be fun for you — but it wouldn't be good for you.

Those are sometimes treats. The rest of the time, it's important for us to do things that will help you grow big, strong, smart and kind. We'll practice your reading. We'll clean up your playroom. We'll eat healthy foods. And we'll make good decisions.

Which brings me back to your bed. Tomorrow night, it's going back in your room. That's part of being a big girl.

It was, I'll admit, nice while it lasted. And yes, I might sneak into your room to run my fingers through your hair and listen to you snore. But if you start to wake up, I'll sneak back out again.

That's part of being a dad.

Love,
dad

EVIL-DOERS BEWARE

2010-12-27T11:01:00.002-07:00

Dear Spike:

I had to work Christmas Day, so we all got an early start.

Some earlier than others.By the time I woke, you'd already barreled into your stocking like a hound going after a squirrel. Your mother had filled mine, too: Golf balls and tees — a lovely, albeit bittersweet gift, since there are several inches of snow on my favorite course right now and since every one of those balls is destined for the bottom of a water hazard.

Other than the stocking-stuffers, we maintain a fairly simple Christmas tradition: Handmade gifts. Your mother made you a superhero cape, complete with your very own hand-embroidered logo — and she made a matching one for our cat. We outfitted you with a pair of goggles and away you went, flying through our home in search of evil-doers.

Every superhero needs a secret hiding base, so that's what I built for you. It's not much: Just a 2-by-4 frame, some plywood and a door, but later this week we'll paint it up and maybe put some curtains in the window. Even superheros need curtains.

For your mother, we build an office in the closet of the upstairs library — sort of like her own little secret hiding base. Evil-doers beware!

She made me a quilt — stitched from old T-shirts that are no longer wearable but that I've had trouble throwing away. It's soft and it's warm and I love it (and so do you – you like to use it to make a little tent next to the heating vents in our home!)

All told, it was a wonderful Christmas Day — the kind I've really come to expect since you came around.

Love,
dad

I SAID 'AHA!'

2010-12-17T15:00:00.003-07:00

Dear Spike:

One day, I am quite confident, your epiphanies will be far more profound. But for now, I suppose, this will have to do:

‎"I was really hungry. I thought and I thought and I said, 'aha! Macaroni and cheese!'"

Love,
dad

THANKSGIVING FROM HELL

2010-12-08T20:59:00.003-07:00

Dear Spike:

We don't usually leave home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. There are several reasons for this, but the main one is that we prefer to enjoy the company of our extended family outside the stressful gotta-go-here, better-be-there, hustle-bustle and rigmarole of the holidays.

But this year was different. Traditionally, your great-grandmother (my mom's mom) has hosted a large Thanksgiving gathering for all of her kids, grandkids and great-grandkids. But earlier this year she decided she'd had enough of her big, old house in on Mark Avenue and moved into a retirement home close to where my parents live. And so my mom decided that she'd take on Thanksgiving.

The confirmed guest list was 34 names long.

At some point, it was decided that it wasn't enough to just have dinner. We were going to have a sit down dinner.

Wine goblets, china, cloth napkins — the whole nine yards. Cool right?

As long as so many people were coming to town, my father and uncle decided they'd wait to hold your other great-grandmother's wake until the day after Thanksgiving.

Practical people, my relatives.

And thus began... the Thanksgiving from hell.

On Turkey Thursday morning, I woke up and headed to the kitchen, where I found my mother in the kitchen looking...

... rather peaked.

"You're dad's not feeling well," she said.

"You don't look so good yourself," I said.

"Yeah, I don't feel so good."

And then I heard it. The sound of a grown man retching in my parents' bathroom.

"I think you'd better not touch any food that anyone is going to eat tonight," I told my mom.

And with that, your mother and I had inherited Thanksgiving for 34.

The phone rang. My cousin Paul. His wife's family plans had fallen through.

OK. Make that turkey for 37.

Your mother didn't skip a beat. Like General Patton headed to Bastogne, she took command. Potatoes were peeled. Turkeys were basted. Stuffing was, um, stuffed.

And Thanksgiving went off without a hitch, though it also went off without my mother, father, sister and brother, who were all, by this time, well out of commission.)

By 9 p.m., your mother was, too.

And then it was your turn.

I've never seen you so sick. Never. You poor thing. You spent the entire night throwing up. You'd fall asleep for a few minutes, then wake up and ralph, then scream — with what I can only describe as righteous indignation — "No more! That was the last time!"

All night long.

The next day was your great-grandmother's wake. You and your mother were in no shape to go.

But by that evening, everyone was feeling pretty good again. And the next day we headed off to Stanford University to watch the Oregon State Beavers take on the sixth-ranked Cardinal.

Um... did I say "take on"? What I meant to say was, "get pounded like a piece of meat." It was 24-0 at halftime and we didn't even stay to watch the infamous Leland Stanford Junior University Marching Band.

But we didn't leave because of the score. And certainly not in protest of the Stanford band's historic send-ups of Catholicism, Mormonism and a bunch of other -isms.

No, we left because you couldn't pee.

Oh yeah — and you were screaming in agony.

A bladder infection, we figured — and so we came home and pumped you full of cranberry juice. Problem was, that only made you have to go more. And you couldn't.

You tried and you tried. And you screamed and you screamed. But you just couldn't go.

At about 9 p.m., we decided to take you to the emergency room at the local hospital.

At about 12 a.m. we finally got in to see a doctor.

And it only took him about two minutes to decide you needed a catheter.

"This isn't going to be fun for anyone," he said.

And it wasn't. You spent the next 20 minutes screaming and writhing in agony as the nurses tried to do what needed to be done. Your mother and I had the excrutiating duty of holding you down as you begged to be released.

When it was all over, the doctor prescribed some Ibuprofen and sent us on our way. We finally got back to my parents' home that night at 2 a.m.

Things were not a whole lot better the next day. One of my friends, a doctor himself, suggested we take you to Stanford Children's Hospital, and that's where we spent our last day in California. The doctors and nurses there were kind as can be, but they didn't have any answers. They took some samples (another catheter — although this one went a lot better) and, when you impressed one doctor with your knowledge of various medical tools, they offered you a job.

Whatever was wrong, you were feeling quite a bit better by the next day — just in time for us to get on an airplane and head home to Utah, where I had to scrape 10 inches of snow off of our car in the long-term parking lot before driving our family home.

I'd never been so happy to end a vacation.

Sometimes life gives you lemons.

And sometimes you can take those lemons and make lemonade.

But sometimes the lemons are rotten, and so the lemonade makes you sick. That's how this vacation was. We did our best to have a good time and, when we did, we got kicked around like the Oregon State University football team.

Of course, the football team can always say "there's always next year."

But you won't hear that from me. Because next year, we're staying home.

Love,
dad

DOREEN ANN LAPLANTE 1932-2010

2010-11-30T23:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Spike:

I was 16 or 17, I suppose. I can't remember for sure, but I know it was some time shortly after I had my second ear pierced, since that's apparently what prompted the whole conversation.

I was sitting at the kitchen bar in my grandparents' home in Santa Clara. Grandma was on the other side of the bar, probably diddling about on one of those hand-held video poker games that she enjoyed so much. We were making small talk. This and that. School and work. Soccer and girls.

She asked about the new stud in my right ear. "You don't see that on boys much, do you?" she said.

No, I told her, you don't. That's one of the things I liked about it.

She looked at me and smiled. And then she reached across the table and placed her hand on top of mine.

"You know," she said, "I will always love you — no matter who you choose to love."

"Um...." I said. "Yeah, I know."

"I mean it dear. No matter who."

"Grandma..." I said. "Are you suggesting... What I mean is... I appreciate that but... I'm not gay."

She just smiled and looked at me with a look that said, "I know a lot more about you than you think."

Whatever. It was the thought that counted. And it was a lovely thought.

She was the product of an old-school Catholic upbringing. She was a strongly opinionated woman. Her sons didn't always make the decisions she would have made. Her grandchildren even less so. And while she didn't always approve — and often let us know it — she never failed to remind us that, above it all, what was most important for her was that we were happy.

Your great-grandmother, Doreen Ann LaPlante, died Nov. 4 — just about six months after her beloved husband passed away. On the day after Thanksgiving, her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren gathered together at her favorite restaurant for an old-fashioned Irish wake.

We drank. We sang songs. And we told stories.

And we remembered a woman who loved us just the way we were.

Even if we weren't.

Love,
dad

GEE-WHIZ AWE

2010-11-14T13:15:00.002-07:00

Dear Spike:

I'm writing to you from somewhere over the U.S. Midwest, en route to Philadelphia for a conference.

It all seems so technologically fantastic to me: pecking away at the keyboard on my phone which is connected to the airplane's wireless Internet system. But, as is the case with pretty much all new technology, the gee-whiz factor is going to go away quite quickly. Eventually, this will all be old-hat -- or even obsolete.

Things change. That's the way things are in this world.

That also happens to be the reason why I'm on this airplane to begin with -- because my life is changing, too.

While I'm still employed at the same job I've been at since hour mother and I moved to Salt Lake City in 2003 -- and while I enjoy that job quite a bit -- I'm growing more and more aware that it's unlikely that I'll still have a viable newspaper career in 10 years. That's a big part of the reason why I went back to school, a few years ago. And it's a big part of the reason why I have begun working, part-time in a few other capacities in the world of education.

So this week, I'm headed to Philly to learn more about how to prevent dropouts as part of my job with a group that works to give struggling kids a second chance at school. And next month, I'll start commuting once a week to Utah Valley University, where I'm teaching a class on crisis reporting.

One of these things is a stepping stone to my professional future, I suppose. Or maybe I'll be doing something entirely different -- something I haven't even thought of and could nary conceive of at this time.

Or maybe, just maybe, I'll find some way to continue doing what I've been doing for the past decade: Comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable, as we journalists like to imagine it is our job to do.

The future used to be scary to me. Now it's simply fascinating. I enjoy all of this. Whatever direction the world takes me, I have you and your mother. And whatever I do, I'll always look at this world with a gee-whiz awe.

Love,
dad

MADE ME BELIEVE

2010-11-01T23:58:00.000-06:00

Dear Spike:

Here's to the misfits. The outcasts. The freaks.

Here's to surprise. To passion. To dreams.

Here's to the team that made me believe, again, in baseball.

Here's to the San Francisco Giants.

You'll not likely remember this moment, but I'd like you to understand it, so I'll fill you in on the particulars: You were sitting in your high chair, eating some bananas and chocolate chips, when Brian Wilson blew a fastball past Nelson Cruz to give the Giants their first championship since your grandfather was still in diapers.

You, your mother and I all exploded into cheers. Foot stomping. Hallelujah-making. Whooping and hollering and laughing and crying.

Yes, a little bit of crying.

Why should I care like this? About a game? About a game played by millionaires?

Well, maybe I shouldn't. And for a long time I didn't.

I grew up on this game, following the Giants and the more successful band of Bash Brothers on the opposite side of the Bay. I can still remember the lineups of both the teams that faced off in the 1989 "Bay Bridge" World Series. That series was interrupted by an incredible earthquake — but when it finally ended with an Oakland A's victory, I remember wishing that it could have gone on forever, so that night after night I could hide under my covers and tune my little red radio in to listen to Will Clark knock a Dave Stewart pitch over the center field fence, or to hear about how Carney Lansford snagged a rocket-shot off Matt Williams' bat that just should have gone up the third base line for a double. I had it all planned out: The A's would win a game, and then the Giants would win a game. And they'd just keep playing, forever and ever, marching from one side of the bay to the other, and back again.

Four years later, the players — many of them millionaires, many times over — stopped putting on their spikes over a dispute regarding revenue sharing with team owners. For the record, I think the owners were greedy pigs, but it was still a strike over a game played by rich men. And it resulted in the cancellation of a large part of the 1994 season, including the playoffs and World Series.

Sacrilege.

After that, it almost didn't matter when I learned that many of the players I'd cheered for in that all-too-short World Series in 1989 were using steroids. Mark McGwire. Jose Canseco. Traitors. Scum. Cheaters.

But I didn't need to know that Barry Bonds was on the juice to know that guy was a complete horse's ass. For 14 years, I couldn't look at The Giants.

But I fell in love again last year during a date with your mother at the Giants' beautiful ballpark at Willie Mays Plaza, right across the street from where your great grandfather once worked as a copy editor off Mission Bay. We ate hot dogs and Crackerjack and watched Tim Lincecum pitch a less-than-perfect game. Still, to watch that young man, uniform hanging off his skinny frame, hurl a baseball that fast. Incredible.

What a freak.

And a completely likable freak at that. Sure enough, as manager Bruce Bochy pieced together a ragtag gang of players for the 2010 season, they were all just...

... so damn likable.

Oh, they're still millionaires. And some of them are scoundrels, no doubt. But they keep it to themselves. And that's really all I've ever asked of my professional athletes.

So there was Edger Renteria, an aging and injury-prone infielder who not so long ago had been relegated to the minor leagues.

And there was Buster Posey, a 23-going-on-14-year-old kid with a swing as sweet as a honey-dipped Baby Ruth.

And there was Aubrey Huff, the veteran who had never even been to the playoffs and who didn't even have a team to play for nine months ago.

And then, this evening, there was Lincecum, pitching as perfect a game as I've ever seen in the Series. Eight innings against one of the best hitting teams in the big leagues. Ten strikeouts. Just three hits.

Oh, I could go on. And I will. Again and again. Not all bedtime stories are fairy tales, but this one will surely sound like one.

Love,
dad

SLIDE IT OVER

2010-10-31T23:53:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

Here in Utah, Halloween is like leap year. On most years, the annual festival of tricks, treats, ghosts and ghouls, takes place on Oct. 31. But every once in a while the doorbell starts ringing a day early.

I learned about this Gregorian peculiarity for the first time in 2004. We'd been in Utah for a little over a year then, and it's safe to say that we'd learned, by that time, that things work a bit differently here than they do in most other parts of the country.

To wit: Most Americans celebrate Independence Day on July 4, in commemoration of the day that the Second Continental Congress approved the Declaration of Independence. But in Utah, where a powerful plurality of people are faithful members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Sunday is supposed to be a day reserved for church-goin' folk to go to church along with other church-goin' folk. So whenever Independence Day falls inconveniently on a Sunday, they just sort of slide it over to Saturday and — viola! — they can have their cake and eat it, too.

Same goes for Halloween, which in that same year we learned isn't always celebrated on Oct. 31.

At first I was rather annoyed at this whole charade — and not just because it feels like a blatant mockery of the time-honored Separation of Church and Me. The thing is, I have the utmost respect for people of faith — so long as they're practicing their faith honestly. But I've got little tolerance for hypocrisy. And that's what I've long felt this whole move-the-date debacle really is.

At the heart of the Fourth Commandment of the Hebrew Scriptures is the principle that, once a week, God-fearing folk should take a break from their labors and spend the day honoring their creator. I'm not a literalist, so I've always just taken this to mean that hard work should be rewarded with rest — and that we shouldn't forget that both work and rest are blessings. But those more inclined to believe that the Bible is God's list of rules for humanity — and among these, we count our Mormon friends — often take the Fourth Commandment to literally mean they should not do anything that detracts from the restful, peaceful, and worshipful spirit of the day.

I'm cool with that. But I'm also unconvinced at the sincerity of the way most people practice this tenet of their faith. They're still prone to flip on the Sunday football game, to surf the Web, to check e-mail, to mow the lawn, to throw a few insta-meals into the microwave. And as to the things they don't do, well, what kind of honor is it, really, to simply move all the things we might otherwise prefer to be doing on the Sabbath to another day?

Here's the thing: That's not a bad philosophical argument to have with my closest friends of faith, but since I don't ascribe to the belief in a Sacred Sunday, it's really not my business to go preaching to the masses.

And in any case, in this life, you've got to choose your battles.

Back in 2004, I protested silently at the indignity of it all by simply refusing to answer the door to trick-or-treaters. "If they can't be troubled to come over on Halloween," I said, "then they don't need my candy!"

But that was before you came 'round — and before I lightened up. The truth is that most people here, Mormons and Gentiles alike, have just accepted Saturday as "Halloween Observed" on years in which the holiday falls on a Sunday. It doesn't hurt anything. It's just how things are done.

So while we could have stood on principle and taken you trick-or-treating on the real Halloween, most folks would already be out of their sugary sweets.

Gee, come to think of it, perhaps that wouldn't have been such a bad thing. I digress.

The point is that we took you door-to-door on Saturday. And you liked it. And we all had a good time. And it didn't really matter whether you trick-or-treated on a Saturday or a Sunday or any other day, because in the end, it's all just for fun.

I hope you learn to stand on principle. I also hope that, when you do, you're standing on something worthy of being stood upon.

Love,
dad

ALL THE AWE

2010-10-25T23:10:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

There it was, no bigger than a nickel. A thin, dark circle, barely raised against the surface of the rock. At first glance, it could have been a slice of obsidian — or even a raindrop upon the soft gray shale. And just like an ephemeral raindrop, it should have evaporated into the winds of time ...

... hundreds of millions of years ago.

Instead, this little bug left its tiny imprint on our Earth — disappearing into a sandy tomb long before the dinosaurs walked this land and reappearing, for the first time, as I drove a spike between two thin layers of shale.

"A trilobite!" you cried.

Indeed it was. But it was more than that. It was a tiny time machine. A window into prehistory. As old as the hills? No, that doesn't even scratch the surface. This was older. Much, much older.

I dropped my hammer, shook my head and ran my thumb over tiny, spiny fossil.

"Wow," I said.

That is all I could muster. Words simply failed me. And why should they not? Our ancestors began to communicate using language fewer than 100,000 years ago. This delicate little arthropod had been around for 500 million years. Maybe longer. And we had just unearthed it, waking it from its long slumber, robbing it from eternity.

We live just a few short hours from one of the most prolific trilobite quarries in the world. And as such, your mother and I had been meaning to do this for years. One thing or another kept getting in the way.

I'm so glad we finally did this. And I'm glad we got to do it with you. Because with all the awe I felt as we unearthed fossil after fossil after fossil, came an awe-inspiring reminder:

Our time here is short. Too short to leave undone what we dream of doing. Too short not to seek joy. Too short not to seek love. Too short not to care, deeply and passionately, for all of those around us. Too short not to be left speechless by a sunset, a snowflake, a little slice of shale.

Like the raindrops that danced on the soft gray rock as we reluctantly turned away from the quarry, we are both eternal and ephemeral.

And like the raindrops, we should dance.

Love,
dad

COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS

2010-09-25T15:19:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

Whenever I travel, I am reminded of how fortunate our family is to have all of the many luxuries that life has afforded to us.

We want for nothing — and that is more than can be said of most people in this world.

I know that is can be easy to complain about things that are not was we might wish for them to be — and I am as guilty of this as anyone. But it really only takes a moment to step back and recognize how small our complaints often are, in the grand scheme of this world.

It's nice to count your blessing when life is easy — but it's better to count them when life gets hard. In the totality of human experience, we have it quite good.

And just remembering that often makes me realize how petty my complaints are.

I miss you.

Love,
dad
(Sulaimaniyah, Iraq)

IN REAL TIME

2010-09-23T14:37:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike:

I parted ways with you and your mother this morning at the airport with a few good hugs and, fortunately for me, no tears from you.

You know I'm going on a trip — and that I'll be gone for a while — but you're excited about all the fun you're going to be having with your mother while I'm gone, so you weren't too sad to see me go.

And that's fine with me. Preferable, in fact. My heart strings are already pulled taut.

Now I'm on an airplane headed to Atlanta. From there it's off to Paris. From Paris, Amman. And after a night in Amman, I'll head over to Iraq.

It's sort of amazing, if you think of it. We live in a world in which you can wake up on one side of the world and go to sleep on the other. It's also a time in which, without too much hassle, I can flip open my computer and see you staring back at me, in real time.

It wasn't so long ago that nothing like that was possible. And that makes me wonder about all of the innovations you'll see during your life. For what once seemed impossible yesterday is a simple matter of routine today. So it stands to reason that what seems impossible today will be more or less commonplace tomorrow.

Let's hope it's all for the better.

Love,
dad

WHILE I'M AWAY

2010-09-22T00:36:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

You sobbed today when we talked about my upcoming trip. Two weeks is a long time for a little girl to be without her daddy.

But after I told you that you get to have two weeks of slumber parties with your mommy while I'm away, you perked up quite a bit.

Now you're feeling much better about things — but I'm feeling sad. Two weeks is a long time for a daddy to be without his little girl.

I'm proud of the work I do. And I believe it's worth the small sacrifices we make to help people in our nation understand the tragic consequences of war.

But my stomach churns when I think about being away from you. I'm dreading that final hug, that long plane flight to Iraq, that first night away.

I'll miss you more than I can possibly explain. But at least for now, I'll smile and tell you about how much fun you're going to have while I'm away.

Love,
dad

THIS RAT RACE

2010-09-15T00:55:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike,

Tuesday is ballet. Wednesday you've got gymnastics. On Thursday afternoon, your Chinese tutor makes a zhái shàngmén — a house call. And on Friday there's piano lessons.

Along the way, you've tried your hand at soccer (we're still working on that hand part) and you've managed to acquire an impressive collection of annual passes for the zoo, the aviary and several different museums. Meanwhile, you've become a rather passionate season ticket-holding supporter of the local professional soccer club and you've recently picked up season tix for the women's soccer club at the U, too.

I never figured us for the kind of parents that would need a Dayplanner just to keep our toddler's schedule straight. But I suppose I never figured that you'd actually want to do all of this stuff, either. For the moment, at least, it's clear that you're enjoying all of these things, and given that we haven't put you in preschool yet (I'm just not ready to give you up like that) it's probably not a bad idea to give you some opportunities to learn to socialize with other kids.

But no matter the good intentions, your mother and I are wary of the risks. And if we so much as suspect that you've become bored — or overwhelmed — by it all, we'll yank you from this rat race quicker than you can say Henry David Thoreau.

Alas, if you're anything like your mother and I, you'll probably thrive on — and even thirst for — busyness. And there's nothing wrong with that.

But occasionally — and maybe even often — it's important to take a moment...

... a minute ...

... an hour ...

... a day ...

... to be free of demands on your time, your body, your soul.

Take a walk without knowing where you're going. Take the time to watch and listen and be. Turn off your phone.

Turn off your phone.

Turn off your phone.

Be still.

The rat race will be there when you're done, when you're ready. And if one day you decide that you're not ready, I can assure you that the rat race will get along just fine without you.

I suspect that you'll find a comfortable middle ground in there, somewhere. Maybe your life will be a little more frantic or maybe it will be a little more still.

Just remember — always remember — that it's your life, not your Dayplanner's.

Love,
dad

YES, THAT'S LOVE

2010-09-10T00:49:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

Your mother and I were sitting with friends on the front porch, enjoying some wine and chocolates. You were asleep — or so were thought.

Suddenly, the drapes flew open. Your tiny cherub face emerged at the bottom of the window. And at once, I could read your every emotion.

First, you were scared: You'd been wandering the house looking for us and you were beginning to panic. Next, you were relieved: We had not left you all alone; we were near. And finally, you were betrayed: We were having a party, without you.

In a heartbeat, I read that all on your face.

That's love, I think — when you know someone in that way. When you understand them so much that all it takes is the briefest of glances and you are connected to their emotions. Yes, that's love.

It was heartbreaking to see all of that in you, on that night. But it was so reaffirming. I felt good that I know you in this way. I felt like a good father.

In two weeks, I will be leaving you and your mother to go back to Iraq. In the grand scheme of things it is not a long trip; I will be gone for about two weeks. But I am frightened by all the ways in which we will miss each other while I am away. I am saddened to think that you might feel scared, lonely and abandoned. And I know you won't quite understand why I have to go away or where I have gone.

Already, I am wondering what I will read on your face when I return. Will it be joy? Relief? Fear? What will I know — in the blink of an eye — about the way you are feeling in that moment? And sadly, I suspect you'll be feeling a bit betrayed.

That's the trouble with love. It gives us immediate and vivid access to things that we are not always prepared to see, hear and feel.

Because, I think, you are starting to know me in the way that I know you, I probably don't need to tell you that I am going to miss you. Terribly.

And already, I cannot wait for the day I return. I cannot wait to see your face — whatever it may bring.

Love,
dad

LED TO YOU

2010-09-05T00:02:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

I've made some mistakes in my life. I've hurt people and I've been hurt, too. I've screwed up. I've fumbled. And sometimes I've been just plain dumb.

But I don't regret any of it. I can't. Because everything I've done in life — every good thing and every bad thing, too — led to you.

You're going to make mistakes, too. You'll hurt people and you'll be hurt. You'll screw up. You've fumble. And sometimes you'll be just plain dumb.

It can be hard to live with our mistakes. But it doesn't do a tremendous amount of good to dwell on what is past, other than to learn a lesson or two for the future.

So, as best as you can, try to live without regret. Don't repeat your mistakes, but don't let them define you. And try to remember that all those trials and tribulations, all those mistakes and accidents, will someday lead you to something special.

Love,
dad

YOU TELL ME

2010-08-20T17:55:00.005-06:00

Dear Spike:

It's not always easy having a daughter as intelligent as you. But it's often funny:

"Can you tell me something about dinosaurs?"

"Dinosaurs are oviparous!"

"Wonderful! Can you tell me something else that is oviparous?"

"Hens!"

"Great! What else?"

"...."

"Anything?"

"Monchichis?"

Love,
dad

LOVE IT ALL

2010-08-12T00:00:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

Your mother goes back to work this week, which means you and I are about to start spending a lot more time together.

I always look forward to the summers — not because I don't like spending time with you, but because I know how much your mother relishes that opportunity, each year, after nine hard months of splitting her energy between you and a bunch of other people's kids.

By the end of the summer, though, I'm always ready to step back into my work-at-home daddy shoes. I love making you breakfast in the morning. I love our walks to the park. I love reading together and learning together.

Museums. Playgrounds. Movies. I love it all.

Of course, it's not all fun and games. There is actually some working involved in being a work-at-home dad. And this year I'll be balancing fatherhood with not just one job, but two. Then, come January, I'll be teaching a class at Utah Valley University — and that's when sleep will really turn optional.

To do all this, I'm going to need your help. And I'm not worried at all that I won't get it. You're a good kid — the best I know. I'm proud of what that says about your mother and I as parents, but I also know that it says plenty about you. You're kind and considerate. You're intuitive and thoughtful. And you've gotten pretty good at finding suitable diversions when my attention is suddenly taken away by a ringing phone or beeping e-mail alert.

But I'm going to do my damnedest to make sure you never feel like you've been forgotten. I'm very aware that this is likely the last year that you and I will get to share this little arrangement, as next year you'll be off to preschool for several days of the week.

I want to make the most of this.

So here we go. One more great run. You and me, kid.

You and me.

Love,
dad

THE HISTORY BOOKS

2010-08-05T10:08:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

I don't know if this is a Brown v. Board of Education moment. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's not.

When a federal judge struck down California's ban on same sex marriage, yesterday, an appeal was a foregone conclusion. Ultimately, this fight will go to the Supreme Court. And maybe then we'll have a ruling worthy of the history books.

But I don't want to discount what happened yesterday, either, because it's a good example of why, as frustrated as I often am with this country, I still believe in it.

Our founders took a pretty bold leap of faith when they decided to establish the United States as a democracy. In doing so, they put decisions about our collective welfare into the hands of the collective. They trusted people to do the right thing. And often we do.

So democracy can be a beautiful thing. But it can also be a terrible thing in which the rights of minorities are crushed by the democratic rule of the majority. And that's why we have a Constitution, which enumerates the basic rights and freedoms that no mob of a majority can simply take away.

And since our founders couldn't have anticipated all the ways in which our world would change, we have judges. They decide, based on an examination of the facts of a case, the weight of legal precedent and their interpretation of the Constitution as it applies to our modern world, what our rights are.

In this case, the judge in California concluded – correctly, I believe — that a majority of California voters could not take away the rights of a minority.

It's possible that, on appeal, the Supreme Court could decide that the California vote was right and proper. But although I would be disappointed in that verdict, it would not necessarily shake my confidence in our system.

That's because, just as our courts have the ability to act as a Constitutional check over our democracy, our democracy can act as a moral check over our courts.

Ultimately, I believe, an overwhelming majority of Americans will understand that love is an institution of consenting individuals (and, if they choose, of their God) — not of the government. And when that happens, the legal precedent that once allowed a state to ban non-traditional marriage, by democratic vote, will be the same standard which would allow us to change our minds.

Is that a long way to go to do what is right? Perhaps. But I suppose if it were any easier, then it wouldn't really be so historic, would it?

love,
dad

WHAT AN ADDICT

2010-08-01T08:48:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

You tiptoed into our room this morning with your big brown eyes and even bigger hopes.

"May I have some chocolate milk?" you asked.

"You may have some plain milk," your mother replied. "You had chocolate milk last night before you went to bed.

"But," you pleaded, "I really don't want plain milk. I want a little bit of chocolate milk."

"I'm sorry," your mother responded. "But you are an addict."

"If I could just have a little bit of chocolate milk, I could be very happy today," you said.

"Yes," your mother said. "That is what an addict would say."

We're looking for a 12-step program for you.

Love,
dad

AN OVERNIGHT TRIP

2010-07-27T01:05:00.001-06:00

Dear Spike:

Last night, for the first time since you came into our lives, your mother and I left you with your grandparents while we went on an overnight trip to Park City.

It’s not that we couldn’t have done this before. We unreservedly trust them to take care of you. And, perhaps more importantly, we unconditionally trust you to be a good girl for them.

But the truth is that we genuinely like your company. So anytime in the past when people have suggested that we “get away,” we’ve always just sort of shrugged our shoulders and asked “from what?”

But last week your mother and I decided that perhaps we could use just a bit of time to ourselves. So we headed up Parley’s Canyon, went horseback riding in the Uinta foothills, played a round of disc golf at The Canyons, had a wonderful dinner at The Cabin restaurant and took a dip in the swimming pool at The Grand Summit Hotel. We slept in a gloriously comfortable bed and woke up this morning for a lovely breakfast at the No Worries Café & Grill.

And, with that, it was back to Salt Lake City.

We probably could have stretched it out a bit more. You hardly glanced up from the table when I walked in the door.

“I missed you,” I said.

“I missed you too, daddy,” you answered, although it was a rather rote reply.

Maybe next time we go away, we’ll try for two days. Maybe three.

Really though, I’m not chomping at the bit to “get away” again.

Your mother is amazing. She’s fun. She’s interesting. She’s beautiful. And I love her more and more every day. But everything she is to me is better because of you. And I know that she feels the same way about me.

That’s just the way it is with us.

Other people are different. That doesn’t mean they love their kids any less. They simply have decided that, in order to be the best parents they can be, they need some time to themselves. And indeed, it’s true that your mother and I walked away from our experience feeling like “we needed that.”

Next time we “get away,” though, it will most likely be with you at our side. That’s just the way we prefer it — most of the time, at least.

Love,
dad

THE HARD WORK

2010-07-15T23:11:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike:

Our president gets plenty of criticism — and often it’s deserved. But as much as some folks might disagree about whether Barack Obama is a good leader, a good politician or even a good person, it seems that most people respect him in at least one capacity: By all accounts, he appears to be a good father to his daughters, Malia and Sasha.

That’s far more than can be said for Obama’s own father, who abandoned his son when the boy was just three years old and saw him just once again before his death. And insomuch as Obama has been able to succeed in the art of fatherhood despite the bad example set by his own father, I think he deserves an extra helping of respect.

So I was disappointed, recently, as I was spinning the radio dial and landed on Obama’s trademark monotone in a public service announcement for the federal Administration for Children and Families.

“To be a good father is the most important job in a man’s life, but it doesn’t have to be hard,” he said. “Things get busy and sometimes we all fall short. But the smallest moments can have the biggest impact on a child’s life.”

Maybe I’m overly critical. Maybe I’m overly analytical. And maybe I’m overly sensitive. But it made me sad to think that one of the most famous and well-respected fathers in our nation would suggest that being a good dad doesn’t have to be hard.

It most certainly is hard. It’s the hardest job I’ve ever had. And, to the bottom of my being, I believe that any father who doesn’t think that being a dad is hard work just isn’t trying hard enough.

After all, we’ve been parenting for millions of years and, as far as I know, no one has gotten it right yet. If that doesn’t exemplify something that is hard, I don’t know what does.

And with all due respect to the president, I cannot agree that it is the small moments that you and I will spend together that will have the biggest impact on your life. Those moments — in which we tell jokes or play soccer or go out on one of our “fancy dates” — can be wonderful and influential and memorable, but they will not make you what you are to become.

No, it is the long work — the hard work — that your mother and I do together that will have the greatest impact on your life.

It is the way we encourage your questions, the way we help you seek answers, the way we praise your accomplishments and the way we punish your mistakes.

It is enforcing our rules, even when it is not convenient. It is telling you that we love you — more than anything — over and over and over and over and over again.

It is patience and structure. It is affection and discipline. It is consistency.

And yes, we get busy. And yes, we fall short.

But yes, oh yes, it is hard work. The hardest work there is.

Love,
dad

AT A TIME

2010-06-28T10:40:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

Today we mourn a man who spent more time in Congress than any other individual in the history of our nation.

Sen. Robert Byrd began his service in the House of Representatives in 1953 and was elected to the Senate six years later. His long fight for the primacy of the legislative branch of our government ended at 3 a.m. this morning.

But Byrd’s greatest contribution to our nation wasn’t the length of his tenure, the money that he funneled to improve the conditions of those living in abject poverty in West Virginia, his staunch opposition to imperialistic military adventures, his steadfast support of health care reform or even the soaring speeches he delivered to his colleagues on the Senate floor.

No, the most important thing this former Ku Klux Klan organizer gave to us was the hope that we are all worthy of redemption.

I’ll save the details for the history books. It is enough to say that Byrd was a supporter of the greatest home-grown terrorist organization in the history of the United States. In latter years that association would have effectively, and appropriately, precluded his election. In West Virgina, in the 1950s, it likely facilitated his ascent.

It’s not precisely clear to me when Byrd changed, but he did so nonetheless. In 1964, he filibustered against the Civil Rights Act. But by 2004, he had won the endorsement of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, which noted that Byrd was one of just 17 senators that had supported its stance on every bill of interest to the NAACP.

He came to be known as the "Conscience of the Senate." And although some called him the “Guilty Conscience,” I’m not sure it matters, except as a lesson for us all on what it means to be human.

We all make mistakes. Sometimes we make mistakes so grave that they will stay with us for the rest of our lives. But while we, and others, may never forget those failings, we don’t have to repeat them.

We can change. We can be better than who were yesterday, and better still than who we are today. We can admit that we have been wrong. We can ask forgiveness. And then we can earn it.

One day at a time.

Love,
dad

FOR THE COUNT

2010-06-27T21:04:00.000-06:00

Dear Spike:

No whining. No crying. Just off to bed, a few sips of milk, and you were out for the count.

It all makes me wonder why we don’t take you rafting every day.

Love,
dad

LEARN SOME MORE

2010-06-17T01:38:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike:

It was 92 degrees outside. And under my black cap and gown, I was sweating like a hippo on a treadmill.

I didn’t attend the commencement ceremony when I completed my undergraduate education. I didn’t really see the point. It was all just pomp and circumstance. A piece of paper. A name read on a loudspeaker. A walk across a stage for a piece of paper. And nothing more.

By the time I had completed my graduate studies, I had reconsidered. But on Sunday, as I stepped onto the broiling football field at California State University East Bay, I was all but certain that I'd made a mistake.

Then I saw you, perched in your mother’s arms and waving ferociously as I walked by in the processional.

And it all made sense again.

You probably won’t remember any of what went on Sunday. You slept through most of the ceremony, after all, (and I can’t really blame you — I wanted to sleep, too.) But I’m glad you were there, because it’s important to your mother and me that you understand, from an early age, just how important learning is in our family.

You have been blessed with privileges that most of the world will never know. Among the greatest of those privileges is the ability to seek and obtain an education.

Do not disrespect that privilege.

Learn. And when you’re done with that, learn some more.

And then more. And more. And more.

You don’t have to collect degrees like baseball trading cards. You don’t have to have a J.D., an M.B.A. or a Ph.D. And, in some limited circumstances, I would understand if you passed by a formal education altogether.

But do not pass up an opportunity to learn.

Read and write. Speak and listen. Discuss and debate. Ask questions. Ask questions. Ask questions. For these are the ways — the good ways, that is — in which our species differentiates itself from all others on this planet.

When you stop learning, you stop living.

Live long.

Love,

dad

THE BEAUTIFUL GAME

2010-06-03T20:13:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

I would like to allow you to choose your own path.

So if you love to dance, please dance.

And if you love math, by all means, solve the Goldbach Conjecture.

And if want to do Kung-Fu, go ahead and kick butt.

Likewise, if you don't like spinach, I'll only make you try it — I won't shove it down your throat.

And if you don't like baseball, I won't make you swing for the fences.

And if you don't like the snow, I won't make you ski.

And if you don't like soccer...

... I think we're going to have some issues.

I love the beautiful game. I love to play it. I love to watch it. I love to talk about it.

And, since the moment we learned you were coming, I've loved to dream about watching you play it.

Today, that dream came true. You had your very first soccer practice. And, if I do say so myself, you played like a champ.

With seven days to go before World Cup 2010 begins in South Africa, I'm afraid it might be a bit too late to make the U.S. team.

But with four years until the next cup, in Brazil, I think there's plenty of time.

No pressure.

Love,
dad

FOR THREE YEARS

2010-05-27T00:27:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

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

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

You were on the way.

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

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

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

And I waited.

And I waited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy birthday.

I love you.

More than anything.

love,
dad

KNACK IN PROGRESS

2010-05-20T23:15:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

There's a chess game, afoot, on the table in our breakfast nook. One of the rooks is a wine cork. A chopstick directs the play: pointed left, it's my turn; pointed right it's your Uncle Mikey's turn.

We move once or twice a day. Seldom more than that. A single game can take weeks to complete.

Nine months into this experiment in cohabitation, we've all fallen into a fairly comfortable, if sometimes awkward, routine.

The game is a good metaphor for that: The pieces move about the board — sometimes coming into conflict, sometimes just moving from here to there in service to some grander, yet unseen objective.

Your uncle spends his days sleeping in his room — except for when I send you upstairs to wake him for a turn at child care. Then, he slumps down the narrow stairs in his pajamas, often wrapped in a blanket. He reads and plays games with you. Sometimes he takes you to the park. And then, when I return, he climbs back up the stairs and falls asleep again. In the afternoons he teaches guitar and in the evenings he performs at the theater or the restaurant where he plays guitar and sings. It's not unusual for him to return home from work at 4 a.m., which is why he burns so much daylight sleeping.

Your uncle is a special guy. Different, to say the least. He's a brilliant musician and a gifted actor, but, alas, life is not a stage. He can be a challenge to communicate with. He's emotional. Maybe a bit bipolar. When he is happy, it is infectious. When he is depressed, the whole house seems to have a cloud over it. He seems to have a knack for teaching, but it's a knack in progress. Maybe it's in his cards. We'll see. I hope he finds his way.

Your mother mostly avoids or ignores the man living in our attic. It's not that they don't get along — just that they don't seem to have a lot in common, other than their love for you and their tolerance for me. She certainly appreciates what he brings to our family, though: There was a moment last night at dinner, for instance, when you were acting out and your mother and I were just too exhausted to correct behaviors for which you would generally receive a scolding. Your uncle swept in to assume the disciplinary role, correcting you for your dinner table antics and giving us a rest from our rather strict parenting regimen.

I straddle the ground between your mother and your uncle. I try to make sure we share a non-confrontational conversation at least once a day. Maybe about you. Maybe about chess. We're brothers, but there's not a whole lot else we share in common, either. I also try to communicate the things that, as adults sharing a home, we can all do to help smooth this sometimes difficult coexistence. Sometimes it feels as though I've inherited another child. At this point, though, it has become pretty clear to me that your uncle didn't come here seeking direction — and certainly not direction from me.

No, he came here for you. And that means a lot to all of us.

In the next few days, your uncle is going to decide whether he is staying with us next year. It seemed, earlier this month, that he was leaning toward sticking around. But after your great grandfather's death, it seems as though he's been pining to return home to California. I wouldn't brave a guess as to which way he'll fall, but either way we'll support his decision. We'd love to have him stay with us for another turn of the calendar. But if he leaves, we won't mind getting back some of the privacy we've sacrificed by inviting another adult to live in our home. On balance, I suppose, I hope he stays. He's good for you. And maybe for all of us.

There's something you should know: Even though Uncle Mikey came here for you, if he decides to leave us, it won't be because of you. I've known your uncle for 28 years, but that doesn't mean I know him very well. I do know, however, that he cares deeply for you. If he goes, it will be because he has decided that his pawns need to move this way, his knights need to move that way.

But you, my dear, will always be his queen.

Love,
dad

MAXIUM LEROY LAPLANTE 1932-2010

2010-05-15T02:21:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike:

Your great grandfather died last Thursday. I’ve sat down every night since then to write you this letter and have not gotten further than a few words.

But maybe tonight is the night.

•••

When I was nine years old, my grandfather took me to the Major League Baseball All Star Game at the Oakland Coliseum. We sat on the first base line, just behind the dugout, one row up from where Hall of Famer Leo Durocher was sitting.

Papa recognized him right away.

“Hey,” he told me. “See that guy right there? They call him ‘Leo The Lip.’”

He exchanged a few kind words with the salty old manager, who shook my hand and gave me an autograph.

That’s about all I remember from the game, which went 12 scoreless innings before Tim Raines hit a two-run triple for the National League in the top of the 13^th inning to end the marathon.

At least, that’s what I read in the newspaper the next day. We left after the 11^th inning, perhaps because Papa caught me nodding off in my chair.

We took the train home, unwittingly got off at the wrong stop, and spent the next hour wandering around the parking lot looking for our car.

All in all, it was a rather unspectacular night, but Papa never got tired of retelling the tale. And over time I’ve come to think of that day as one of the best days of my life, because I’ve come to understand, as your grandfather always did, that it’s not what you do, but who you do it with, that is most important in life.

•••

When you were just a few months old, your great grandparents drove out from California for a visit. As was his habit, Papa had made sure he knew exactly where the nearest Catholic church was — and had the route mapped out so that he could make sure not to be late for Sunday mass.

As luck would have it, the nearest Catholic church to our home is the Cathedral of the Madeline, a 100-year-old Gothic and Romanesque marvel so awe-inspiring that it sometimes makes me wish I was Catholic — which, of course, is the point.

We arrived early and took a place in the back pew. After a few moments, a priest approached and made some small talk with your great papa, who was holding you in his arms.

“Are you Catholic?” he asked.

He needed someone to carry the sacraments to the alter, and he asked your papa to do it.

I’ve never seen a man so proud as he was when he walked, along with you and your mother, down the center aisle of that beautiful church. It was the best gift you could have possibly given to him, and you didn’t even know you were doing it.

•••

Your Great Papa was a good man. He was smart and he was brave. He was funny and he was tough.

He loved a good story. And in lieu of a good story, he’d just tell whatever story came to mind.

He was a kind and decent man.

And he loved you very, very much.

Love,

dad

VERY FIRST LIE

2010-04-30T21:59:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

Abe Lincoln, you ain't.

Granted, you're a good kid. Better than most, I reckon. And maybe that's why it was so heart-breaking, this week, when I bore witness to your very first lie.

As is our usual morning routine, you started the day with breakfast, and then a Mandarin video. When the show was over, I flipped off the TV and moved you into your play room.When I went to grab a snack for you from the kitchen, I heard the TV buzz back to life.

I came back and gave you my best "not happy with you" stare down.

"It was an accident," you immediately protested.

OK, so you're not a very good liar. And because I want to make sure you don't ever become a good liar, I cracked the whip pretty hard yesterday.

I wasn't mad at you, just disappointed — and a little bit sad. As much as I'd love to think otherwise, I know there will be plenty of other times that you will feel that it is easier to lie to me than to tell me the truth.

And I know you're not going to believe this — I know it might even seem like a lie — but you can always tell me the truth.

Always.

I won't always be happy (you were going to be punished for turning the TV on without permission no matter if you lied or not) and sometimes I might even feel a bit mad — but I will never, ever stop loving you.

And that's the truth.

Love,
dad

NOTHING LIKE THIS

2010-04-28T17:09:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

I'm sitting by your bedside, hovering over your tiny sleeping body, overwhelmed by your beauty — and terrified by the prospect of waking you up.

You finally passed out, an hour or so ago, after a fit of mad writhing and screaming.

"Milk!" you cried. "Please, please, please give me my milk!!!"

"Nooooooooooo!" you protested when I gave you a sippy cup of milk. "I don't want it! I don't wan't it!"

You tossed the cup halfway across the room.

"Nooooooooooo!" you screamed as it bounced across the floor. "I need my milk."

It went on this way for a good 20 minutes.

You wanted me to kiss your head. And then you screamed and twisted and contorted your body away when I leaned in to do so.

You wanted me to leave the room. And then you wailed and writhed and bonked your head against the wall when I opened to the door to go.

You wanted your stuffed animals. And then you didn't.

You wanted me to tell you a story. And then you didn't.

You wanted me to hold you — and then you punched me in the mouth when I did.

To say the very least, this was unusual behavior for you. Alas, you've thrown an occasional temper tantrum in the past. But nothing like this.

This was something new.

This was something frightening.

It is with great frequency and no small amount of pride that I tell those who ask about "the terrible twos" that you have given us no context with which we might understand that term.

And it is with great frequency — and no small amount of smugness, I think — that these people respond, "ah yes — it really should be called 'the terrible threes.'"

I smile politely and nod. But I don't believe it...

Or, at least, I didn't...

Not until this afternoon. Could this be the dreaded "threes?"

You're beginning to stir, now.

And I'm fighting a rather powerful urge to run for my life.

Love,
dad

SINGING THIS SONG

2010-04-26T13:30:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

The song, by Beyoncé, is called "Single Ladies." And it goes something like this:

All the single ladies,
All the single ladies,
All the single ladies,
Now put your hands up,
Oh Oh Oh, Oh Oh Oh Oh!

In what I initially thought was pretty damning evidence that I had failed you as a father, you have been dancing around the house, singing this song, all week long.

Thankfully, your mother has spoken to you at length about what this song really means. Now, if someone asks you what a single lady is, you respond:

"A single lady is a woman who is unencumbered by a man."

Love,
dad

BEING MISS MANNERS

2010-04-19T22:05:00.005-06:00

Dear Spike:

You manners are absolutely charming — "a breath of fresh air," we've been told by no small number of people — and it makes me very proud to see what I polite young lady we've raised.

But this morning, while were at the park, I came to the rather unsettling realization that we may have turned you into a bit of a oddity among your peers.

The first little girl you approached today had her brown hair in pigtails, just like yours. And she looked to be about your age, or perhaps just a few months older. You walked up to her, stretched out your hand and introduced yourself. "Pleased to meet you," you said. "What's your name?"

The little girl's eyes widened and she shot a glance around the playground for her mother.

"Pleased to meet you," you repeated, taking a step closer. "What's your name?"

Without a word, the little girl pushed you away and ran off to find her mom.

Strike One.

The next little girl was a blond-haired kid. She was also just about your age, I think.

"Pleased to meet you," you said, extending your hand. "What's your name?"

When the little girl didn't lift her hand to shake yours, you reached down to show her how. But she yanked her arm away and began backing away.

Undeterred, you followed her. "Would you like to play together?" you asked.

And then she ran.

Strike Two.

I'm sure I could have stepped in to make the recreational arrangements with either girl's parent, but I try my best to mind my own business when we're in your world. I figure that it's my job to get you ready to make friends — and your job to actually make things happen.

You didn't seem particularly bothered by what had happened, but I was a bit heartbroken — particularly as I watched you play alone for the next few minutes. Every now and then I saw you looking up at where the two girls were playing — together — on the other side of the playground. They'd connected, I recognized, when the blond girl gruffly ordered the brunette to follow her up the stairs to the slide.

I guess that's how it's done.

The next girl was a redhead, with curly lockes like Little Orphan Annie. Absolutely darling. She was easily a head taller than you, but I'm guessing she was about a year your junior.

"Pleased to meet you," you said, extending a hand once again. "What's your name?"

She didn't reach out to shake your hand. And she didn't share her name. But she didn't run away, either, and the two of you followed one another around for the next five minutes, or so, until she decided to run off to play with some other kids, leaving you to play alone once again.

It wasn't strike three, but it wasn't a home run either. And, I suppose, most things in life are that way.

I'm not sure what benefit you'll derive from being Miss Manners — on the playground or in life — but just the same, I'm glad you're such a polite young lady.

Being proper, respectful and kind might make you a bit odd, but the people who really matter won't mind. I promise.

Love,
dad

WEAR YOUR HELMET

2010-04-09T01:12:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

I'm guessing I was doing 30 or 35 miles an hour down a steep, well-packed run when my snowboard caught an edge and flipped me onto the back of my head.

Why do I insist that you wear a helmet?

That's why.

Love,
dad

NEED TO LEARN

2010-04-03T21:48:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

We were watching "The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe," this evening with your grandparents. During the scene in which the forces of Aslan confront the force of the White Witch, you turn to me with a look of confusion.

"What are they doing?" you asked.

"They are preparing for battle," I explained.

"They're going to fight?"

"Yes."

"But that's not good," you said. "They need to learn to use their words."

Somewhere, C.S. Lewis is smiling.

And so am I.

Love,
dad