NEVER LET GO

Dear Spike:

You usually sleep in our bed on Friday nights. Sometimes on Saturdays, too. Your mother and I stay up and watch movies and you nestle right between us as Coltrane looks on from the foot of the bed, flexing his paws and, I’m sure, wondering why the hell is she in my spot?

Tonight is Monday night. You should be in your crib, in your room. And with April 15 just around the corner, your mother and I should be doing our taxes. But as your bedtime neared, this drafty old house just seemed so very cold. And, well, here you are.

You’re wearing your soft, green nightgown, the one with the little dancing bear and the shooting stars. Your hands are cocked behind your head, like a talent agent who just signed a big movie deal for his client and is about to light a fat and moderately expensive cigar to celebrate. Your feet are bare. Such pretty little feet. You’re resting on your mother’s stomach — right over the spot where you spent nine whole months, cooking away like a little pot roast until finally popping out last May, just a tad underdone.

Your mother’s reading “My Sister’s Keeper” by Jodi Picoult, who, accoridng to the photograph on the back of the book, has curly red hair and doesn’t feel the need to smile for the camera.

And I’m sitting here with my computer balanced on my knee. Tap, tap, tapping away.

Avoiding the subject. Avoiding the reason why, perhaps — no, I’m quite sure the reason why, in fact — I wanted you to come sleep with us tonight.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

They buried her today.

She was a sweet little seven year old girl. Just a bitty thing. She liked the color pink and the company of her neighbors. Her family taught her to trust the people in her communty. It takes a village, some have said.

I have said.

Hser Ner Moo wandered away from her home last Monday afternoon. Off to a friend’s home, it was assumed. By Tuesday she was dead. The man who killed her was an aquaintance of her family. The home where she died, she’d visited before. This was her village.

Back when it was merely an academic pursuit, I theorized that the measures Americans go to in order to protect their children from harm were, in fact, of greater collective detriment than the remote possibilities that harm might, in fact, be inflicted. Maybe that's still true. But tonight, all I want to do is plop a helmet on your head and safety pads on your arms and legs and teach you Kung Fu and buy you a loud whistle and get a burglar alarm for your room and tag your ear with a GPS tracking chip like they do to endangered animals.

We live right across the street from the most beautiful urban park you’ll ever see. Right across the street. There are ducks to feed and boats to ride and a carosel and a merry-go-round and the nation’s largest public aviary and tennis courts and fountains and a greenhouse and bike paths and two lovely playgrounds.

I’d always imagined that you would play there — with us nearby at first, of course, but eventually by yourself and with your friends. I imagined I would watch from the porch as your rounded the corner and disappeared. Maybe when you were seven or eight — big enough to be seen by cars and to scream loud enough for someone to hear, if need be.

But small enough to play — to learn to be independent and to handle your own conflicts with other kids. Like we used to, when I was a kid.

“I’m going to play,” I’d call over my shoulder on the way out the door.“Be back before dinner,” my mother would call back as the door slammed behind me. Most of the time, I think, she had a vague idea of where I was headed. And that was enough for her.

I’d like it to be enough for me. For you.

But how can I send you out into this village? How do I ballance my desire to help you learn about community when I don’t feel as though I truly trust our community?

So maybe not seven. Maybe not eight. Maybe not nine or 10.

Of course, tonight is a bad night to be making decisions about these things. I’m sad and hurt and heartbroken for that poor little girl’s family. The world feels like an ugly place.

And all I want to to hold you between your mother and I. Tight and close and safe.

And never let go.

Love,
dad

CARROTS, YOUR HONOR

Dear Spike:

In preparation for your arrival, I’ve been working from home in the mornings — mostly upstairs in my office. Today, however, I couldn’t even get out of my bed.

Coltrane was always a cat that liked to cuddle, but ever since Emma died he’s been downright needy. This morning he was sprawled out on my chest, head tucked into the crook of my arm as I balanced my computer on my thighs so that I could see the screen over his body. It wasn’t the most conducive environment for getting work done, but he looked so very comfortable and content, I just couldn’t bear to move him.

At first I thought your mother and I were simply projecting our own emotions onto Cole, following Emma’s death. We felt sad, so we assumed he was sad. We felt lonely so we assumed he was lonely. That’s something pet owners do a lot.

But while we were away in California, this week, I had my friends come by to check on Cole, as they have done many times in the past. And they noticed the change, too.

“He just wouldn’t let us leave,” my buddy Matt told me. “He just wanted so much attention.”

Other than the obvious — simply spending more time cuddling and petting Cole — I don’t know what I can do for him. After all, it’s not like we can sit down and chat about his needs.

That, of course, has gotten me thinking about how I’ll know what you need, once you arrive. It will be some time, after all, until we can sit down and chat about your needs.

I’ve heard other parents say they learn to recognize their children’s cries — perhaps a certain octave means ‘I’m wet,’ a certain tone means ‘I’m hungry,’ and a certain pattern means ‘I’m cold.’

I’m not sure there’s any science backing it up, but I’m not about to knock it until I know. Besides, I like the idea that there may be some small way in which we you will be able to communicate your needs with me, early on.

Later on, we’ll try sign language — a trend that’s quite en vogue, at the moment. If it works you’ll be able to tell us, months before you can talk, that you want a certain toy, a bottle, some food or a warm blanket.

But what about those times before I know your cries and before you can squeeze your hands (as if milking a tiny invisible cow) to tell me it’s time for lunch? How will I know what you want? What if I change you when I need to be feeding you and I feed you when I need to be putting you down for a nap? What if I wrap you in a blanket when you really need to cool down and I sing you a song when you really just need a few moments of silence?

I do think parents (like pet owners) can overanalyze how to best meet their children’s needs — and they often worry needlessly about what might happen, years down the road, if they don’t...

“Well, Your Honor, it’s like this: Spike was a good kid — a real good kid — but her dad just didn’t understand that she needed mashed carrots, not peas, when she was an infant. That’s why my client’s here before you today.

You see, the way I see it, there are two victims here. Of course Mr. Smith didn’t deserve to be run down in the parking lot of that Burger King, but is he the only victim? I submit to you that he is not.

Carrots, Your Honor. All she needed was a few bites of carrots.”

So I suppose I’m not worried about the long-term consequences of mistaking an “I’m hungry” cry with a “my socks are bunched up around my ankles and it’s bugging the heck out of me” cry. And yet, I really want to know — not because I think you’ll wind up on turning tricks on State Street if I don’t, but because I simply want to make you happy.

Until we can chat about it (and sometimes even after that) I suppose I’ll just have to guess.

And in the meantime, like Coltrane, I’ll just hold you a lot. That may not always be exactly what you need, but it’s probably never a bad alternative.

Love,
dad