IT IS TIME

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

THOSE ROUGH WATERS

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

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

THIS RAT RACE

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

PLEATS AND ALL

Dear Spike:

I could have turned down the assignment. My job description has gotten a bit broader, over the years, but 'men's fashion reporter' still isn't on my business card.

But I'm not really a 'no' guy.

And that's how I ended up standing in the middle of my office in a skirt.

You can call it a kilt if you'd like. Some people even prefer the term "Men's Unbifurcated Garment" or "MUG." But it's a skirt. Pleats and all. I wore it for a week at the request of an editor from my newspaper who knows good story fodder when she sees it.

Life is going to offer you plenty of opportunities to say 'no.' And in many cases, that is the right answer. When you might hurt someone or hurt yourself, I expect you to say 'no.' Loud and clear.

But when you're given an opportunity to do something fun, adventurous or educational — and even if that opportunity pushes against your usual comfort zone — 'no' is a good way to miss out on a good time.

You're not always going to love everything you try (the kilt is comfy, but I'm not sure I really need to be the guy everyone stares at in the market) but the more experiences you can stuff into this life, the better.

So take the scary. Take the silly. Take the artistic and the edifying and the enlightening.

Take the drafty.

As much as you can, say 'yes.' To pleats and all.

Love,
dad

MAGIC AND MAJESTY

Dear Spike:

I often wonder what Jesus Christ would think if he were to meet his modern followers. I suspect he wouldn’t be particularly proud of some of them.

In his name they judge and they hate. Sometimes they kill.

They spend millions of dollars trying to ban abortion. They pass laws to ensure homosexuals can’t marry. They even fight to make sure that the 10 Commandments get a prominent place in city parks and to protect “Merry Christmas” from being supplanted by more secular holiday salutations.

I certainly cannot tell you that those Christians who are battling to promote their evangelical agenda are wrong. Just the same, they can’t tell you they are right.

So what would Jesus do? Truth is, most of us are just guessing. As to most of the issues of our modern world, more than two millennia after Christ’s birth, there really is no clear answer.

Save this one:

Time and again, Jesus commanded his followers to love their fellow disciples, their neighbors and even their enemies.

Even if you decide not to believe in the magic and majesty of Christianity, when it comes time to choose a guidebook for your life, the words Christ spoke aren’t a bad option.

But instead of parsing his parables, seeking guidance on complicated modern issues in a 2,000-year-old book, I suggest you start with the simplest commandment he gave.

Love your neighbor.

Start with the person next door. Then move onto every person on your block. Then move onto every person in this world.

A lot of things that we overcomplicate get worked out when love is our guiding force.

For me, Christmastime is a good time to think about how well I’ve been following the Golden Rule — and to recognize that, until I get that right, I’ve got no business whatsoever trying to press my moral agenda on anyone else.

Love,
dad

LONG LONG HOURS

Dear Spike:

If I could bequeath to you one thing that I, myself, do not possess, it would be patience.

It will come in handy, should you ever decide to make an insurance claim, cash in a warranty, register a car or pay your taxes.

I guess the best advice I can give you for the long, long hours you will no doubt be spending in bureaucratic purgatory is to try to always keep a sense of humor about things.

Things could always be worse — even if it might not seem that way at the time.

Love,
dad

HAS THE VOCAB

Dear Spike:

You're a talkative little girl. I suppose you take after you dad in that way.

Just to be sure you don't take after your dad (who did time in the Navy and has the vocab to prove it) in other ways, your mother and I are on a no-swearing campaign. And let me tell you, it's fucking hard.

Oops.

So far, at least, our vow against cursing in your presence seems to be working. You probably know 50 words now — and not one of them will get you sent to the principal's office.

As you'll hear from me many times, there is a time and a place for everything — ever cussin'.

But the truth is, most of us swear far more than we need to. And curse words are mostly laziness disguised as edginess.

The language we've inherited from our ancestors can be quite a pretty thing. And ne'er have I head it prettier spoken than when it is spoken by you.

You know enough of your body parts now for a good old fashioned game of Simon Says. Starting with the chickens in our backyard, you've added quite a few farm animals to your vocabulary. And thanks to our family pass for the Salt Lake City Zoo, you know the names of a few more exotic animals, too.

You know "up" and "down." And "peek-a-boo." And because you have a really bad habit of picking things up off the ground and stuffing them into your mouth, you also know the word "yuck."

You know your name. And your mom's. And once in a while, you say my name, too (though mostly, these days, you just want your mother.)

And this week, a breakthrough of magnificent proportions: You know the word "potty." Oh thank you, dear God, you know the word "potty."

Moreover, you're using it in the future tense. As in "I need to go," not "I just went."

Funny thing, that a word like "potty" could sound so pretty. But it does. Yes it does.

Our language is lovely in that way. In proper context, even the most scatalogical of words can sound quite beautiful.

Which is why I won't tell you that you cannot use any of the words that George Carlin, heaven bless his sinful soul, made famous with his "Seven words you can never say on television" schtick.

But yes, there's a time and a place for everything. And if you're uncertain whether you've come upon that time and place, you might just want to keep it clean.

Love,
dad

HOURS AND HOURS

Dear Spike:

I think I've got Lost Syndrome.

Let me explain: Your mother and I haven't watched a live television program since long before we were married. Our TV isn't hooked up to a cable line or a satellite dish or even an old-fashion antenna.

We do have a DVD player and a nice collection of movies...

... and the entire 11-season series of the show M*A*S*H — all 256 episodes.

That's how it all began.

Your mother was younger than you are now when M*A*S*H ended its run on television. How she managed to get through two more decades on this planet without being exposed to the show in syndication, I don't know, but she'd never seen an episode until I came home, one day, after dropping $39.99 on the DVD collection of the first season. By season two, she was pretty well hooked.

I guess good television, like good film or good music, is simply timeless like that.

They call TV "the boob tube" but my friend DeAnn, a professional TV and movie critic, once told me that she believes the very best things on television are far better than the very best things in the movie theater. I guess that could be so, although I could never bring myself to order cable to find out for sure. It's just all too easy to turn on when you've got nothing better to do — and then leave it on, for hours and hours and hours.

So, we're in the habit of simply waiting for the DVD collections of the best shows to show up at the city library. Largely, we've been unimpressed with what's out there, although there are indeed some gems.

Which brings me to Lost. We started watching the series last week and have been having a hard time turning it off. And even when I'm not watching the show, I'm thinking about the show. We blew through the first season. Then we blew through the second season. Now we're anxiously awaiting the third season (but, alas, we're number 53 on a list of 57 library patrons waiting for the discs.)

It's true: In spite our our best efforts to avoid the great, hungry vortex of television, we got sucked in all the same.

Television isn't bad. Occassionally it can be quite good. But as in all things, moderation is the key.

No one would fault you for loving the symphony. But if you spent every night at the symphony, avoiding other responsibilities and jumping from performance to performance regardless of how good or bad it was, people might start to wonder about you.

And if you loved the museum, no one would think you strange — unless you spent every single afternoon and evening there, looking at exhibit after exhibit after exhibit in lieu of doing anything else with your life.

It's hard for me to say how much of anything is too much, though I suppose that as your father, it will be my job to do just that, at least for the first couple of decades of your life. So we'll limit your TV intake (hopefully better than we've limited our own, over the past week) and try our best to steer you toward things like the symphony and the museum (in moderation, of course.)

But if you occassionally get Lost in the boob tube, I'll understand. I've been Lost too.

Love,
dad

BUMPS AND BRUISES

Dear Spike:

I could hear you screaming in the background. More directly on the line, your mother's voice was aquiver.

Seems you made your way into a cabinet and found an old blender. And before your mother could stop you, you tossed it onto the tile floor.

Bang. Crash. Glass everywhere.

And a whole mess of blood.

The cut wasn't too bad — not nearly as horrible as I imagined when your mother called me at work. And by bathtime, that night, you were back to your cheerful self again.

Then, today, you were toddling about, back in the kitchen. And while we were both keeping our eye on the cabinets, you slipped and fell.

Bang. Crash. Right on your head.

The bump wasn't too bad. And by dinnertime you'd forgotten all about it.

Sometimes we all have "bang, crash" kinds of days. And sometimes we have two in a row. Or three. Or four.

As much as anything else in life, our bumps and bruises and cuts and scars make us who we are. But that doesn't mean you have to try to get 'em.

Let's try to stay safe today, OK?

Love,
dad

ON NEW CHALLENGES

Dear Spike:

For the past two weeks, our three chickens, Bubba, Wanda and The Colonel, have been living in a 30-gallon plastic tub in the corner of our dining room. But in the past few days it's become clear that arrangement won't last for long.

Bubba and Wanda have tripled in size since we got them. The Colonel remains the smallest girl of the bunch, but she's also grown considerably. All of them have started to flap their wings about — and Bubba managed to make the leap to the lip of the tub the other day, perching on the side until your mother grabbed her and put her back in the bottom of the tub.

So today you and your mother packed the girls in a cardboard box and walked them out to the coop in the backyard. And that's where I found them, pecking away at the dirt, when I returned home from work today.

As much as I've tried to discourage your mom from treating the girls as pets — "they're working animals," I tell her — I'm not innocent of a little lovidy-dovidy nonsense. Since their arrival I've visited with the girls at least once a day, picking them up one by one to rub their little heads, and bending down to let you do the same. I want them to be friendly to me, you and your mom – and I've heard that handling chicks from a young age helps discourage them from pecking later on in life.

I've never raised livestock before, so I don't know where the lines are supposed to be drawn.

Is it OK to name your animals, so long as you don't plan on eating them? I suppose that's fine.

How about if you're going to steal their eggs? Is it OK to try to make friends?

None of this keeps me up at night, but I find it an interesting experience. I'm quite out of my comfort zone in this little experiment. And I think that's a good thing for me.

And for you. Life's more fun — and fascinating — when you make a habit of taking on new challenges.

Love,
dad

REALLY CHANGE MUCH

Dear Spike:

Never underestimate how much a simple gesture on your part might brighten someone else's day.

Two quick case studies from work this week...

1) On Sunday I was assigned to cover the homecoming of Apa Sherpa, who just returned from his record-breaking 18th summit of Mt. Everest. This man is a living legend, a true hero who has guided scores of people safely up and back down the world's tallest mountain, but he was humble and kind and gracious. And when it came time to say goodbye, he took my hand, deftly shifted his body forward, and pulled me in to give me a hug.

A hug. From Apa Sherpa.

I'm quite certain I'll never summit Everest. But somehow, now, I feel like a part of me has.

2) This afternoon you and I had lunch with a young Iraqi man who lost both of his legs in a roadside bomb attack in Baghdad. Although he had been working as an interpreter for U.S. soldiers when the attack occurred, it took more than two years for his visa to be approved to come to the United States for treatment. He finally got here two months ago — only to learn that the U.S. government wouldn't pay for a motorized wheelchair or prothetic limbs. He was understandably depressed and worried about his future. But throughout the interview, I noticed that he was rather smitten with you. He rubbed your head and touched your cheek. He laughed as you threw your food all over my lap. And at the end of the interview, you leaned in and gave him a kiss on his cheek.

A kiss. From a little girl.

That'll hardly change his circumstances, but you should have seen the look in his eyes.

The truth is, sometimes the little things in life — like simple gestures of kindness — don't really change much.

But maybe a simple gesture somehow alters someone's day.

And maybe that day somehow alter's their week.

And that week, their year.

And that year, their life.

And that life, the lives of others.

And those others, the world.

A warm hug. A small kiss. A kind smile. A simple thanks.

And a world — forever changed.

Love,
dad

AIN'T NO DOUBT

Dear Spike:

A year ago at this moment I was holding your tiny body in my arms, rocking in you a not-so-comfy chair in your mother's room on the maternity ward at LDS Hospital.

That chair, that room and that entire ward are all gone now — moved to a new hospital a couple of miles down the road.

That's just the way things work in this world. The new replaces the old. Then the new gets old. And so on an so on.

Some people think it all moves too fast. And maybe they're right. After all, one moment I was rocking you in my arms, the next moment I was listening to you say "mama" for the very first time, a few moments later you we're going to swimming lessons.

And then, boom, here we were, eating birthday cake, singing that silly song, blowing out your candle.

Sure, it can all go by in the blink of an eye. Faster even. And particularly when you really don't want it to.

But if you stop to breathe, to watch, to listen, to smell, to touch, to laugh, to feel, to hurt, to know, to learn, to love — yes, especially to love — you can still enjoy the hell out of it along the way.

The past year has been the best of my life.

Yes, because of you, but maybe not in the way you think. You've forced me to turn on my senses in a way I've never had to do before — at least not for minutes upon hours upon days upon weeks upon months at a time. Together, and particularly with your mother's help, we've enjoyed the hell out of this thing called life, slowing down to watch the birds dancing in the lilac bush outside your window; to listen to the rain patter, patter plop against the backyard fence; to smell the lillies that grow in Mr. Vestal's front yard; to laugh at laughing, just because laughing itself is so darn funny; to feel the cat's long black and white fur (and sometimes to yank it); to hurt when we bump heads together in an ill-fated attempt at a hug; to know every single inch of the floor (and to eat most of what is on it - yecckhhh!); to learn about each other, step by step and sometimes by trial and error...

...

...

... and to love each other. To love the heck out of each other. To love the low-down, right-on, sure-as-can-be, ain't-no-doubt, gonna-be-yours-forever-and-then-some heck out of each other.

Thank you. For all of it.

Love,
dad

EVERYTHING YOU ENCOUNTER

Dear Spike:

Seven thoughts I'd like to share with you in the week before your first birthday,

7) Leave everything you encounter in this world better off than when you found it.

Love,
dad

YOU MEAN IT

Dear Spike:

Seven thoughts I'd like to share with you in the week before your first birthday,

6) Love like you mean it.

Love,
dad

ANYTHING WORTH SAYING

Dear Spike:

Seven thoughts I'd like to share with you in the week before your first birthday,

5) Anything worth saying is worth the whole world hearing. Anything worth saying about someone is worth saying to someone.

Love,
dad

EVERYTHING AND WINNING

Dear Spike:

Seven thoughts I'd like to share with you in the week before your first birthday,

4) Winning isn't everything and winning isn't the only thing. Play accordingly.

Love,
dad

IN INNOCENT BLOOD

Dear Spike:

Seven thoughts I'd like to share with you in the week before your first birthday,

3) Measured in innocent blood, nothing separates just war from genocide.

Love,
dad

TO HANDLE VICE

Dear Spike:

Seven thoughts I'd like to share with you in the week before your first birthday,

2) Moderation is a good way to handle vice. It is not good excuse for having vice.

Love,
dad

BE A FRIEND

Dear Spike:

In the final seven days before your first birthday, I thought I'd share with you seven thoughts about living in this sometimes big, sometimes small, mixed up, no good, beautiful, horrible, funny, tragic world.

Today, friendship:

1) Never fail to be a friend for someone who needs a friend.

Love,
dad