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 change. Show all posts
Showing posts with label change. Show all posts
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Monday, June 28, 2010
AT A TIME
Dear Spike:
Today we mourn a man who spent more time in Congress than any other individual in the history of our nation.
Sen. Robert Byrd began his service in the House of Representatives in 1953 and was elected to the Senate six years later. His long fight for the primacy of the legislative branch of our government ended at 3 a.m. this morning.
But Byrd’s greatest contribution to our nation wasn’t the length of his tenure, the money that he funneled to improve the conditions of those living in abject poverty in West Virginia, his staunch opposition to imperialistic military adventures, his steadfast support of health care reform or even the soaring speeches he delivered to his colleagues on the Senate floor.
No, the most important thing this former Ku Klux Klan organizer gave to us was the hope that we are all worthy of redemption.
I’ll save the details for the history books. It is enough to say that Byrd was a supporter of the greatest home-grown terrorist organization in the history of the United States. In latter years that association would have effectively, and appropriately, precluded his election. In West Virgina, in the 1950s, it likely facilitated his ascent.
It’s not precisely clear to me when Byrd changed, but he did so nonetheless. In 1964, he filibustered against the Civil Rights Act. But by 2004, he had won the endorsement of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, which noted that Byrd was one of just 17 senators that had supported its stance on every bill of interest to the NAACP.
He came to be known as the "Conscience of the Senate." And although some called him the “Guilty Conscience,” I’m not sure it matters, except as a lesson for us all on what it means to be human.
We all make mistakes. Sometimes we make mistakes so grave that they will stay with us for the rest of our lives. But while we, and others, may never forget those failings, we don’t have to repeat them.
We can change. We can be better than who were yesterday, and better still than who we are today. We can admit that we have been wrong. We can ask forgiveness. And then we can earn it.
One day at a time.
Love,
dad
Today we mourn a man who spent more time in Congress than any other individual in the history of our nation.
Sen. Robert Byrd began his service in the House of Representatives in 1953 and was elected to the Senate six years later. His long fight for the primacy of the legislative branch of our government ended at 3 a.m. this morning.
But Byrd’s greatest contribution to our nation wasn’t the length of his tenure, the money that he funneled to improve the conditions of those living in abject poverty in West Virginia, his staunch opposition to imperialistic military adventures, his steadfast support of health care reform or even the soaring speeches he delivered to his colleagues on the Senate floor.
No, the most important thing this former Ku Klux Klan organizer gave to us was the hope that we are all worthy of redemption.
I’ll save the details for the history books. It is enough to say that Byrd was a supporter of the greatest home-grown terrorist organization in the history of the United States. In latter years that association would have effectively, and appropriately, precluded his election. In West Virgina, in the 1950s, it likely facilitated his ascent.
It’s not precisely clear to me when Byrd changed, but he did so nonetheless. In 1964, he filibustered against the Civil Rights Act. But by 2004, he had won the endorsement of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, which noted that Byrd was one of just 17 senators that had supported its stance on every bill of interest to the NAACP.
He came to be known as the "Conscience of the Senate." And although some called him the “Guilty Conscience,” I’m not sure it matters, except as a lesson for us all on what it means to be human.
We all make mistakes. Sometimes we make mistakes so grave that they will stay with us for the rest of our lives. But while we, and others, may never forget those failings, we don’t have to repeat them.
We can change. We can be better than who were yesterday, and better still than who we are today. We can admit that we have been wrong. We can ask forgiveness. And then we can earn it.
One day at a time.
Love,
dad
Thursday, December 31, 2009
FRESH WHOLESOME MILK
Dear Spike:
It's been a tough couple of nights, but you've been very brave and I'm very proud of you. It's not easy coming down off an addiction, after all. And you've been hooked on this stuff for a long time.
I'm speaking, of course, of 4-O-beta-D-Galactopyranosyl-D-glucose.
Lactose, baby. The magical elixir that turns an ordinary glass of H20 into an delicious serving of fresh, wholesome, milk.
We're actually not weaning you off milk, per se. You're still welcome to it. But your mother and I have decided it's time — long past time, actually — that you stop drinking your cow juice from the bottle.
And so, for the past two nights, it's been off-to-bed-without-the-white-stuff. No more bottles for baby. It's time to be a big girl.
I won't pretend that it's been as hard on us as it has been on you. It hasn't. But it has been tough to watch you graduate away from one of the last vestiges of babyhood.
Alas, with your long, messy locks and your bilingual vocabulary and your determination to do everything by yourself, it's clear that you are most certainly not a baby any longer.
And heck, sometimes you act more like an adult than I do.
Sometimes it's sad to see how fast you've grown. But it can also be a lot of fun. And since change is inevitable, there's no use dwelling on what was.
You're a big girl now.
Milk it for everything it's worth.
Love,
dad
dad
Monday, July 6, 2009
PICTURES DON'T LIE
Dear Spike:
From one day to the next, you look and seem the same to me. I know that you're growing bigger and bigger, smarter and smarter, but I cannot see it.
But, as they say, pictures don't lie. And the ones your mother shared with me recently told a thousand words about how you've grown over the past year.
In the first, taken just after your first birthday, you walk through a narrow waterpark stream aided by your grandmother's hand. You're cautious, feet fixed in the water and weight low to the ground. Your hair is soft, short and swept to the side.
In the second, taken just after your second birthday, you navigate the same stream all alone. You're confident, tip-toeing through the water with carefree abandon. Your hair is set up in pig tails.
My how you've grown. My how you have changed. I can only imagine what next year's photos might reveal.
But I'm happy to wait to find out.
I love this moment in your life, just as I did the last. And I am savoring every moment.
And taking lots of photos.
Love,
dad
From one day to the next, you look and seem the same to me. I know that you're growing bigger and bigger, smarter and smarter, but I cannot see it.
But, as they say, pictures don't lie. And the ones your mother shared with me recently told a thousand words about how you've grown over the past year.
In the first, taken just after your first birthday, you walk through a narrow waterpark stream aided by your grandmother's hand. You're cautious, feet fixed in the water and weight low to the ground. Your hair is soft, short and swept to the side.
In the second, taken just after your second birthday, you navigate the same stream all alone. You're confident, tip-toeing through the water with carefree abandon. Your hair is set up in pig tails.
My how you've grown. My how you have changed. I can only imagine what next year's photos might reveal.
But I'm happy to wait to find out.
I love this moment in your life, just as I did the last. And I am savoring every moment.
And taking lots of photos.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
OF A DREAM
Dear Spike:
Today will come and go for you like any other.
The sun has not imploded. Gravity has not been upended. The sky is still the sky and the land is still the land and the sea is still the sea.
Today is just another day for you. And, in the very grand scheme of things, for all of us.
But it does not feel that way. No, today it feels as though the entire world has changed.
Today, a black man has been elected as our president.
You are still very young, but at some point in the next four years, you will come to understand that there is someone in this nation we call our president. You won't at first understand how he came to be who he came to be. You won't know precisely what he does.
You will simply know him as a photograph. As an image on the television screen. As a name spoken on the radio.
And when you come to this very simple understanding, the man you will know as your president will not look like any of the men that preceded him as the leader of our nation.
But you will not know that this is special.
For you will not know — not for a few more years, at least — our nation's great shame. You will not know that, at one time in our history, we held people in chains and sold them as cattle and kept them as property. You will not know that, at one time in our history, we kept people from voting and sent them to sit in the back of the bus and told them that they were not human enough to eat at our side. You will not know that, at one time in our history, we hung people from trees.
Thank God Almighty that you will not know. Thank God Almighty that when you come to learn these things, you will learn them as history. Ancient as the pyramids, I pray.
You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children of many races, colors and creeds. You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children belonging to parents who look like your parents and who do not. You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children who, like you, will be learning these things for the first time, too. You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children who, like you, will not know that the ascension of a black man into the White House is in any way significant.
For as far as you will know, that is how it always has been.
As you grow you will come to know that our shame is not so ancient, that our wounds are still quite fresh. You will learn that there is still so much work to be done.
You will learn of a dream not yet realized, of a check still not cashed.
Do not be dismayed.
Listen to me, my child: The world can change.
I know that it is so.
Love,
dad
Today will come and go for you like any other.
The sun has not imploded. Gravity has not been upended. The sky is still the sky and the land is still the land and the sea is still the sea.
Today is just another day for you. And, in the very grand scheme of things, for all of us.
But it does not feel that way. No, today it feels as though the entire world has changed.
Today, a black man has been elected as our president.
You are still very young, but at some point in the next four years, you will come to understand that there is someone in this nation we call our president. You won't at first understand how he came to be who he came to be. You won't know precisely what he does.
You will simply know him as a photograph. As an image on the television screen. As a name spoken on the radio.
And when you come to this very simple understanding, the man you will know as your president will not look like any of the men that preceded him as the leader of our nation.
But you will not know that this is special.
For you will not know — not for a few more years, at least — our nation's great shame. You will not know that, at one time in our history, we held people in chains and sold them as cattle and kept them as property. You will not know that, at one time in our history, we kept people from voting and sent them to sit in the back of the bus and told them that they were not human enough to eat at our side. You will not know that, at one time in our history, we hung people from trees.
Thank God Almighty that you will not know. Thank God Almighty that when you come to learn these things, you will learn them as history. Ancient as the pyramids, I pray.
You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children of many races, colors and creeds. You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children belonging to parents who look like your parents and who do not. You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children who, like you, will be learning these things for the first time, too. You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children who, like you, will not know that the ascension of a black man into the White House is in any way significant.
For as far as you will know, that is how it always has been.
As you grow you will come to know that our shame is not so ancient, that our wounds are still quite fresh. You will learn that there is still so much work to be done.
You will learn of a dream not yet realized, of a check still not cashed.
Do not be dismayed.
Listen to me, my child: The world can change.
I know that it is so.
Love,
dad
Sunday, September 21, 2008
A BIG KID
Dear Spike:
You took a big step toward being a big kid today.
Two steps, actually — first the right one and then the left one...
... into a pair of skivvies.
Sure, someday you're going to score the championship-winning goal in the World Cup, win the Nobel Prize for peace and science (in the same year,) and solve the Rubik's cube in under 7.08 seconds.
But today, I can't imagine ever being prouder.
Love,
dad
Thursday, August 28, 2008
CHANGE FOR YOU
Dear Spike:
Today marks two years since you came into our lives — and 15 months since we met you face to face in the maternity ward at LDS Hospital.
It probably goes without saying that you've changed a bit since I first held your tiny four-and-a-half-pound body in my arms. Perhaps more remarkable, though, is how much you've changed since just last month.
Or heck, since just last week. And you know, in some ways, it's like meeting a new person every day.
One day you're a bold social butterfly — jumping into the arms of strangers and talking to everyone you pass at the supermarket. The next day you're like a nervous little squirrel, hiding behind our legs, scurrying up into our arms when you feel frightened of someone new.
One day you're stoic. The next day you're just silly.
One day you're completely engrossed in your ever-expanding library. The next day you'd rather lie on the floor doing absolutely nothing than be forced to read.
One day you're pining for the outdoors. The next day you're hankering to stay home.
We took you to see Dr. Schriewer today. You've always been fond of her in the past. But today you screamed and screamed and screamed as she tried to listen to your heart and check your eyes and look into your ears. We're talking banshee screaming. And that was long before the shots came.
Yesterday at the park you couldn't get enough of the climbing wall. Today you wanted to do nothing but slide down the big red tube.
Last week you liked your little plastic penguin. Now it's your little brown horse.
I wonder if you're not simply trying things out — sampling all of life's flavors before settling on a favorite. If that's your plan, it's not a bad one.
Lots of people talk about the benefits of trying new things. Not many people recognize the value of trying to be a new person. But you can. And not just right now but always. If you wake up one morning and decide you'd like to change you, you can.
There's only one rule: When you change, change for you.
Not for friendship. Not for love. And not for popularity. Oh please, please, please, not for popularity.
But if you want to change for you, change for you.
And whoever you are tomorrow, that's who I'll love. Even more than I love you today.
Love,
dad
Dear Spike's Friends:
For those of you keeping track, Spike weighed in at just over 17 pounds today. That's pretty darn small — and Dr. Schriewer made an appointment for us to visit a child nutritionist in November. But she also assured us that, developmentally, Spike is developing quite nicely — despite the banshee screamfest.
Love, Spike's Dad
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
REALLY CHANGE MUCH
Dear Spike:
Never underestimate how much a simple gesture on your part might brighten someone else's day.
Two quick case studies from work this week...
1) On Sunday I was assigned to cover the homecoming of Apa Sherpa, who just returned from his record-breaking 18th summit of Mt. Everest. This man is a living legend, a true hero who has guided scores of people safely up and back down the world's tallest mountain, but he was humble and kind and gracious. And when it came time to say goodbye, he took my hand, deftly shifted his body forward, and pulled me in to give me a hug.
A hug. From Apa Sherpa.
I'm quite certain I'll never summit Everest. But somehow, now, I feel like a part of me has.
2) This afternoon you and I had lunch with a young Iraqi man who lost both of his legs in a roadside bomb attack in Baghdad. Although he had been working as an interpreter for U.S. soldiers when the attack occurred, it took more than two years for his visa to be approved to come to the United States for treatment. He finally got here two months ago — only to learn that the U.S. government wouldn't pay for a motorized wheelchair or prothetic limbs. He was understandably depressed and worried about his future. But throughout the interview, I noticed that he was rather smitten with you. He rubbed your head and touched your cheek. He laughed as you threw your food all over my lap. And at the end of the interview, you leaned in and gave him a kiss on his cheek.
A kiss. From a little girl.
That'll hardly change his circumstances, but you should have seen the look in his eyes.
The truth is, sometimes the little things in life — like simple gestures of kindness — don't really change much.
But maybe a simple gesture somehow alters someone's day.
And maybe that day somehow alter's their week.
And that week, their year.
And that year, their life.
And that life, the lives of others.
And those others, the world.
A warm hug. A small kiss. A kind smile. A simple thanks.
And a world — forever changed.
Love,
dad
Never underestimate how much a simple gesture on your part might brighten someone else's day.
Two quick case studies from work this week...
1) On Sunday I was assigned to cover the homecoming of Apa Sherpa, who just returned from his record-breaking 18th summit of Mt. Everest. This man is a living legend, a true hero who has guided scores of people safely up and back down the world's tallest mountain, but he was humble and kind and gracious. And when it came time to say goodbye, he took my hand, deftly shifted his body forward, and pulled me in to give me a hug.
A hug. From Apa Sherpa.
I'm quite certain I'll never summit Everest. But somehow, now, I feel like a part of me has.
2) This afternoon you and I had lunch with a young Iraqi man who lost both of his legs in a roadside bomb attack in Baghdad. Although he had been working as an interpreter for U.S. soldiers when the attack occurred, it took more than two years for his visa to be approved to come to the United States for treatment. He finally got here two months ago — only to learn that the U.S. government wouldn't pay for a motorized wheelchair or prothetic limbs. He was understandably depressed and worried about his future. But throughout the interview, I noticed that he was rather smitten with you. He rubbed your head and touched your cheek. He laughed as you threw your food all over my lap. And at the end of the interview, you leaned in and gave him a kiss on his cheek.
A kiss. From a little girl.
That'll hardly change his circumstances, but you should have seen the look in his eyes.
The truth is, sometimes the little things in life — like simple gestures of kindness — don't really change much.
But maybe a simple gesture somehow alters someone's day.
And maybe that day somehow alter's their week.
And that week, their year.
And that year, their life.
And that life, the lives of others.
And those others, the world.
A warm hug. A small kiss. A kind smile. A simple thanks.
And a world — forever changed.
Love,
dad
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
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
Monday, April 7, 2008
NEVER LET GO
Dear Spike:
You usually sleep in our bed on Friday nights. Sometimes on Saturdays, too. Your mother and I stay up and watch movies and you nestle right between us as Coltrane looks on from the foot of the bed, flexing his paws and, I’m sure, wondering why the hell is she in my spot?
Tonight is Monday night. You should be in your crib, in your room. And with April 15 just around the corner, your mother and I should be doing our taxes. But as your bedtime neared, this drafty old house just seemed so very cold. And, well, here you are.
You’re wearing your soft, green nightgown, the one with the little dancing bear and the shooting stars. Your hands are cocked behind your head, like a talent agent who just signed a big movie deal for his client and is about to light a fat and moderately expensive cigar to celebrate. Your feet are bare. Such pretty little feet. You’re resting on your mother’s stomach — right over the spot where you spent nine whole months, cooking away like a little pot roast until finally popping out last May, just a tad underdone.
Your mother’s reading “My Sister’s Keeper” by Jodi Picoult, who, accoridng to the photograph on the back of the book, has curly red hair and doesn’t feel the need to smile for the camera.
And I’m sitting here with my computer balanced on my knee. Tap, tap, tapping away.
Avoiding the subject. Avoiding the reason why, perhaps — no, I’m quite sure the reason why, in fact — I wanted you to come sleep with us tonight.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
They buried her today.
She was a sweet little seven year old girl. Just a bitty thing. She liked the color pink and the company of her neighbors. Her family taught her to trust the people in her communty. It takes a village, some have said.
I have said.
Hser Ner Moo wandered away from her home last Monday afternoon. Off to a friend’s home, it was assumed. By Tuesday she was dead. The man who killed her was an aquaintance of her family. The home where she died, she’d visited before. This was her village.
Back when it was merely an academic pursuit, I theorized that the measures Americans go to in order to protect their children from harm were, in fact, of greater collective detriment than the remote possibilities that harm might, in fact, be inflicted. Maybe that's still true. But tonight, all I want to do is plop a helmet on your head and safety pads on your arms and legs and teach you Kung Fu and buy you a loud whistle and get a burglar alarm for your room and tag your ear with a GPS tracking chip like they do to endangered animals.
We live right across the street from the most beautiful urban park you’ll ever see. Right across the street. There are ducks to feed and boats to ride and a carosel and a merry-go-round and the nation’s largest public aviary and tennis courts and fountains and a greenhouse and bike paths and two lovely playgrounds.
I’d always imagined that you would play there — with us nearby at first, of course, but eventually by yourself and with your friends. I imagined I would watch from the porch as your rounded the corner and disappeared. Maybe when you were seven or eight — big enough to be seen by cars and to scream loud enough for someone to hear, if need be.
But small enough to play — to learn to be independent and to handle your own conflicts with other kids. Like we used to, when I was a kid.
“I’m going to play,” I’d call over my shoulder on the way out the door.“Be back before dinner,” my mother would call back as the door slammed behind me. Most of the time, I think, she had a vague idea of where I was headed. And that was enough for her.
I’d like it to be enough for me. For you.
But how can I send you out into this village? How do I ballance my desire to help you learn about community when I don’t feel as though I truly trust our community?
So maybe not seven. Maybe not eight. Maybe not nine or 10.
Of course, tonight is a bad night to be making decisions about these things. I’m sad and hurt and heartbroken for that poor little girl’s family. The world feels like an ugly place.
And all I want to to hold you between your mother and I. Tight and close and safe.
And never let go.
Love,
dad
You usually sleep in our bed on Friday nights. Sometimes on Saturdays, too. Your mother and I stay up and watch movies and you nestle right between us as Coltrane looks on from the foot of the bed, flexing his paws and, I’m sure, wondering why the hell is she in my spot?
Tonight is Monday night. You should be in your crib, in your room. And with April 15 just around the corner, your mother and I should be doing our taxes. But as your bedtime neared, this drafty old house just seemed so very cold. And, well, here you are.
You’re wearing your soft, green nightgown, the one with the little dancing bear and the shooting stars. Your hands are cocked behind your head, like a talent agent who just signed a big movie deal for his client and is about to light a fat and moderately expensive cigar to celebrate. Your feet are bare. Such pretty little feet. You’re resting on your mother’s stomach — right over the spot where you spent nine whole months, cooking away like a little pot roast until finally popping out last May, just a tad underdone.
Your mother’s reading “My Sister’s Keeper” by Jodi Picoult, who, accoridng to the photograph on the back of the book, has curly red hair and doesn’t feel the need to smile for the camera.
And I’m sitting here with my computer balanced on my knee. Tap, tap, tapping away.
Avoiding the subject. Avoiding the reason why, perhaps — no, I’m quite sure the reason why, in fact — I wanted you to come sleep with us tonight.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
They buried her today.
She was a sweet little seven year old girl. Just a bitty thing. She liked the color pink and the company of her neighbors. Her family taught her to trust the people in her communty. It takes a village, some have said.
I have said.
Hser Ner Moo wandered away from her home last Monday afternoon. Off to a friend’s home, it was assumed. By Tuesday she was dead. The man who killed her was an aquaintance of her family. The home where she died, she’d visited before. This was her village.
Back when it was merely an academic pursuit, I theorized that the measures Americans go to in order to protect their children from harm were, in fact, of greater collective detriment than the remote possibilities that harm might, in fact, be inflicted. Maybe that's still true. But tonight, all I want to do is plop a helmet on your head and safety pads on your arms and legs and teach you Kung Fu and buy you a loud whistle and get a burglar alarm for your room and tag your ear with a GPS tracking chip like they do to endangered animals.
We live right across the street from the most beautiful urban park you’ll ever see. Right across the street. There are ducks to feed and boats to ride and a carosel and a merry-go-round and the nation’s largest public aviary and tennis courts and fountains and a greenhouse and bike paths and two lovely playgrounds.
I’d always imagined that you would play there — with us nearby at first, of course, but eventually by yourself and with your friends. I imagined I would watch from the porch as your rounded the corner and disappeared. Maybe when you were seven or eight — big enough to be seen by cars and to scream loud enough for someone to hear, if need be.
But small enough to play — to learn to be independent and to handle your own conflicts with other kids. Like we used to, when I was a kid.
“I’m going to play,” I’d call over my shoulder on the way out the door.“Be back before dinner,” my mother would call back as the door slammed behind me. Most of the time, I think, she had a vague idea of where I was headed. And that was enough for her.
I’d like it to be enough for me. For you.
But how can I send you out into this village? How do I ballance my desire to help you learn about community when I don’t feel as though I truly trust our community?
So maybe not seven. Maybe not eight. Maybe not nine or 10.
Of course, tonight is a bad night to be making decisions about these things. I’m sad and hurt and heartbroken for that poor little girl’s family. The world feels like an ugly place.
And all I want to to hold you between your mother and I. Tight and close and safe.
And never let go.
Love,
dad
Sunday, April 6, 2008
YOU'LL BE OFF
Dear Spike:
My God, you're changing fast. I swear that on some mornings, when I fetch you from your crib, I hardly recognize you as the little girl I put to bed just the night before.
After months of moving from here to there in an awkward sort of contorted slither, you've finally begun crawling, but I don't reckon you'll be doing that for long, for you've also pretty much figured out how to walk. You've only now to find your ballance. And then you'll be off.
Walking. Running. Jumping.
Rolling. Sliding. Swimming. Diving.
Your mother brought your little blue baby tub down to the basement last week. You just got too big for it. For the first few times in our big clawfoot tub your mother or I would bath along with you, catching you when you'd slip and slide on the slick porcelain bottom. But now you've got that figured out too. And so we simply sit to the side and run a cup of water over your hair.
Soon, I suppose, you'll be doing that by yourself too.
A few months back, your mother and I purchased a bicycle trailer for you to ride in and came up with a nifty way to strap your car seat into the harnesses. But now you've gotten so long that your feet stick out the front, making it impossible close the front flap. Your mom tried sitting you into the trailer without the safety seat, but you're still too small for that. Not sure how we'll fix that problem, but in any case, I know it's going to be a temporary fix, for you're growing so fast.
Soon, I know, you'll be too big for the car seat. And then, not long therafter, you'll be too big for your trailer. And that will be just fine because, right around the time that occurs, you'll be wanting your own bicycle anyway. And we'll oblige, of course. And then you'll be off.
Riding. Jumping. Sometimes falling. Getting back up and doing it again. Faster. Faster still.
You've almost grown out of the outfit we bought to bring you home from the hospital. Admittedly, I didn't think it would even last this long. But you were such a tiny little thing. And so the Oregon State University onesie in which we'd intended to dress you for the trip home instead was used as a blanket to cover your skinny little legs against the May breeze. Unprepared for such a wee little baby, we dispatched your grandparents to the store to find some premie clothes. You wore those sizes for months. You didn't really fit into that OSU outfit until a few months ago. And within a few weeks, I suppose, we'll pack it away for good.
I try not to spend too much time lamenting the ticking of the clock. It's a waste of today to worry too much about tommorrow.
But sometimes when I rock you at night, and sing to you the songs that help you sleep, I know I will not rock you this way and sing to you these songs forever.
But that's fine, too. Because today is special — exactly because it is today. And tommorrow will be special in its own ways. And the next day. And the next.
I love the way you are today. But I will love you no less tommorrow.
In fact, I'll love you more.
Love,
dad
My God, you're changing fast. I swear that on some mornings, when I fetch you from your crib, I hardly recognize you as the little girl I put to bed just the night before.
After months of moving from here to there in an awkward sort of contorted slither, you've finally begun crawling, but I don't reckon you'll be doing that for long, for you've also pretty much figured out how to walk. You've only now to find your ballance. And then you'll be off.
Walking. Running. Jumping.
Rolling. Sliding. Swimming. Diving.
Your mother brought your little blue baby tub down to the basement last week. You just got too big for it. For the first few times in our big clawfoot tub your mother or I would bath along with you, catching you when you'd slip and slide on the slick porcelain bottom. But now you've got that figured out too. And so we simply sit to the side and run a cup of water over your hair.
Soon, I suppose, you'll be doing that by yourself too.
A few months back, your mother and I purchased a bicycle trailer for you to ride in and came up with a nifty way to strap your car seat into the harnesses. But now you've gotten so long that your feet stick out the front, making it impossible close the front flap. Your mom tried sitting you into the trailer without the safety seat, but you're still too small for that. Not sure how we'll fix that problem, but in any case, I know it's going to be a temporary fix, for you're growing so fast.
Soon, I know, you'll be too big for the car seat. And then, not long therafter, you'll be too big for your trailer. And that will be just fine because, right around the time that occurs, you'll be wanting your own bicycle anyway. And we'll oblige, of course. And then you'll be off.
Riding. Jumping. Sometimes falling. Getting back up and doing it again. Faster. Faster still.
You've almost grown out of the outfit we bought to bring you home from the hospital. Admittedly, I didn't think it would even last this long. But you were such a tiny little thing. And so the Oregon State University onesie in which we'd intended to dress you for the trip home instead was used as a blanket to cover your skinny little legs against the May breeze. Unprepared for such a wee little baby, we dispatched your grandparents to the store to find some premie clothes. You wore those sizes for months. You didn't really fit into that OSU outfit until a few months ago. And within a few weeks, I suppose, we'll pack it away for good.
I try not to spend too much time lamenting the ticking of the clock. It's a waste of today to worry too much about tommorrow.
But sometimes when I rock you at night, and sing to you the songs that help you sleep, I know I will not rock you this way and sing to you these songs forever.
But that's fine, too. Because today is special — exactly because it is today. And tommorrow will be special in its own ways. And the next day. And the next.
I love the way you are today. But I will love you no less tommorrow.
In fact, I'll love you more.
Love,
dad
Saturday, March 22, 2008
CAN'T BITE MOMMY
Dear Spike:
Our relationship changed today.
You, your mother and I were all playing together in your room. She was reading you a story. I was sitting on the floor with a set of blocks that your grandparents gave to you for Easter, trying to figure out if you really could get a round peg into square hole.
All of the sudden, your mother screamed.
"What!?" I cried.
"She bit me!"
You mom held out a finger, as though to present evidence of the crime. I looked down at you and frowned.
"No." I said.
You smiled — exposing your pearly white weapons of choice — and laughed.
"No!" I repeated, as sternly as I could, jabbing a finger into the air for emphasis.
You stopped laughing and paused for a moment. Your bottom lip began to tremble. Your chin dropped to your chest. Your eyes welled up with tears. You gasped for breath as you sobbed. You looked up at me in absolute horror and pain.
It was, without a doubt, one of the worst moments of my life.
I know that it is part of my job, as your father, to teach you right from wrong. And I know that isn't always going to be as simple as sitting down to reason with you. Sometimes, I'm sure, it will be enough to praise you for doing good. But sometimes, I understand, I'll have to scold you for doing wrong, like I did this afternoon.
And sometimes, I dread, I'll have to punish you.
Your mother and I haven't yet worked out all the details. I'd like to leave all options on the table, including spanking, manual labor and waterboarding. She'd like us to stick to the Geneva Conventions. And as this is an area of parenting in which we absolutely must agree... well... you're just lucky that I can't extradite you to a small island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
In truth, given how awful I felt today, I'm really not sure I could stomach taking a hand to your backside. Just watching your reaction to what was a pretty moderate scolding simply broke my heart. And so I'm not looking forward to ever having to so much as lift my voice to you again.
After it was all over, I took you up into my arms. I hugged you and kissed your cheek. I wiped away your tears. I told you I loved you, again and again. Eventually, the sobbing subsided.
"I know you don't understand all of this," I whispered into your ear. "But you just can't bite mommy."
You looked up at me and smiled, once again displaying the two porcelain steak knives God has chosen to give you as bottom teeth.
I sighed.
Life is simply never going to be the same.
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
Friday, February 8, 2008
THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT
Dear Spike:
You fell feverish last night — not terribly so, but enough that you were up most of the night, alternately crying, screaming, fussing and whining.
By this morning, your temperature had dropped back down to a more normal 98.7 — and now you’re simply fighting exhaustion. (It’s not yet 10:30 a.m. and I’ve just set you down for your third nap of the morning.) By this evening, I’m sure, you’ll have recovered your usual, cheery disposition, but having gotten plenty of sleep throughout the day, I’m certain, you’ll be up most of the night again.
So it goes. And goes. And goes.
The laws of science tell us that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. In the humanities, we simply say "what goes around, comes around," but it is equally incontrovertible as a principle of life as it is a principle of physics. Everything you do in this world — by choice, by circumstance or, most often, by both choice and circumstance — will set off an ever-splintering chain of reactions, the consequences of which might be felt today or years down the road. Some people call this the “butterfly effect” — based on the idea that if were you able to follow the infinite effects of an action as infinitesimal as a butterfly flapping its wings, you might find that, over days and weeks and months and years and centuries and millennia, an entire world is changed by an initial action not seen nor felt by anyone.
I’ve thought about this principle a lot as you, your mother and I have begun our journey through this world — at once so simple and so chaotic — together. What choices have we made today that will, in the decades to come, effect your life and the lives of others? What circumstances have occurred that will, as you live and breathe and grow, change your world and the worlds around you?
How will the dreams that you are dreaming this morning — at a time when you would usually be awake — inform the rest of your day? How will that day change your week, your year, your life?
You’re starting to wake from your nap, now. And coincidentally, the sun has broken through the winter clouds for the first time in weeks, so I think I’ll take you outside, for a moment or two, for a bit of fresh air.
We’ll breathe it all in. And change the world.
Love,
dad
You fell feverish last night — not terribly so, but enough that you were up most of the night, alternately crying, screaming, fussing and whining.
By this morning, your temperature had dropped back down to a more normal 98.7 — and now you’re simply fighting exhaustion. (It’s not yet 10:30 a.m. and I’ve just set you down for your third nap of the morning.) By this evening, I’m sure, you’ll have recovered your usual, cheery disposition, but having gotten plenty of sleep throughout the day, I’m certain, you’ll be up most of the night again.
So it goes. And goes. And goes.
The laws of science tell us that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. In the humanities, we simply say "what goes around, comes around," but it is equally incontrovertible as a principle of life as it is a principle of physics. Everything you do in this world — by choice, by circumstance or, most often, by both choice and circumstance — will set off an ever-splintering chain of reactions, the consequences of which might be felt today or years down the road. Some people call this the “butterfly effect” — based on the idea that if were you able to follow the infinite effects of an action as infinitesimal as a butterfly flapping its wings, you might find that, over days and weeks and months and years and centuries and millennia, an entire world is changed by an initial action not seen nor felt by anyone.
I’ve thought about this principle a lot as you, your mother and I have begun our journey through this world — at once so simple and so chaotic — together. What choices have we made today that will, in the decades to come, effect your life and the lives of others? What circumstances have occurred that will, as you live and breathe and grow, change your world and the worlds around you?
How will the dreams that you are dreaming this morning — at a time when you would usually be awake — inform the rest of your day? How will that day change your week, your year, your life?
You’re starting to wake from your nap, now. And coincidentally, the sun has broken through the winter clouds for the first time in weeks, so I think I’ll take you outside, for a moment or two, for a bit of fresh air.
We’ll breathe it all in. And change the world.
Love,
dad
Sunday, January 13, 2008
AN AMAZING WEEK
Dear Spike:
It’s a bit tough for me to wriet rightr now.
See, our keeper did’nt show up for Saturday’s game, so I wound uop tending goal. About six miuntues into the fiorst half, I dove for a ball and came down on my right hand, breajking my pinky finger. Then, a few minutes later, I went after another ball and csame down on my left hand, spraining my wrist.
Now my left hand is in a bulky brace and my right hand has two fingers taped together. And thus Ii have, at this time, just three good fingers with which to type.
YUour mom keeps asking me what I have leanred from this experince. And for the life of me, I can’t say. I mean, really, what was I supposed to do? Leave when I got huyrt the first time? Leave my team in a lurch? Let the other team pount us ever hareder that they already were?
Someday, I know, you’ll bne on my side about things like this. Rihgt?
Right.
So even though it is just a bit awkward to type right now, I wanted to make syure I wrote — for posterity’s sake, because. . .
You’ve had an amazing week!
First, you got your first tooth — lower incisor, right side. It’s just a little nubbin poking out from your gums, but it’s definiely there.
Next, you said your first word . . . well, signed it, anyway. For a few weeks now, ytour mothher has been making the sign for milk whenever she feeds you. This week,m you started doing it in eresponse.
At first, I thought might just be a coincidence, since the sign for “milk” is really nothing more than one hand opening and closing and then op[ening again. But I’ve watched you guys go through a couple of feedding sessions now, and it’s pretty obvious that you’re doing it in response to her. Very cool!
And that has’n’t been all. You’ve also started to make kisding noises in response to us. You’re stabnding up while holding onto the side of your crib. And you’re rolling and scooting all over the place.
Now there is just onwe little thing I have to aask:
Could you please learn to type? I could really use some help right now.
Love,
dasd
It’s a bit tough for me to wriet rightr now.
See, our keeper did’nt show up for Saturday’s game, so I wound uop tending goal. About six miuntues into the fiorst half, I dove for a ball and came down on my right hand, breajking my pinky finger. Then, a few minutes later, I went after another ball and csame down on my left hand, spraining my wrist.
Now my left hand is in a bulky brace and my right hand has two fingers taped together. And thus Ii have, at this time, just three good fingers with which to type.
YUour mom keeps asking me what I have leanred from this experince. And for the life of me, I can’t say. I mean, really, what was I supposed to do? Leave when I got huyrt the first time? Leave my team in a lurch? Let the other team pount us ever hareder that they already were?
Someday, I know, you’ll bne on my side about things like this. Rihgt?
Right.
So even though it is just a bit awkward to type right now, I wanted to make syure I wrote — for posterity’s sake, because. . .
You’ve had an amazing week!
First, you got your first tooth — lower incisor, right side. It’s just a little nubbin poking out from your gums, but it’s definiely there.
Next, you said your first word . . . well, signed it, anyway. For a few weeks now, ytour mothher has been making the sign for milk whenever she feeds you. This week,m you started doing it in eresponse.
At first, I thought might just be a coincidence, since the sign for “milk” is really nothing more than one hand opening and closing and then op[ening again. But I’ve watched you guys go through a couple of feedding sessions now, and it’s pretty obvious that you’re doing it in response to her. Very cool!
And that has’n’t been all. You’ve also started to make kisding noises in response to us. You’re stabnding up while holding onto the side of your crib. And you’re rolling and scooting all over the place.
Now there is just onwe little thing I have to aask:
Could you please learn to type? I could really use some help right now.
Love,
dasd
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
Monday, December 17, 2007
YOU'VE BEEN WAKING
Dear Spike:
What ever happened to that beautiful, long-slumbering baby we once knew — the one who continually slept through the night when she was just two months old?
Lately, you’ve been waking two, three and sometimes four times a night to use the bathroom and have a little snack. It usually takes no more than five or 10 minutes to get you back to sleep, but after that it is sometimes hard for us to get back to our own dreams.
In spite of her recent inability to get more than three straight hours of uninterrupted slumber, your mother is faring quite well. It is clear that she is tired, but she does not complain. And when I have offered to give you a bottle at night so that she can have a longer stretch of sleep, she has firmly declined. “It’s my job to feed her,” she says resolutely.
I’ve long prided myself on not needing as much sleep as most — four or five hours is usually enough for me — but lately I’ve been supplementing with more and more coffee. Seems I’m not as capable of neglecting my bed as I once was. In some ways that saddens me, as the wee’st hours of the morning were once my favorite moments to paint, read and write. But I wouldn’t trade this lot. Not for anything in the world.
At a holiday party, the other evening, a former colleague told your mother that she doesn’t understand why anyone would want children. “It just changes your life so much,” she said spitefully.
Indeed, your mother agreed, having a child has changed our lives. “But only,” she stipulated, “for the better.”
What my former colleague doesn’t understand about those sleepless nights and those tired mornings — and all the other little and big sacrifices that come with raising a child — is that it is so very, very worth it.
Sure, we’re tired. But last night, during one unusually long stretch of silence, I rose from my bed and tiptoed over to your cradle, just to watch you sleep.
It had been three or four hours since you’d cried, and already I was missing the ways you’ve changed my life.
Love,
dad
What ever happened to that beautiful, long-slumbering baby we once knew — the one who continually slept through the night when she was just two months old?
Lately, you’ve been waking two, three and sometimes four times a night to use the bathroom and have a little snack. It usually takes no more than five or 10 minutes to get you back to sleep, but after that it is sometimes hard for us to get back to our own dreams.
In spite of her recent inability to get more than three straight hours of uninterrupted slumber, your mother is faring quite well. It is clear that she is tired, but she does not complain. And when I have offered to give you a bottle at night so that she can have a longer stretch of sleep, she has firmly declined. “It’s my job to feed her,” she says resolutely.
I’ve long prided myself on not needing as much sleep as most — four or five hours is usually enough for me — but lately I’ve been supplementing with more and more coffee. Seems I’m not as capable of neglecting my bed as I once was. In some ways that saddens me, as the wee’st hours of the morning were once my favorite moments to paint, read and write. But I wouldn’t trade this lot. Not for anything in the world.
At a holiday party, the other evening, a former colleague told your mother that she doesn’t understand why anyone would want children. “It just changes your life so much,” she said spitefully.
Indeed, your mother agreed, having a child has changed our lives. “But only,” she stipulated, “for the better.”
What my former colleague doesn’t understand about those sleepless nights and those tired mornings — and all the other little and big sacrifices that come with raising a child — is that it is so very, very worth it.
Sure, we’re tired. But last night, during one unusually long stretch of silence, I rose from my bed and tiptoed over to your cradle, just to watch you sleep.
It had been three or four hours since you’d cried, and already I was missing the ways you’ve changed my life.
Love,
dad
Sunday, November 25, 2007
AS WE CHANGE
Dear Spike:
Before we met, your mother had never had a corn dog, never seen an episode of M*A*S*H, and never left the borders of the United States of America.
I’d never slept under a feather comforter, never understood the value of a good set of pajamas and never apologized to anyone and really meant it.
We’ve changed a lot, these last few years. And now we’re changing more than ever. And you’re changing too — so much and so fast.
You learned to twist your tiny body today — like a miniature Chubby Checker. Later we went to the park, and you had your first swing. These aren’t big changes. But they’re first steps toward big changes.
Some people think that when you love someone, it means you accept them just the way they are. And that is true.
But love also means accepting one another as we change — and we all change, all the time. Love means allowing yourself to be changed, too.
And love means accepting one another as we come to be whoever we come to be.
I love you, Spike, in ways so deep and so vast that I sometimes wonder whether I’ve finally met my capacity for love, like a runner who takes one final stride and, with that step, simply can run no further.
But tomorrow you will change — if only a little bit — and when you do I will love you more than I do today. And the next day, again. And the next day, again.
And the next day, again.
Love,
dad
Thursday, September 27, 2007
GREW AND GREW
Dear Spike:
It’s been four months since the day you arrived in our lives — and just over a year since the day that I came home from work and your mother told me that there would be “three for dinner.”
My how our lives have changed.
Your mother grew and grew and grew. She gave birth to you. And then she shrunk and shrunk and shrunk. She’s around here somewhere, right now, I’m just not sure where.
I’ve grown too. Maybe a bit around the belly (I was eating for two, too) but mostly around the heart. I never knew it could feel so big, beating inside my chest, until I met you.
And my, my how you have grown. At the time we learned you were coming, you were just about the size of an apple seed. A few weeks later, we got a picture of you from the doctor — you looked like a speckled jelly bean (and when you finally arrived, at 7:28 a.m. on May 27, 2007, you really weren’t much bigger than that — just four-and-a-half pounds.)
Tomorrow we’ll go to see Dr. Schriewer to see how much you weigh. I say 10 pounds. Your mom says 11. Either way, you’re still a tiny kid. Tonight we went to dinner and I ran into a coworker who has a little girl who is a few weeks younger than you. Baby Alice was eating when you two were introduced, thank God, otherwise I’m afraid she might have had you for a snack.
Still, you’re strong and — we think — pretty darn smart. Not a day goes by that someone doesn’t comment, rather astonishedly it often seems, on how “alert” you are. (I’ve gone ahead and volunteered you for the 2 a.m. shift of the neighborhood watch.)
Your mother and I often comment on how difficult it is to remember what our lives felt like before you came. And maybe that’s simply because we don’t really want to.
You’re the best thing that ever happened to us. You’ve grown with us and made us grow with you. And my, my, my how it’s better.
Love,
dad
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