Dear Spike:
Yesterday was my 30th birthday. We celebrated with a hike up Emmigration Canyon, to a place your mother and I call "Little Korea" for its striking resemblance to the outdoor set from the M*A*S*H movie and television series. You hadn't taken a nap before we left, and got a bit crabby just about a half-mile into the hike. And so, as we walked, your mother and I sang to you one of your favorite lullabies, "I Don't Want to Live on the Moon," and soon you were asleep.
I've been dreading this birthday. Back in my parents' day, they used to say you couldn't trust people over the age of 30. These days, they say 30 is the new 20 — but it still felt 30 to me.
But now the day has come and gone and it really wasn't so bad. I spent a wonderful day with you and your mother. And later we saw our friends Rob and Sue, and Gus and Emily. Emily gave you your first-ever Girl Scout cookie, and like the rest of America, you now appear to be hopelessly addicted. There's heroin in those Thin Mints, of this I am quite confident.
In many ways, being a dad has made me feel my age. I think much more these days about things like health insurance, making smart car purchases and buying healthy food. I drive slower. I drink less. And yes, I groan more.
Yet at the same time I feel much younger than I have in many years. I'm less cynical. I strive to be more kind. And I sing and whistle and dance and play more than I have in a long, long time.
There was a time when you would never have found me walking hand-in-hand with your mother in the mountains, singing as though I was a member of the VonTrapp family, completely unconcerned about whether or not anyone else could hear. But things are different now.
They're better.
And as for 30, I think I'll be OK.
Love,
dad
Showing posts with label blessings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blessings. Show all posts
Monday, June 9, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
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
Monday, April 14, 2008
WINNING THE GAME
Dear Spike:
It's April 14, which means it's time to start working on our family's taxes.
You can call it procrastination if you'd like, but I don't see it that way. For me, Tax Day is a holiday of sorts, not unlike Independence Day or Memorial Day. It's a time to reflect on what this country means to me — and what it's worth. And just as I can't stand it when I see Christmas ornaments on store shelves months before December 25, it's never felt right to rush into April 15, even if I do have a big refund coming.
Of course, this year that does not appear to be the case. I've spent the past three hours poring over our family's W-2s, receipts and student loan interest statements. I've calculated and recalculated the square footage of my home office. I've checked and double checked to make sure that Daddy's Little Tax Deduction (that would be you) has properly been accounted for. And by the looks of things, we're still $500 in the hole. Seems your mother's new job (and it's associated pay bump) swept us right up into a new income bracket. And even with rather large deductions for the interest we paid on our home and the baby we brought into the world, we simply didn't withhold enough over the past year.
The game's not over yet, though. I've still got to calculate out the mileage I put on our family's car for work — that'll save us a few bucks. I'm also trying to figure out whether my daily cup of coffee is a business, child care or medical expense. (A note to the good folks at the IRS, a government agency for which I hold the deepest respect: I'm just kidding! I know very well that coffee is, in fact, a charitable contribution!)
Even if I'm able to zero out our additional tax liability (I call this "winning the game") we'll still have paid roughly $14,000 in state and federal taxes this year. That doesn't include the money your mother and I threw into the great black hole that is Social Security, or the cash we tossed into the even greater, blacker hole that is Medicare, or the 6.6 percent sales tax we pay on just about everything we buy at the store or the 45 cents-per-gallon fuel tax we pay every time we hit the gas station.
All told, it's a lot of cash. But in exchange, we get a lot of stuff.
We get roads. And police officers. And firefighters. And clean drinking water. And safe food.
We get national parks. And school nurses. And dog catchers. And well-regulated slot machines.
We also get some things that I wish we didn't have.
We get ill-advised wars. And billion-dollar weapons. And unconscionable foreign policy. And federally-mandated education policies. And poorly regulated mega-businesses.
When we pay our taxes, we get a bunch of stuff we want and a bunch of stuff we don't. And that's all part of living in a semi-free market, quasi-socialized democratic republic.
For a lot of folks, it's really frustrating to think of all the great things our nation could have if we would simply reevaluate our priorities — and sometimes I feel frustrated, too. But in the years that I lose the game and we have to pay Uncle Sam a little extra, I try to think about all the good our money might do, and I make a wish that in the coming year, we'll become just a little bit wiser.
And in the lower left corner of the check, I write: "For America."
Love,
dad
It's April 14, which means it's time to start working on our family's taxes.
You can call it procrastination if you'd like, but I don't see it that way. For me, Tax Day is a holiday of sorts, not unlike Independence Day or Memorial Day. It's a time to reflect on what this country means to me — and what it's worth. And just as I can't stand it when I see Christmas ornaments on store shelves months before December 25, it's never felt right to rush into April 15, even if I do have a big refund coming.
Of course, this year that does not appear to be the case. I've spent the past three hours poring over our family's W-2s, receipts and student loan interest statements. I've calculated and recalculated the square footage of my home office. I've checked and double checked to make sure that Daddy's Little Tax Deduction (that would be you) has properly been accounted for. And by the looks of things, we're still $500 in the hole. Seems your mother's new job (and it's associated pay bump) swept us right up into a new income bracket. And even with rather large deductions for the interest we paid on our home and the baby we brought into the world, we simply didn't withhold enough over the past year.
The game's not over yet, though. I've still got to calculate out the mileage I put on our family's car for work — that'll save us a few bucks. I'm also trying to figure out whether my daily cup of coffee is a business, child care or medical expense. (A note to the good folks at the IRS, a government agency for which I hold the deepest respect: I'm just kidding! I know very well that coffee is, in fact, a charitable contribution!)
Even if I'm able to zero out our additional tax liability (I call this "winning the game") we'll still have paid roughly $14,000 in state and federal taxes this year. That doesn't include the money your mother and I threw into the great black hole that is Social Security, or the cash we tossed into the even greater, blacker hole that is Medicare, or the 6.6 percent sales tax we pay on just about everything we buy at the store or the 45 cents-per-gallon fuel tax we pay every time we hit the gas station.
All told, it's a lot of cash. But in exchange, we get a lot of stuff.
We get roads. And police officers. And firefighters. And clean drinking water. And safe food.
We get national parks. And school nurses. And dog catchers. And well-regulated slot machines.
We also get some things that I wish we didn't have.
We get ill-advised wars. And billion-dollar weapons. And unconscionable foreign policy. And federally-mandated education policies. And poorly regulated mega-businesses.
When we pay our taxes, we get a bunch of stuff we want and a bunch of stuff we don't. And that's all part of living in a semi-free market, quasi-socialized democratic republic.
For a lot of folks, it's really frustrating to think of all the great things our nation could have if we would simply reevaluate our priorities — and sometimes I feel frustrated, too. But in the years that I lose the game and we have to pay Uncle Sam a little extra, I try to think about all the good our money might do, and I make a wish that in the coming year, we'll become just a little bit wiser.
And in the lower left corner of the check, I write: "For America."
Love,
dad
Friday, April 11, 2008
OUR LITTLE DANCE
Dear Spike:
Most mornings find you and I engaged in a bit of a dance. I shovel some food down your throat while deleting e-mails from people who want to sell me Viagra or help me secure a fortune in African gold. You start rummaging through your toy box as I make a few phone calls. I take you to the potty and, while we're downstairs, I grab a cup of coffee for me and a bottle of milk for you. Then back to the e-mails — this time the ones I actually have to read — with you on my knee. Then I work on my newspaper blog while you munch on some cereal. Back to the potty. Maybe a quick moment for a book. OK, maybe two. Back upstairs for (hopefully) a nap (alas for you, not me) while I confirm my appointments for the afternoon. More with the potty, more with the phone calls (two days ago I was quite litterally holding over the pot while speaking to a United States congressman.) And so on.
Sometimes I feel bad that you have to share your father's attention with soldiers and thinktankers and politicians. And I dream about days like today, when we spent the first two hours of the morning playing together on your bedroom floor, then got dressed for an excursion to the city library. There, we read books and stomped around in the the nooks and crannies of the children's section, then rode the glass elevator from the first floor to the fifth and back down again.
And back up again.
And back down again.
After we got tired of that, we went to the grocery store to pick up some baby food and yogurt. And on the way home you fell asleep, so I parked the car at the park and watched the geese splash down on the lake as you slept.
I didn't miss the daily grind, not one bit. But I won't be sorry when Monday rolls around and we're at it once again, me at my laptop and you at your toybox. Most folks aren't blessed with the opportunity to have every day be bring-your-daughter-to-work day. And so while I'm always relieved to see your mother walk through the front door in the afternoon, I always miss our little dance.
Love,
dad
Most mornings find you and I engaged in a bit of a dance. I shovel some food down your throat while deleting e-mails from people who want to sell me Viagra or help me secure a fortune in African gold. You start rummaging through your toy box as I make a few phone calls. I take you to the potty and, while we're downstairs, I grab a cup of coffee for me and a bottle of milk for you. Then back to the e-mails — this time the ones I actually have to read — with you on my knee. Then I work on my newspaper blog while you munch on some cereal. Back to the potty. Maybe a quick moment for a book. OK, maybe two. Back upstairs for (hopefully) a nap (alas for you, not me) while I confirm my appointments for the afternoon. More with the potty, more with the phone calls (two days ago I was quite litterally holding over the pot while speaking to a United States congressman.) And so on.
Sometimes I feel bad that you have to share your father's attention with soldiers and thinktankers and politicians. And I dream about days like today, when we spent the first two hours of the morning playing together on your bedroom floor, then got dressed for an excursion to the city library. There, we read books and stomped around in the the nooks and crannies of the children's section, then rode the glass elevator from the first floor to the fifth and back down again.
And back up again.
And back down again.
After we got tired of that, we went to the grocery store to pick up some baby food and yogurt. And on the way home you fell asleep, so I parked the car at the park and watched the geese splash down on the lake as you slept.
I didn't miss the daily grind, not one bit. But I won't be sorry when Monday rolls around and we're at it once again, me at my laptop and you at your toybox. Most folks aren't blessed with the opportunity to have every day be bring-your-daughter-to-work day. And so while I'm always relieved to see your mother walk through the front door in the afternoon, I always miss our little dance.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
JUST THE STUFF
Dear Spike:
You will never need clothing again — or not until you're four or five, at least.
Our good friends Scott and Lesli called yesterday to say they had some clothes for you. This was exciting. A good portion of your wardrobe already comes from their beautiful daughter, Zoe, who is growing like one of those little sponge dinosaurs and has recently busted out of another set of clothing.
We knew we'd be getting some good stuff — all of Zoe's clothes are super cute — but we really had no idea that we'd be leaving with an entire truckload of baby gear.
No, really, it was quite literally a truckload.
Here's the deal: Scott and Lesli have multiple friends and relatives with little girls, just a bit older than Zoe, who handed stuff down to them. Add that stuff to all the other stuff that Zoe has accumulated from grandparents, other relatives and friends and you've pretty much won the baby hand-me-down sweepstakes.
Pajamas. Onesies. Boots. Sandals. Socks. Hats. Little baby bloomers. There's enough to fill your dresser drawers and then some — and that's just the stuff that will fit you now. There are five or six big bags and several large boxes of OTHER stuff in the basement just waiting for you to grow into.
I know you won't always want to exclusively be wearing hand-me-downs, but I do hope you never grow to think of used clothing as somehow below your dignity, as some folks seem to. One of the very great things we can do for this planet and for one another is use stuff until it’s so worn out that it simply cannot be used anymore. That goes for clothes, but it also goes for cars, computers, toys, TVs and pretty much everything else that we own.
Just because we've been blessed with the ability to replace old stuff with new, doesn't mean we need to. And we can do a lot for our world by simply sharing with our friends and neighbors, as our friends have done for us and we, in turn, will do for others.
You're going to look simply dashing in your new wardrobe.
Love,
dad
You will never need clothing again — or not until you're four or five, at least.
Our good friends Scott and Lesli called yesterday to say they had some clothes for you. This was exciting. A good portion of your wardrobe already comes from their beautiful daughter, Zoe, who is growing like one of those little sponge dinosaurs and has recently busted out of another set of clothing.
We knew we'd be getting some good stuff — all of Zoe's clothes are super cute — but we really had no idea that we'd be leaving with an entire truckload of baby gear.
No, really, it was quite literally a truckload.
Here's the deal: Scott and Lesli have multiple friends and relatives with little girls, just a bit older than Zoe, who handed stuff down to them. Add that stuff to all the other stuff that Zoe has accumulated from grandparents, other relatives and friends and you've pretty much won the baby hand-me-down sweepstakes.
Pajamas. Onesies. Boots. Sandals. Socks. Hats. Little baby bloomers. There's enough to fill your dresser drawers and then some — and that's just the stuff that will fit you now. There are five or six big bags and several large boxes of OTHER stuff in the basement just waiting for you to grow into.
I know you won't always want to exclusively be wearing hand-me-downs, but I do hope you never grow to think of used clothing as somehow below your dignity, as some folks seem to. One of the very great things we can do for this planet and for one another is use stuff until it’s so worn out that it simply cannot be used anymore. That goes for clothes, but it also goes for cars, computers, toys, TVs and pretty much everything else that we own.
Just because we've been blessed with the ability to replace old stuff with new, doesn't mean we need to. And we can do a lot for our world by simply sharing with our friends and neighbors, as our friends have done for us and we, in turn, will do for others.
You're going to look simply dashing in your new wardrobe.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
A CLEANER FREAK
Dear Spike:
The kitchen is a mess again. Really, it looks like the laboratory of a mad scientist who has decided to meld cloned human embryos with various species of mold. And he's really messy about it. And the San Francisco 49ers' entire starting offensive line is staying over at his place. And there was just a nuclear holocaust. And a fraternity party.
Your mom does the laundry. I clean the kitchen. That's the arrangement we have — a deal to which she has faithfully honored and to which I have honored about once a week, usually when we've run out of silverware.
Everything else in the house is pretty much fair game — which generally means she does all that stuff, too. She's not a clean freak, just a cleaner freak than I am. Sometimes I feel bad about this and I move about the house urgently picking up toys and books and piles of clothing. And then, usually right about the time that I find the most recent edition of Newsweek under the week-old stack of junk mail by the front door, I get distracted.
I'm a pretty good guy with really good intentions — and I've got plenty of good excuses. It's not so easy juggling daddy daycare with mild-mannered reporting. There are so many projects in this old house I don't even know where to start. And at the end of the day, you know, I'd just rather spend time with you and your mother than sweeping the hardwood or mopping the tiles.
Truth is, though, that your mom has been extremely tolerant with my inability to focus on any one task for longer that a few minutes at a time. She'd be justified in being a little bit annoyed with me, but I do my best not to let her know that.
When you're looking for someone who completes you on this often lonely planet, I'd definitely advise you to find somebody who can be tolerant of your faults, flaws and failures — and for whom you can exercise tolerance as well.
Nobody's perfect, after all.
Except, I think, for your mother.
Love,
dad
The kitchen is a mess again. Really, it looks like the laboratory of a mad scientist who has decided to meld cloned human embryos with various species of mold. And he's really messy about it. And the San Francisco 49ers' entire starting offensive line is staying over at his place. And there was just a nuclear holocaust. And a fraternity party.
Your mom does the laundry. I clean the kitchen. That's the arrangement we have — a deal to which she has faithfully honored and to which I have honored about once a week, usually when we've run out of silverware.
Everything else in the house is pretty much fair game — which generally means she does all that stuff, too. She's not a clean freak, just a cleaner freak than I am. Sometimes I feel bad about this and I move about the house urgently picking up toys and books and piles of clothing. And then, usually right about the time that I find the most recent edition of Newsweek under the week-old stack of junk mail by the front door, I get distracted.
I'm a pretty good guy with really good intentions — and I've got plenty of good excuses. It's not so easy juggling daddy daycare with mild-mannered reporting. There are so many projects in this old house I don't even know where to start. And at the end of the day, you know, I'd just rather spend time with you and your mother than sweeping the hardwood or mopping the tiles.
Truth is, though, that your mom has been extremely tolerant with my inability to focus on any one task for longer that a few minutes at a time. She'd be justified in being a little bit annoyed with me, but I do my best not to let her know that.
When you're looking for someone who completes you on this often lonely planet, I'd definitely advise you to find somebody who can be tolerant of your faults, flaws and failures — and for whom you can exercise tolerance as well.
Nobody's perfect, after all.
Except, I think, for your mother.
Love,
dad
Monday, March 31, 2008
REALLY DON'T CARE
Dear Spike:
It's Monday morning, about 9 a.m., and you're asleep on my lap.
Your head is resting on my left arm, rendering it unusable, which makes typing quite a chore. I could risk moving you to your nap mat, but I fear you'll wake -- and after the restless night you had, last night, I know you need your sleep.
All this likely will set me back a few hours of work today, but I really don't care.
Right now I'm holding my sleeping daughter in my arms. And I know this is a special opportunity that won't be around forever.
Love,
dad
It's Monday morning, about 9 a.m., and you're asleep on my lap.
Your head is resting on my left arm, rendering it unusable, which makes typing quite a chore. I could risk moving you to your nap mat, but I fear you'll wake -- and after the restless night you had, last night, I know you need your sleep.
All this likely will set me back a few hours of work today, but I really don't care.
Right now I'm holding my sleeping daughter in my arms. And I know this is a special opportunity that won't be around forever.
Love,
dad
Thursday, February 28, 2008
IN AMAZING WAYS
Dear Spike:
Yesterday marked nine months since the day you were born — and so as of today, you’ve officially spent more time “out” than “in.”
In spite of the fact that you’re still hovering around 13 pounds, the growth we’ve seen since the day you arrived has fascinated me in ways I can’t begin to describe.
You still rely on us for so very much. For food, comfort, warmth and for protection from the cat (who is growing a tad bit ornery about the way you “pet” him.) But you’ve also learned to communicate and interact with us in amazing ways. You sign to us when you want milk. You call to your mother when you see her walking up the steps to our door when she gets home from work.
Lately, we have begun to play a game called “Superman” in which you raise your hand above your head and we, in response, “fly” you around the room. And on your own, you’ve begun to play a game I call “Mess with Daddy’s Mind” in which you begin to cry when I turn away from you, then laugh when I turn back to face you.
Turn away. Cry. Turn back. Laugh. Turn away. Cry. Turn back. Laugh. I feel like a puppet. Or one of those fuzzy-hatted green-skinned guards from the Wizard of Oz... “Oh-weeeee-oh, Ooooh-oh!”
You spent the last three days sick with some sort of ugly stomach bug. As fast as we could pump in the Pedialite you were pumping it out the other end. And yet we didn’t once have to change a wet or messy diaper. You let us know when you needed to go and we obliged. I know I shouldn’t be so fascinated by these sorts of things, but I can’t help it.
And yet, beyond it all, I still look at you and shake my head and simply cannot believe what happened in the nine months before you arrived — how you went from a few small cells to a tiny-but-tough baby girl, with 10 fingers and 10 toes and two eyes and two ears and one cute little belly button seemingly holding it all together in one place.
When your Godmother told us she was pregnant, last month, we quickly rushed out to buy her a book with pictures of all the developmental stages of her baby. Before we sent it off to Oregon, I flipped through its pages and imagined what you once looked like inside the person you now call “mama.”
Amazing.
Amazing.
I wonder whether I’ll ever be able to look into your eyes and not feel awestruck by this miracle. I wonder whether I’ll ever be able to run my fingers through your hair and not be overwhelmed by this gift.
I wonder whether I’ll ever be able to hold your hand in mine and not feel as though the world, spinning round and round and round for so many billions of years, hasn’t suddenly stopped in place in recognition of the moment.
You wow me.
Love,
dad
Monday, December 31, 2007
THREE TWO ONE
Dear Spike:
I’ve counted down the final seconds of the year at a ecstasy-fueled rave in new Jerusalem; at the historic Plaza de Zocodover in Toledo, Spain; slurping Irish coffees at the Buena Vista in San Francisco; at a lascivious Fiesta Bowl block party in Tempe, Arizona; and even on the comparatively quiet deck of an aircraft carrier in the northern Persian Gulf.
I’ve always been a fan of this night — of all the revelry and debauchery, of the goodbyes-to-that and the hellos-to-this, of regrets forgotten and promises made. Of the five-four-three-two-one and the kisses at midnight and that lovely old song that everyone knows the tune of but no one knows the words to.
But tonight is different. There’s no big apple falling from the sky. No fireworks. No tooting horns. No throngs of drunken revelers.
Not here.
Here it is just you and your mother and me. We’re watching Winnie the Pooh and waiting for a cherry pie to cool on the stovetop and trying to convince you that it’s OK to sleep for longer than 45 minutes at a time.
We had a couple of T-bone steaks for dinner — big, thick, juicy ones slathered with mushrooms and onions and whipped garlic butter. I drank the remaining half-glass from a cheap bottle of Merlot I opened for dinner the other night. You sucked on a graham cracker.
That was the extent of our celebration. And that was more than fine by me.
Maybe next year I’ll want to brave the crowds and bang the pans and watch the ball drop three-two-one-boom! Maybe then, midnight will find your mother and I locked in a kiss, surrounded by others locked in their own kisses. Maybe then, we’ll be in Rio or Paris or Prague.
Maybe.
For now, I’m simply reveling over a year that changed my life in more good ways than any other — a year that brought me you.
For now, I’m simply appreciating the best New Year’s ever.
Three. Two. One.
Boom.
Love,
dad
P.S. — No, I've never done ecstasy. No, you're not allowed to either.
I’ve counted down the final seconds of the year at a ecstasy-fueled rave in new Jerusalem; at the historic Plaza de Zocodover in Toledo, Spain; slurping Irish coffees at the Buena Vista in San Francisco; at a lascivious Fiesta Bowl block party in Tempe, Arizona; and even on the comparatively quiet deck of an aircraft carrier in the northern Persian Gulf.
I’ve always been a fan of this night — of all the revelry and debauchery, of the goodbyes-to-that and the hellos-to-this, of regrets forgotten and promises made. Of the five-four-three-two-one and the kisses at midnight and that lovely old song that everyone knows the tune of but no one knows the words to.
But tonight is different. There’s no big apple falling from the sky. No fireworks. No tooting horns. No throngs of drunken revelers.
Not here.
Here it is just you and your mother and me. We’re watching Winnie the Pooh and waiting for a cherry pie to cool on the stovetop and trying to convince you that it’s OK to sleep for longer than 45 minutes at a time.
We had a couple of T-bone steaks for dinner — big, thick, juicy ones slathered with mushrooms and onions and whipped garlic butter. I drank the remaining half-glass from a cheap bottle of Merlot I opened for dinner the other night. You sucked on a graham cracker.
That was the extent of our celebration. And that was more than fine by me.
Maybe next year I’ll want to brave the crowds and bang the pans and watch the ball drop three-two-one-boom! Maybe then, midnight will find your mother and I locked in a kiss, surrounded by others locked in their own kisses. Maybe then, we’ll be in Rio or Paris or Prague.
Maybe.
For now, I’m simply reveling over a year that changed my life in more good ways than any other — a year that brought me you.
For now, I’m simply appreciating the best New Year’s ever.
Three. Two. One.
Boom.
Love,
dad
P.S. — No, I've never done ecstasy. No, you're not allowed to either.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
I AM THANKFUL
LOOK! Spike has a new Thanksgiving week poll. Just glance to the right and pick your poison.
Dear Spike:
I’ve never had to struggle to come up with things for which I am thankful.
I grew up in a nice, middle-class home in the San Francisco suburbs, with parents who loved me and siblings that I count as my best friends in the world. Our grandparents lived close by. Our church family was indeed a family. Our schools were good. Our teachers cared. We were healthy and happy.
Come Thanksgiving, there was always a turkey on the table. Come Christmas, there were always presents under the tree.
When I grew up, I married a woman who is intelligent, adorable and fun. We both have careers that we enjoy and of which we are proud. We have a beautiful home that’s just a stone’s throw from one of the greatest city parks in the United States.
Things aren’t always easy. Sometimes I feel worried. Sometimes I feel sad. But I’ve seen poverty. And hunger. And pain. And hate. And violence. And so, on balance, things are good. There’s so much to be thankful for.
Especially now that you’re here.
On this day when we’re encouraged to take a moment to think about those things for which we are most thankful, I don’t even know where to begin.
I am thankful for your smile, your laugh, your screams and even your cries.
I am thankful for your soft little fingers, your tough little grip, your refusal to lie on your tummy and your persistence in learning to stand.
I am thankful for the way you sleep with your arm curled up and your fist tucked into your temple — just like your mom.
I am thankful for how big you’ve grown, having started so very small. For the way you look up at me when you sit on my lap. For the way you make heads turn at the grocery store, the library and the university.
I am thankful for the way you make me want to be a better father and a better husband. I am thankful for the way you make me want to be a better person.
I think you’ll find you’ll have plenty to be thankful for too. You’ve been born into a nice, middle-class home in Salt Lake City, with parents who love you and — who knows? — maybe someday a sibling that you’ll count as your best friend in the world.
None of your grandparents live close, but we stay in close contact and they’ll all be part of your life as you grow.
Come Thanksgiving, there always will be a turkey on the table. Come Christmas, there were always presents under the tree — handmade and heartfelt, as that’s our family’s tradition.
And come every single day of the year, you will have a father and a mother who are thankful for you — who love you unconditionally and will never hesitate to remind you it is so.
May you always have plenty for which to give thanks — so much so that you won’t even know where to begin.
Love,
dad
Dear Spike:
I’ve never had to struggle to come up with things for which I am thankful.
I grew up in a nice, middle-class home in the San Francisco suburbs, with parents who loved me and siblings that I count as my best friends in the world. Our grandparents lived close by. Our church family was indeed a family. Our schools were good. Our teachers cared. We were healthy and happy.
Come Thanksgiving, there was always a turkey on the table. Come Christmas, there were always presents under the tree.
When I grew up, I married a woman who is intelligent, adorable and fun. We both have careers that we enjoy and of which we are proud. We have a beautiful home that’s just a stone’s throw from one of the greatest city parks in the United States.
Things aren’t always easy. Sometimes I feel worried. Sometimes I feel sad. But I’ve seen poverty. And hunger. And pain. And hate. And violence. And so, on balance, things are good. There’s so much to be thankful for.
Especially now that you’re here.
On this day when we’re encouraged to take a moment to think about those things for which we are most thankful, I don’t even know where to begin.
I am thankful for your smile, your laugh, your screams and even your cries.
I am thankful for your soft little fingers, your tough little grip, your refusal to lie on your tummy and your persistence in learning to stand.
I am thankful for the way you sleep with your arm curled up and your fist tucked into your temple — just like your mom.
I am thankful for how big you’ve grown, having started so very small. For the way you look up at me when you sit on my lap. For the way you make heads turn at the grocery store, the library and the university.
I am thankful for the way you make me want to be a better father and a better husband. I am thankful for the way you make me want to be a better person.
I think you’ll find you’ll have plenty to be thankful for too. You’ve been born into a nice, middle-class home in Salt Lake City, with parents who love you and — who knows? — maybe someday a sibling that you’ll count as your best friend in the world.
None of your grandparents live close, but we stay in close contact and they’ll all be part of your life as you grow.
Come Thanksgiving, there always will be a turkey on the table. Come Christmas, there were always presents under the tree — handmade and heartfelt, as that’s our family’s tradition.
And come every single day of the year, you will have a father and a mother who are thankful for you — who love you unconditionally and will never hesitate to remind you it is so.
May you always have plenty for which to give thanks — so much so that you won’t even know where to begin.
Love,
dad
Monday, October 29, 2007
A MORAL IMPERATIVE
First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out - because I was not a Socialist.
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out - because I was not a Trade Unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out - because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me - and there was no one left to speak for me.
— Rev. Martin Niemöller
Dear Spike:
I first remember reading Rev. Niemöller’s enduring words on a small laminated poster stuck to a bulletin board in a high school classroom.
I didn’t really know what a socialist was — let alone a trade unionist. But like most American kids with a public school education, I knew what had happened when “they came for the Jews.” And from that context I immediately understood the depth and profundity of Niemöller’s poem — even if I didn’t understand its relevance in a remedial freshman English class.
Indeed, the horrid enormity of that which Niemöller originally spoke has always made it difficult for me to put his words into any sort of modern context — lest of all for our lives in this amazingly blessed nation.
But I’ve been thinking a lot, today, about Niemöller’s poem. And though it may amount to literary and historical blasphemy, I’ve begun to rewrite it in my mind.
Something along these lines...
First they told me that tens of millions of Americans were unable to go to the doctor — and I did not speak out; I had insurance.
Then they told me that millions upon millions of children were uninsured — and I did not speak out; I had no children.
Then they raised my wife’s insurance premium — threefold — and I did not speak out; we simply switched to my insurance.
And then, today, they priced me out of my insurance. . .
And it seems there is no one left to speak out for me, my wife, or my beautiful baby girl.
Niemöller’s poem, I think, was not really about the Jews. It was about the trade unionists and the socialists (and, in other versions, about communists and social democrats and Catholics.) It was about setting the table for larger evils with smaller ones that go unnoticed because they effect the few, the poor and the unempowered.
I’ve long been a believer that basic, universal healthcare is nothing less than a moral imperative for our nation — and particularly for our nation’s children and its senior citizens. But in 29 years on this planet, there has not been a single moment when I have not been insured myself. And so I did not speak out. Not as tens of millions of Americans used the emergency room as their primary care physician. Not as millions of children and seniors went without basic medical care. And not as some lamented the rising costs of workplace premiums – or the absurd costs of open-market insurance for those whose employers wouldn’t or couldn’t pay.
Now, facing an enormous increase in our family’s healthcare costs, I have no reason to wonder why no one spoke out sooner. I know very well why.
You cannot bear every cross or stick your finger in every leaking dam. But do not fail to do so for lack of a clear and present danger. And do not fail to do so for lack of empathy.
You will not always know which dam will break or which cross will fall. You will not always know whether small evils will grow into larger ones.
But every small evil is evil. And if you do not speak out, who will?
Love,
dad
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out - because I was not a Trade Unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out - because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me - and there was no one left to speak for me.
— Rev. Martin Niemöller
Dear Spike:
I first remember reading Rev. Niemöller’s enduring words on a small laminated poster stuck to a bulletin board in a high school classroom.
I didn’t really know what a socialist was — let alone a trade unionist. But like most American kids with a public school education, I knew what had happened when “they came for the Jews.” And from that context I immediately understood the depth and profundity of Niemöller’s poem — even if I didn’t understand its relevance in a remedial freshman English class.
Indeed, the horrid enormity of that which Niemöller originally spoke has always made it difficult for me to put his words into any sort of modern context — lest of all for our lives in this amazingly blessed nation.
But I’ve been thinking a lot, today, about Niemöller’s poem. And though it may amount to literary and historical blasphemy, I’ve begun to rewrite it in my mind.
Something along these lines...
First they told me that tens of millions of Americans were unable to go to the doctor — and I did not speak out; I had insurance.
Then they told me that millions upon millions of children were uninsured — and I did not speak out; I had no children.
Then they raised my wife’s insurance premium — threefold — and I did not speak out; we simply switched to my insurance.
And then, today, they priced me out of my insurance. . .
And it seems there is no one left to speak out for me, my wife, or my beautiful baby girl.
Niemöller’s poem, I think, was not really about the Jews. It was about the trade unionists and the socialists (and, in other versions, about communists and social democrats and Catholics.) It was about setting the table for larger evils with smaller ones that go unnoticed because they effect the few, the poor and the unempowered.
I’ve long been a believer that basic, universal healthcare is nothing less than a moral imperative for our nation — and particularly for our nation’s children and its senior citizens. But in 29 years on this planet, there has not been a single moment when I have not been insured myself. And so I did not speak out. Not as tens of millions of Americans used the emergency room as their primary care physician. Not as millions of children and seniors went without basic medical care. And not as some lamented the rising costs of workplace premiums – or the absurd costs of open-market insurance for those whose employers wouldn’t or couldn’t pay.
Now, facing an enormous increase in our family’s healthcare costs, I have no reason to wonder why no one spoke out sooner. I know very well why.
You cannot bear every cross or stick your finger in every leaking dam. But do not fail to do so for lack of a clear and present danger. And do not fail to do so for lack of empathy.
You will not always know which dam will break or which cross will fall. You will not always know whether small evils will grow into larger ones.
But every small evil is evil. And if you do not speak out, who will?
Love,
dad
Saturday, May 26, 2007
THE BLESSINGS MULTIPLIED
Dear Spike:
Your mom and I have always felt quite blessed. We’re very much in love. We have a wonderful home in a city we adore. We have good careers in fields for which we are passionate.
And now, most of all, we have you.
But this week the blessings multiplied. Your mother received a call to interview at a school just six blocks from our home. The very next day, the principal called to offer her a job teaching kindergarten.
The new job pays significantly better than her current position in the suburbs. It is at a school with many at-risk students, which allows her to help those who need it most. And its proximity to our home means she can walk or ride her bicycle to work, saving about 180 commuting hours a year — roughly the equivalent of an entire extra month of work. And that will allow us both to spend more time with you.
While we don’t always recognize the blessings we’re sent, this one was pretty unmistakable. And it prompted me to begin thinking about some of our more subtle blessings.
Like our garden — which may never produce a single pepper, squash, or tomato, but brings us joy nonetheless.
And the park near our home — where we can go, each spring, to watch the ducklings and goslings as they grow.
And our friends — many of whom seem as excited to bring you into their lives as we are.
And our mountains — which give us a sense of place, direction and humility.
We have been very richly blessed, in ways both subtle and profound. It is important to recognize those blessings.
And then, to make sure we are worthy of them.
Love,
dad
Dear Spike's Friends:
Spike's mom's contractions seem to be getting stronger and more frequent. If you haven't yet picked a date and time in the Spikepool, you may want to consider picking sooner than later. (Just go to "About that Date" — May 20 and post a comment with the date and hour you think Spike will arrive.)
Meanwhile, I'm still holding out for June 8.
Love,
Spike's dad
Your mom and I have always felt quite blessed. We’re very much in love. We have a wonderful home in a city we adore. We have good careers in fields for which we are passionate.
And now, most of all, we have you.
But this week the blessings multiplied. Your mother received a call to interview at a school just six blocks from our home. The very next day, the principal called to offer her a job teaching kindergarten.
The new job pays significantly better than her current position in the suburbs. It is at a school with many at-risk students, which allows her to help those who need it most. And its proximity to our home means she can walk or ride her bicycle to work, saving about 180 commuting hours a year — roughly the equivalent of an entire extra month of work. And that will allow us both to spend more time with you.
While we don’t always recognize the blessings we’re sent, this one was pretty unmistakable. And it prompted me to begin thinking about some of our more subtle blessings.
Like our garden — which may never produce a single pepper, squash, or tomato, but brings us joy nonetheless.
And the park near our home — where we can go, each spring, to watch the ducklings and goslings as they grow.
And our friends — many of whom seem as excited to bring you into their lives as we are.
And our mountains — which give us a sense of place, direction and humility.
We have been very richly blessed, in ways both subtle and profound. It is important to recognize those blessings.
And then, to make sure we are worthy of them.
Love,
dad
Dear Spike's Friends:
Spike's mom's contractions seem to be getting stronger and more frequent. If you haven't yet picked a date and time in the Spikepool, you may want to consider picking sooner than later. (Just go to "About that Date" — May 20 and post a comment with the date and hour you think Spike will arrive.)
Meanwhile, I'm still holding out for June 8.
Love,
Spike's dad
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)