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
Showing posts with label challenge. Show all posts
Showing posts with label challenge. Show all posts
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
CHANGED MY LIFE
Dear Spike:
"Oh bother," I sighed, and grabbed you at the hips to flip you over, so that I could continue buttoning your pajamas.
You promptly flipped back onto your belly and tried to crawl away again. "Oh bother," I sighed again.
In the great, long list of ways you've changed my life, this probably wouldn't even make the Top 250.
But just for the record, I never used to say, "oh bother."
Love,
dad
"Oh bother," I sighed, and grabbed you at the hips to flip you over, so that I could continue buttoning your pajamas.
You promptly flipped back onto your belly and tried to crawl away again. "Oh bother," I sighed again.
In the great, long list of ways you've changed my life, this probably wouldn't even make the Top 250.
But just for the record, I never used to say, "oh bother."
Love,
dad
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
EVERY LITTLE STEP
Dear Spike:
This week was an absolute explosion of development for you.
You’ve begun to sit upright without any help at all. You can now roll from your back to your front and then back again. You’ve started to slither, just a bit, in an attempt to grab out-of-reach toys. You study your hands as they open and close and have begun to experiment with moving one or two fingers at a time. And, just in the past two or three days, you’ve begun to scream — not in sadness or agony, but simply to demand attention and maybe to sing a little song.
I’ve pretty much given up trying to capture every momentous moment with the camera. And recently, I’ve had to abandon the fantasy that I’m even going to be present for every little step.
To wit, this exchange with your mother a few days ago:
Me: “Come quick! Look what she’s doing.”
Your mom: (rushing into the room) “What? What is it?”
Me: (proudly) “Look! Spike is crawling toward her toys!”
Your mom: (sighing) “Oh that? Yeah, she did that with me a few days ago.”
Me: “A few days ago? Where was I?”
Your mom: “Well, you were somewhere.”
Me: “So I missed it?”
Your mom: “No, you just saw it.”
Me: “It’s just not the same.”
Your mom: “Yes, it is.”
She’s right, of course. It seems that we’re often so obsessed with firsts that we tend to miss the significance, the joy, the struggle and the glory in everything that comes next.
Many people know, for instance, that Jackie Robinson was the first black baseball player in Major League Baseball. Far fewer can name the second black player drafted out of the Negro Leagues, Larry Doby, who played his first game for the Cleveland Indians on July 6, 1947.
The world had not, in the 11 weeks separating Robinson’s and Doby’s entries into the big leagues, suddenly become a more tolerant place for black baseball players. Doby spent the rest of the 1947 season – and indeed, a good portion of his Hall of Fame career — suffering through the same indignities as Robinson.
Robinson rightfully went down in history for his place in advancing the cause of civil rights for Americans of color. Doby’s role in the battle, meanwhile, was ignominiously ignored. And yet even in Robinson’s shadow, Doby still shined. He was a seven-time All-Star, twice led the American League in home runs and led the Indians with seven hits, including a double and a homer, in Cleveland’s 1948 World Series victory over the Boston Braves.
Many people know that Sir Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing Norgay were the first men to summit Mt. Everest. Hillary and the expedition’s leader, John Hunt, were promptly knighted for their accomplishment. Nearly lost to history is the subsequent journey of Swiss climbers Ernst Schmied and Jürg Marmet.
The 29,029-foot peak had not shrunk a single inch in the three years that separated the first and second ascents of the world’s tallest mountain. Marmet and Schmied (and, the following day, climbing partners Adolf Reist and Hans Rudolf von Gunten) didn’t have the promise of being first to the top of the world to help drive them up the deadly peak. They climbed not for history but for themselves.
And at the risk of beating a dead horse ...
Many people know that Charles Lindbergh was the first person to make a solo flight across the Atlantic Ocean. The second person to make the solo hop hasn’t exactly been lost to history, but I think that’s likely because her name was Amelia Earhart.
To be certain, Earhart knew there was value in being first. “Never do things others can do and will do,” she once said, “if there are things others cannot do or will not do.”
But it seems equally clear to me that Earhart didn’t make her solo flight across the Atlantic — or any of her other “firsts” — simply to be the first woman to lay claim to those feats.
“Adventure,” she once said, “is worthwhile in itself.”
Being first — or being present to witness a first — is as good an excuse for doing something as anything. But being second should never be an excuse not to do something or appreciate something that is being done beautifully.
The last time our species set foot on the moon was in 1972 — six years before I was born. Someday I hope to see us (you?) return. And when that happens, I assure you, I won’t be disappointed that I’m not watching Neil Armstrong’s first “small step.”
A giant leap is a giant leap, after all.
Congratulations on all of your accomplishments this week. I can’t wait to see you do it all again.
And again.
And again.
Love,
dad
This week was an absolute explosion of development for you.
You’ve begun to sit upright without any help at all. You can now roll from your back to your front and then back again. You’ve started to slither, just a bit, in an attempt to grab out-of-reach toys. You study your hands as they open and close and have begun to experiment with moving one or two fingers at a time. And, just in the past two or three days, you’ve begun to scream — not in sadness or agony, but simply to demand attention and maybe to sing a little song.
I’ve pretty much given up trying to capture every momentous moment with the camera. And recently, I’ve had to abandon the fantasy that I’m even going to be present for every little step.
To wit, this exchange with your mother a few days ago:
Me: “Come quick! Look what she’s doing.”
Your mom: (rushing into the room) “What? What is it?”
Me: (proudly) “Look! Spike is crawling toward her toys!”
Your mom: (sighing) “Oh that? Yeah, she did that with me a few days ago.”
Me: “A few days ago? Where was I?”
Your mom: “Well, you were somewhere.”
Me: “So I missed it?”
Your mom: “No, you just saw it.”
Me: “It’s just not the same.”
Your mom: “Yes, it is.”
She’s right, of course. It seems that we’re often so obsessed with firsts that we tend to miss the significance, the joy, the struggle and the glory in everything that comes next.
Many people know, for instance, that Jackie Robinson was the first black baseball player in Major League Baseball. Far fewer can name the second black player drafted out of the Negro Leagues, Larry Doby, who played his first game for the Cleveland Indians on July 6, 1947.
The world had not, in the 11 weeks separating Robinson’s and Doby’s entries into the big leagues, suddenly become a more tolerant place for black baseball players. Doby spent the rest of the 1947 season – and indeed, a good portion of his Hall of Fame career — suffering through the same indignities as Robinson.
Robinson rightfully went down in history for his place in advancing the cause of civil rights for Americans of color. Doby’s role in the battle, meanwhile, was ignominiously ignored. And yet even in Robinson’s shadow, Doby still shined. He was a seven-time All-Star, twice led the American League in home runs and led the Indians with seven hits, including a double and a homer, in Cleveland’s 1948 World Series victory over the Boston Braves.
Many people know that Sir Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing Norgay were the first men to summit Mt. Everest. Hillary and the expedition’s leader, John Hunt, were promptly knighted for their accomplishment. Nearly lost to history is the subsequent journey of Swiss climbers Ernst Schmied and Jürg Marmet.
The 29,029-foot peak had not shrunk a single inch in the three years that separated the first and second ascents of the world’s tallest mountain. Marmet and Schmied (and, the following day, climbing partners Adolf Reist and Hans Rudolf von Gunten) didn’t have the promise of being first to the top of the world to help drive them up the deadly peak. They climbed not for history but for themselves.
And at the risk of beating a dead horse ...
Many people know that Charles Lindbergh was the first person to make a solo flight across the Atlantic Ocean. The second person to make the solo hop hasn’t exactly been lost to history, but I think that’s likely because her name was Amelia Earhart.
To be certain, Earhart knew there was value in being first. “Never do things others can do and will do,” she once said, “if there are things others cannot do or will not do.”
But it seems equally clear to me that Earhart didn’t make her solo flight across the Atlantic — or any of her other “firsts” — simply to be the first woman to lay claim to those feats.
“Adventure,” she once said, “is worthwhile in itself.”
Being first — or being present to witness a first — is as good an excuse for doing something as anything. But being second should never be an excuse not to do something or appreciate something that is being done beautifully.
The last time our species set foot on the moon was in 1972 — six years before I was born. Someday I hope to see us (you?) return. And when that happens, I assure you, I won’t be disappointed that I’m not watching Neil Armstrong’s first “small step.”
A giant leap is a giant leap, after all.
Congratulations on all of your accomplishments this week. I can’t wait to see you do it all again.
And again.
And again.
Love,
dad
Saturday, December 22, 2007
GROW AND LEARN
Dear Spike:
At almost seven months old, you smile and laugh — a lot. You stand while holding my index fingers. You make some cooing and growling sounds. And you’ve pretty much been doing all your bathroom-related business in the bathroom.
You eat oranges, pears, apples, sweet potatoes, carrots and cereal. And you even like to grab the spoon and shove it into your mouth all by yourself.
At the same time, you don’t crawl. You hate spending time on your tummy. You don’t sit up without a bunch of pillows tucked around you. You’re no longer sleeping through the night (or even part of it!) And I’m pretty sure you don’t know who the heck it is we’re talking to when we call your name.
So where does that all place you in relationship to other babies?
I’m guessing somewhere in the middle. But I’m not really sure.
Your mother and I have tried hard not to obsess over “baby benchmarks.” And I think that’s a rather big accomplishment for us because, truth be known, we’re both really rather obsessive people.
But some time back, your Aunt Alisa, (who has two beautiful babies of her own) noted that everyone eventually learns to walk, talk, use the toilet, ride a bike, drive a car, talk on the phone, change the radio station and eat a cheeseburger (and sometimes, people do many of those things all at once!) And so it doesn’t really matter whether we first smiled at one month or two, or first used the toilet at six months or 18, or first roll over at three months or nine.
“When she’s 25, she’ll be walking, and no one will be asking when she started doing that,” Alisa said. “So you shouldn’t fret.”
That’s good advice. Not just for raising babies, but for living life.
We’re very dedicated to helping you grow and learn and develop in all the normal ways — and we’re going to do the very best we can. But at the end of the day, you’re going to do some things sooner and some things later. That’s just the way things go.
As you grow older, I think, you’re going to realize that you can do some things better than other people and some things worse. Some of that you’ll control by your actions and attitude, but a lot of it will be out of your hands entirely.
Mother Nature is who she is. And thus you are who you are.
So here’s a pretty good rule of thumb: Do the very best you can. Strive for greatness in everything you do.
And then, as Aunt Alisa said, don’t fret.
You’ll get there when you get there.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
I SPOKE EVIL
Dear Spike:
A few weeks ago, your mother brought home a bucket of alphabet magnets. I think they were originally intended for her classroom, but somehow they ended up on our refrigerator door.
Most people use their fridges to store food and hang their kid's finger paintings. But for us, lately, it's been the site of a never-ending brain teaser, where "I LOVE SPIKE" becomes "I SPOKE EVIL" and where "THIS IS A FRIDGE" becomes "A FRIGID THESIS."
Ah, who knew magnets could be such fun?
I suppose it's just a matter of time before you'll be playing along. Recently, you've started making simple consonant sounds. Your favorite thing to say, particularly when you're upset (but much to your mother's delight) is "ma-ma-ma-ma-ma." Sometimes you also say "pa-pa-pa-pa-pa," but only when you're sitting over the toilet. Weird.
Soon you'll be stringing more sounds together, making words, writing novels and giving speeches before the United Nations General Assembly.
Or, I suppose, we can just start with your ABCs and see where things go from there.
Love,
dad
Did you know that the words "Dear Spike Love Dad" can be mixed into hundreds of other words? My favorite, so far: "A Dead Devils Poker." What can you come up with?
A few weeks ago, your mother brought home a bucket of alphabet magnets. I think they were originally intended for her classroom, but somehow they ended up on our refrigerator door.
Most people use their fridges to store food and hang their kid's finger paintings. But for us, lately, it's been the site of a never-ending brain teaser, where "I LOVE SPIKE" becomes "I SPOKE EVIL" and where "THIS IS A FRIDGE" becomes "A FRIGID THESIS."
Ah, who knew magnets could be such fun?
I suppose it's just a matter of time before you'll be playing along. Recently, you've started making simple consonant sounds. Your favorite thing to say, particularly when you're upset (but much to your mother's delight) is "ma-ma-ma-ma-ma." Sometimes you also say "pa-pa-pa-pa-pa," but only when you're sitting over the toilet. Weird.
Soon you'll be stringing more sounds together, making words, writing novels and giving speeches before the United Nations General Assembly.
Or, I suppose, we can just start with your ABCs and see where things go from there.
Love,
dad
Did you know that the words "Dear Spike Love Dad" can be mixed into hundreds of other words? My favorite, so far: "A Dead Devils Poker." What can you come up with?
Friday, November 16, 2007
SORT OF MADNESS
Dear Spike:
It’s cliché — my God, it’s cliché — but you’ve really changed my life.
There was a time when I defined myself by my work. But today your mother and I spent a considerable amount of time contemplating whether we could afford for me not to work.
Ultimately we decided we can’t quite cut it. Your mom’s salary might cover our mortgage, insurance, student loans and car payment, but we do like to eat and heat our home in the winter. So at least for the time being, we’ll remain a two-income family.
But in a big way, that’s beside the point. We had a discussion about me quitting my job. And I wasn’t completely sickened by the thought. In fact, I was sort of excited by it.
Maybe that’s the exhaustion talking. I’ve always felt like I was rather adept at multitasking, but you’ve challenged that skill to new heights. Today I gave a lecture while holding you on my hip (in addition to being cute, you made a nice prop when the discussion turned to the subject of teen pregnancy.) I’ve gotten rather good at balancing you between my arms while I type (sometimes with just one hand when I’m feeding you.) And I’ve become pretty good at diapering you with one hand, too (thank God for Bummis.)
But it’s never easy to serve two masters. And at the end of the day I don’t feel like showering or cleaning the kitchen or even reading a book. All I want to do is sleep.
I know your mother is tired, too. She spends all day with her kindergartners (someday ask me to show you the scene in the movie “Gremlins” where the monsters take over the movie theater — that’s what it is like.) Then she comes home and (if she’s lucky) she gets three minutes to decompress before I throw you into her arms.
And maybe this sort of madness might not sound like fun to some people. But in our rare, quiet and calm moments I look down at you and wonder aloud how I ever believed I was happy working without you. And on the days when I have to drop you off at the babysitter’s house for a few hours, all I want to do is get back as soon as possible to pick you up. And while the increasingly rare hours when you nap are my best opportunities to get any substantial work done, sometimes when you sleep I miss you and I feel like waking you up so we can play.
Obviously, I can’t take you to Iraq or Afghanistan with me. And next time I jump out of a helicopter or get Tasered by police officers, you won’t be invited along.
But you know what? Those things aren’t quite as compelling to me as they once were. And while I still feel committed to the profession I’ve chosen, it’s become less of who I am and more of what I do.
I do still like what I do. And that’s a good thing, I suppose, because it doesn’t appear than I’m going to be a full-time house husband any time soon.
But you know, I can dream.
Love,
dad
Thursday, July 26, 2007
ONLY A PAUSE
Dear Spike:
Deep inside my soul, where my hope and faith in humanity exists unblemished by the common foulness of our reality, is where I’ll forever hold the story of what happened early this afternoon.
The Iraqi soccer team — a motley group of Sunni, Shia and Kurdish semipros known as the “Lions of Mesopotamia” — stunned a much more experienced South Korean side in the semifinals of the Asian Cup held in Malaysia, falling into a pile in the middle of the pitch under the flag of their wartorn nation.
Thousands of miles away in Baghdad, Basra, Najaf and Ramadi, their countrymen poured out of their homes. Iraqis have grown coldly used to eruptions in their streets, but not like this.
Not like this.
It was sheer joy. Jubilation and unity. Dancing. Singing. Crying.
•••
On Christmas Day of 1914, British and German soldiers fighting on the western front in World War 1 emerged from their foxholes during a short ceasefire. Someone produced a football. And as Limeys and Krauts are wont to do when they’re not fighting, a game began.
The “soccer truce” may have lasted as long as an hour.
And then the War to End All Wars began anew.
•••
Nearly a century later — in a nation carved from the wreckage of a war that only begat more wars — a new soccer truce brought pause to a bloody civil war.
But as it was in 1914, it was only a pause.
Within hours of the Iraqi victory, late this afternoon, two suicide bombers walked into separate crowds of revelers, killing 50 and wounding twice as many more.
•••
It’s an ugly game we play, this thing called war. By far it is the most loathsome side of our humanity.
Yet deep inside my soul, my hope and faith remain. And so, short-lived though they were, I choose to embrace the truces, not the wars. I choose to embrace the joy, not the hate.
I choose to embrace the beautiful game over its ugly rival.
As you discover our humanity, I hope you do too.
Love,
dad
Deep inside my soul, where my hope and faith in humanity exists unblemished by the common foulness of our reality, is where I’ll forever hold the story of what happened early this afternoon.
The Iraqi soccer team — a motley group of Sunni, Shia and Kurdish semipros known as the “Lions of Mesopotamia” — stunned a much more experienced South Korean side in the semifinals of the Asian Cup held in Malaysia, falling into a pile in the middle of the pitch under the flag of their wartorn nation.
Thousands of miles away in Baghdad, Basra, Najaf and Ramadi, their countrymen poured out of their homes. Iraqis have grown coldly used to eruptions in their streets, but not like this.
Not like this.
It was sheer joy. Jubilation and unity. Dancing. Singing. Crying.
•••
On Christmas Day of 1914, British and German soldiers fighting on the western front in World War 1 emerged from their foxholes during a short ceasefire. Someone produced a football. And as Limeys and Krauts are wont to do when they’re not fighting, a game began.
The “soccer truce” may have lasted as long as an hour.
And then the War to End All Wars began anew.
•••
Nearly a century later — in a nation carved from the wreckage of a war that only begat more wars — a new soccer truce brought pause to a bloody civil war.
But as it was in 1914, it was only a pause.
Within hours of the Iraqi victory, late this afternoon, two suicide bombers walked into separate crowds of revelers, killing 50 and wounding twice as many more.
•••
It’s an ugly game we play, this thing called war. By far it is the most loathsome side of our humanity.
Yet deep inside my soul, my hope and faith remain. And so, short-lived though they were, I choose to embrace the truces, not the wars. I choose to embrace the joy, not the hate.
I choose to embrace the beautiful game over its ugly rival.
As you discover our humanity, I hope you do too.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
SURE I FINISHED
Dear Spike:
When one of the players on my team made a string of a lazy passes during a scrimmage this week, I let him know (perhaps a bit loudly, as I am prone to do) that I wasn’t happy with his performance.
So when, just minutes later, I made a poor pass that the very same player stole away, he was quick to remind me that everyone makes mistakes.
“Fair enough,” I told him. “I’ll run a few laps after we’re done.”
I’d forgotten about the promise by the end of our practice. Ian had not.
“Don’t you have something you need to be doing?” he asked me with a haughty smile.
“Right,” I said with a sigh. “So how many will it be?”
“Ten.”
“How about one?”
“Seven”
“Three?”
“OK, five — but I’m not going any lower,” he said.
And so I started my run. And with that, Ian jumped into his father’s car and they drove off.
“Well,” I thought as I watched them drive away. “I guess I got out of that.”
Except that, as I slowed my run to a jog, I could see another of my players hiding behind a tree on the far end of the field. He was watching to make sure I finished.
I picked up my pace. By the time I was done with my second lap, Gio’s family had arrived to pick him up.
“Well,” I thought as I watched the second car drive away. “I guess I got out of that.”
Except, when I began to slow again, I found I couldn’t stop.
There are going to be plenty of times in your life when no one is going to know whether you did the right thing or the easy thing. And when no one is looking, the easy thing can be very easy indeed.
It’s likely you’ll take that road a few times. We all do — at work and school, with our families and our friends. We cut corners. We take shortcuts. We stop short.
If Ian and Gio had stayed to watch me run, I would have completed my laps but would have felt indifferent about having done so. It was, in fact, because no one was watching that I finished my fifth lap with a small smile on my face. I even felt a little bit proud of myself.
Most of the time, doing the right thing is a bit more difficult, complicated, painful or arduous than doing the easy thing.
But most of the time, that’s the very thing that makes it worthwhile.
Love,
dad
When one of the players on my team made a string of a lazy passes during a scrimmage this week, I let him know (perhaps a bit loudly, as I am prone to do) that I wasn’t happy with his performance.
So when, just minutes later, I made a poor pass that the very same player stole away, he was quick to remind me that everyone makes mistakes.
“Fair enough,” I told him. “I’ll run a few laps after we’re done.”
I’d forgotten about the promise by the end of our practice. Ian had not.
“Don’t you have something you need to be doing?” he asked me with a haughty smile.
“Right,” I said with a sigh. “So how many will it be?”
“Ten.”
“How about one?”
“Seven”
“Three?”
“OK, five — but I’m not going any lower,” he said.
And so I started my run. And with that, Ian jumped into his father’s car and they drove off.
“Well,” I thought as I watched them drive away. “I guess I got out of that.”
Except that, as I slowed my run to a jog, I could see another of my players hiding behind a tree on the far end of the field. He was watching to make sure I finished.
I picked up my pace. By the time I was done with my second lap, Gio’s family had arrived to pick him up.
“Well,” I thought as I watched the second car drive away. “I guess I got out of that.”
Except, when I began to slow again, I found I couldn’t stop.
There are going to be plenty of times in your life when no one is going to know whether you did the right thing or the easy thing. And when no one is looking, the easy thing can be very easy indeed.
It’s likely you’ll take that road a few times. We all do — at work and school, with our families and our friends. We cut corners. We take shortcuts. We stop short.
If Ian and Gio had stayed to watch me run, I would have completed my laps but would have felt indifferent about having done so. It was, in fact, because no one was watching that I finished my fifth lap with a small smile on my face. I even felt a little bit proud of myself.
Most of the time, doing the right thing is a bit more difficult, complicated, painful or arduous than doing the easy thing.
But most of the time, that’s the very thing that makes it worthwhile.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
PROBLEMS IN COMMUNICATION
Dear Spike:
I don't know all of your sounds yet. And so sometimes I change you when I need to feed you. And sometimes I feed you when I need to hold you. It can be frustrating for me and, I'm sure, for you as well.
Would you believe that the basic problems in communication we have now will continue on for as long as we're together? That sometimes you will tell me, in your way, what you need and I will hear you saying something completely different?
In those times, please remember that I love you and that yes, I do want — more than anything — to help you. Try to be patient with me and I will try to be patient with you.
And together, slowly, we will learn to communicate. To hear one another. And to be there for one another.
Love,
dad
Monday, May 28, 2007
AS YOU FOUGHT
Dear Spike:
No one expected you to come so early, let alone so rapidly. Within three hours of our arrival at the hospital, early yesterday morning, your mother was bearing down with all of her strength trying to push you free.
Your little heart — it’s given us such trouble over the past nine months — beat faster, slower, faster, slower and then, for a time, not at all. A army of anxious doctors and nurses charged into the delivery room. With grunts and tugs and many sharp tools, they fought their way into your mother’s body to rescue you, pulling you out and — without time even to present you to your mom — they carried you away.
I followed. Scared and proud and confused and helpless. I stood silently to the side, watching like a ghost over his own mortal remains as two doctors worked to recover your heartbeat, then to warm your tiny body. I didn’t understand the words they exchanged. But I knew their faces. I’ve seen those faces before.
Too many times.
No one had expected you to be so small. Four pounds, 8.6 ounces. God, we’ve bought bigger chickens for dinner. The nurses here say they rarely receive babies as small as you are who do not need some time in the newborn intensive care unit.
And so that’s where you spent your first hours on this earth, surrounded by other tiny babies, all hidden under a web of tubes and wires, beneath lamps and warmers, under ever-watchful eyes. You shivered. You tried to cry. You gasped your first breaths.
And as you fought, your mother — like a ravaged ragdoll — began her recovery, stitch by stitch by stitch. The doctors say the cuts and tears she received, as they fought to extract you, were as bad as any they’ve seen. She’ll be in pain for months to come, but her spirit has been buoyed by your remarkable come about (by afternoontime, you’d left the the cold machinery of the intensive care unit for the warm embrace of your mother’s arms.)
There’s still much work for each of you. And though you cannot realize it now, your challenges are vast. Your tiny body must grow warmer and bigger. Your tiny heart must beat harder. Your tiny cries must grow stronger.
Nature gave you my ears and my lips. She gave you your mother’s eyes and her chin. Perhaps you’ll take from us a few other traits.
But I’ve long believed that we are more than crude models of our ancestors. We are more than our genetic code. Our personalities, our bodies and even our souls are inextricably shaped by our experiences.
Your mother and I certainly will be shaped by this experience.
And so I wonder: What of you? Is it possible that these brutal early moments might shape your life? Will you be a fighter? A survivor? With you carry the seen or unseen scars of a life begun under such duress? Will you cower before a challenge? Will you meet adversity without fear?
Ours is a vicious world. It can be violent. It can be brutish. It can challenge you to the heights of your moral, spiritual and physical fiber.
Somehow, I think you’ll know that better than most.
Somehow, I think you are being prepared.
Love,
dad
Thursday, May 17, 2007
AGAIN AND AGAIN
Dear Spike:
Your mother and I sat in bed, two nights ago, as I dug out from under an avalanche of e-mails from people who think I should get a new job.
A small selection from their musings:
“You must be the stupidest man on Earth. ”
“You’re unethical, immoral and disgusting. ”
“Your mother is probably ashamed of you.”
Your mom read over my shoulder and winced as I typed out my responses.
“Thank you for your letter,” I replied — again and again and again and again.
“But they’re wrong,” she protested. “Why don’t you tell them how they’re wrong? How can you just sit there and let them say such horrible things to you?”
•••
Last night, a Fox News commentator named Bill O’Reilly decided I was a scum bag.
“We have no respect for him.,” O’Reilly said on his television program. “I believe this man is an ideologue... he shouldn't be working in any major newspaper.”
When I arrived at work this morning, a friend pulled me aside. “That guy is so wrong,” he said. “How can you just sit there and let him say such awful things about you on national television?”
•••
Growing up in Sunday school, I was always troubled by Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount — and by one passage in particular: “If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the left one also.”
In my mind, this verse was always tied to other parts of the sermon — “blessed are the week... blessed are the poor... blessed are the peacemakers” — parts that suggested to me that Christ wanted his followers to be wimps. And heck, that seemed to make sense. I mean, the guy Christians like to call the King of Kings didn’t exactly run roughshod over the Romans.
But all these years later, I think I finally get it.
When most people get hit, they fall. Or they cower. Or they run.
But picture someone who doesn’t do any of those things, someone who doesn’t even fight back.
Picture someone who just stands there and offers to let his attacker have another shot.
•••
It’s not always easy to stand on principle, lest of all when people are calling you names and calling you out.
Sometimes, it’s simpler just to fight back. You can say hateful things. You can make terrible allegations. You can hit back and kick back and spit back. And there may indeed be a time and a place for all of that.
But before you decide you must fight, consider who you are fighting. Consider whether you can win. Consider what you are fighting for.
And then consider whether the better option is simply to recognize that you don’t need to fight at all.
I’m not stupid. I’m not unethical, immoral or disgusting. And my mother? She likes me just fine.
And for me, this week, that has been enough. I don’t have to prove anyone is wrong about me. I’m content to know they are wrong about me.
So go ahead. Hit me again.
Love,
dad
Your mother and I sat in bed, two nights ago, as I dug out from under an avalanche of e-mails from people who think I should get a new job.
A small selection from their musings:
“You must be the stupidest man on Earth. ”
“You’re unethical, immoral and disgusting. ”
“Your mother is probably ashamed of you.”
Your mom read over my shoulder and winced as I typed out my responses.
“Thank you for your letter,” I replied — again and again and again and again.
“But they’re wrong,” she protested. “Why don’t you tell them how they’re wrong? How can you just sit there and let them say such horrible things to you?”
•••
Last night, a Fox News commentator named Bill O’Reilly decided I was a scum bag.
“We have no respect for him.,” O’Reilly said on his television program. “I believe this man is an ideologue... he shouldn't be working in any major newspaper.”
When I arrived at work this morning, a friend pulled me aside. “That guy is so wrong,” he said. “How can you just sit there and let him say such awful things about you on national television?”
•••
Growing up in Sunday school, I was always troubled by Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount — and by one passage in particular: “If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the left one also.”
In my mind, this verse was always tied to other parts of the sermon — “blessed are the week... blessed are the poor... blessed are the peacemakers” — parts that suggested to me that Christ wanted his followers to be wimps. And heck, that seemed to make sense. I mean, the guy Christians like to call the King of Kings didn’t exactly run roughshod over the Romans.
But all these years later, I think I finally get it.
When most people get hit, they fall. Or they cower. Or they run.
But picture someone who doesn’t do any of those things, someone who doesn’t even fight back.
Picture someone who just stands there and offers to let his attacker have another shot.
•••
It’s not always easy to stand on principle, lest of all when people are calling you names and calling you out.
Sometimes, it’s simpler just to fight back. You can say hateful things. You can make terrible allegations. You can hit back and kick back and spit back. And there may indeed be a time and a place for all of that.
But before you decide you must fight, consider who you are fighting. Consider whether you can win. Consider what you are fighting for.
And then consider whether the better option is simply to recognize that you don’t need to fight at all.
I’m not stupid. I’m not unethical, immoral or disgusting. And my mother? She likes me just fine.
And for me, this week, that has been enough. I don’t have to prove anyone is wrong about me. I’m content to know they are wrong about me.
So go ahead. Hit me again.
Love,
dad
Sunday, May 6, 2007
OVER AND OVER
Dear Spike:
The little rag doll looked up at me with his dark drawn-on eyes and begged me not to humiliate him again.
But I had to do it. Over and over. Fold, fold, lift, sit, fold, tuck, fold, pull, pull, pin.
And repeat.
Fold, fold, lift, sit, fold, tuck, fold, pull, pull, pin.
Just about every stuffed animal and doll in your room had been diapered — and I’m still no closer at being good at this.
Love,
dad
Thursday, May 3, 2007
TO DO GREAT
Dear Spike:
We just got back from our fourth childbirth class. Today’s subject: Pain.
Pain.
And more pain.
Ripping and cutting. Needles and catheters. Forceps and hooks and surgical scalpels and clamps. Oh yeah, did I mention they have videos of all of this stuff in action?
At one point, your mother turned to me and said, “I’ve decided I can’t do this.” She’s said that before, but she always was kidding. This time, I think she was serious.
All the moms walked out of the class looking like they’d come to the same conclusion. I can’t be sure, of course, but I think this woman might be why they’ve banned abortion in the third trimester.
To be fair, we also discussed pain management. But even where that was concerned, it was mostly about the pain you have to endure to get to the pain management.
I sure hope there is some sort of method to this instructor’s madness. At the moment, she’s just making me feel really, really bad about getting your mother into this mess.
A quick sidenote: I just realized that someday I’m going to have to teach you about where babies come from. Oh boy. Won't that be a lovely time.
For the moment, your mom is seriously freaked out. It's almost as bad as that time we watched "The Toxic Avenger," thinking it was going to be like the cartoon, but quickly realizing that, in fact, it was pretty much about crushing people's heads in a way that made their brains squirt out of their ears.
I turned off the movie that night. This time around, there's no power button. No rewind. No TiVo.
After we got home, she filled the bathtub and took a dip. I sat on the edge of the tub and looked down at her adorable belly, sticking up out of the water.
“You know,” I said. “You’re going to do great.”
“At birth or at being a mom?” she asked.
“Both.”
“I don’t really know how to do either of those things.”
“You will. You’re going to do great.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know. But you’re going to do great.”
For some reason, when we’re scared, it’s often good to repeat a single, simple, soothing message. It’s not even the words that really count, I think, but just that we have something true and comforting to think about. I think that’s why people say The Lord’s Prayer when they’re scared — even if they're not religious.
For the next four weeks (or more, or less, it’s really up to you) I’ll be telling your mother this same thing: “You’re going to do great.”
At being a mom. At giving birth. At handling the pain. At ignoring our masochistic childbirth class instructor.
Your mother is sleeping now. Snoring hard. I hope she’s not dreaming about any of those videos.
I wonder if you’re scared, too. By your new world. By all the noises outside your little cocoon. By forceps and hooks and surgical scalpels and clamps.
You know, you’re going to do great, too.
You’re going to do great.
You’re going to do great.
Love,
dad
We just got back from our fourth childbirth class. Today’s subject: Pain.
Pain.
And more pain.
Ripping and cutting. Needles and catheters. Forceps and hooks and surgical scalpels and clamps. Oh yeah, did I mention they have videos of all of this stuff in action?
At one point, your mother turned to me and said, “I’ve decided I can’t do this.” She’s said that before, but she always was kidding. This time, I think she was serious.
All the moms walked out of the class looking like they’d come to the same conclusion. I can’t be sure, of course, but I think this woman might be why they’ve banned abortion in the third trimester.
To be fair, we also discussed pain management. But even where that was concerned, it was mostly about the pain you have to endure to get to the pain management.
I sure hope there is some sort of method to this instructor’s madness. At the moment, she’s just making me feel really, really bad about getting your mother into this mess.
A quick sidenote: I just realized that someday I’m going to have to teach you about where babies come from. Oh boy. Won't that be a lovely time.
For the moment, your mom is seriously freaked out. It's almost as bad as that time we watched "The Toxic Avenger," thinking it was going to be like the cartoon, but quickly realizing that, in fact, it was pretty much about crushing people's heads in a way that made their brains squirt out of their ears.
I turned off the movie that night. This time around, there's no power button. No rewind. No TiVo.
After we got home, she filled the bathtub and took a dip. I sat on the edge of the tub and looked down at her adorable belly, sticking up out of the water.
“You know,” I said. “You’re going to do great.”
“At birth or at being a mom?” she asked.
“Both.”
“I don’t really know how to do either of those things.”
“You will. You’re going to do great.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know. But you’re going to do great.”
For some reason, when we’re scared, it’s often good to repeat a single, simple, soothing message. It’s not even the words that really count, I think, but just that we have something true and comforting to think about. I think that’s why people say The Lord’s Prayer when they’re scared — even if they're not religious.
For the next four weeks (or more, or less, it’s really up to you) I’ll be telling your mother this same thing: “You’re going to do great.”
At being a mom. At giving birth. At handling the pain. At ignoring our masochistic childbirth class instructor.
Your mother is sleeping now. Snoring hard. I hope she’s not dreaming about any of those videos.
I wonder if you’re scared, too. By your new world. By all the noises outside your little cocoon. By forceps and hooks and surgical scalpels and clamps.
You know, you’re going to do great, too.
You’re going to do great.
You’re going to do great.
Love,
dad
Monday, January 29, 2007
CHALLENGED TO THE HEIGHTS
Dear Spike:
My friend Jon moved out here about eight months ago. At the time, he and his wife expected they would be apart for just a month or two — he getting set up in Salt Lake City, she and the children selling the family home in Los Angeles.
But the housing market is difficult for sellers right now — and particularly so in L.A. So their family separation has stretched out months longer than expected and there appears to be no end in sight.
Life is funny in that way. It will test the limits of your patience and the bounds of your love. And most often it does so when you believe, as my friend Jon did, that you’re very close to “having it made.”
But the most challenging times in our lives are also the times in which we are given the most opportunities to grow. Jon, for instance, is learning to trust his wife to make decisions about their two children that they once made together. She’s learning to do things on her own.
Their children are learning something too, I think. In a world in which so many of their peers come from single-parent families, they are being given an early taste of what that is like. They’re still very young — three and five years old — and so it may be a taste they remember faintly, if at all. All the same, at this impressionable age, I imagine it may be enough to set in their subconscious minds an empathy that will help them understand and communicate with their single-parented peers.
Life is funny in that way, too. What is a hardship for you is a reality to many others.
I don’t know what your hardships will be. I hope that, for the most part, they are few, far between and easily surmountable.
But although it feels strange to me to wish for your life to be anything less than perfect and joyous, I also hope you are occasionally challenged to the heights of your physical, emotional, mental and spiritual limits.
In this nation, your family is called “middle class.” But it would be well for you to remember that, in this world, we are royalty. Indeed, we “have it made.“ As such, consider the times in which life tests your limits as an opportunity for insight and empathy.
Embrace these times as an opportunity to grow.
And know that, when you need me to help you through, I will be there.
Love,
dad
My friend Jon moved out here about eight months ago. At the time, he and his wife expected they would be apart for just a month or two — he getting set up in Salt Lake City, she and the children selling the family home in Los Angeles.
But the housing market is difficult for sellers right now — and particularly so in L.A. So their family separation has stretched out months longer than expected and there appears to be no end in sight.
Life is funny in that way. It will test the limits of your patience and the bounds of your love. And most often it does so when you believe, as my friend Jon did, that you’re very close to “having it made.”
But the most challenging times in our lives are also the times in which we are given the most opportunities to grow. Jon, for instance, is learning to trust his wife to make decisions about their two children that they once made together. She’s learning to do things on her own.
Their children are learning something too, I think. In a world in which so many of their peers come from single-parent families, they are being given an early taste of what that is like. They’re still very young — three and five years old — and so it may be a taste they remember faintly, if at all. All the same, at this impressionable age, I imagine it may be enough to set in their subconscious minds an empathy that will help them understand and communicate with their single-parented peers.
Life is funny in that way, too. What is a hardship for you is a reality to many others.
I don’t know what your hardships will be. I hope that, for the most part, they are few, far between and easily surmountable.
But although it feels strange to me to wish for your life to be anything less than perfect and joyous, I also hope you are occasionally challenged to the heights of your physical, emotional, mental and spiritual limits.
In this nation, your family is called “middle class.” But it would be well for you to remember that, in this world, we are royalty. Indeed, we “have it made.“ As such, consider the times in which life tests your limits as an opportunity for insight and empathy.
Embrace these times as an opportunity to grow.
And know that, when you need me to help you through, I will be there.
Love,
dad
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