Dear Spike:
You've yet to perfect the pronunciation of the letter 'f,' so when your mother and I asked you where you wanted to go for a hike today, we were having some trouble understanding your answer.
"In the sorest," you said.
"The what?"
"The sorest."
"Um... the source?"
"No, the sorest."
"Can you say it again?"
Finally you grew frustrated and took a long contemplative pause.
"The woods," you finally said. "In the woods."
Even after you perfect your phonemes, there are going to be times in which intellectual, linguistic, social, cultural or technological barriers are going to prevent successful communication with those around you.
There's little in life more important that good communication skills. But faced with the inability to get their point across on the first try, many people just give up.
You, apparently, are not one of those people. And as a result, you're going to have access to a world that few others will.
You're going to see the sorest — and the trees.
Love,
dad
Showing posts with label communication. Show all posts
Showing posts with label communication. Show all posts
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
DID YOU KNOW?
Dear Spike:
Visiting a flock of friends at the aviary yesterday, we came upon the southern ground hornbill habitat.
"The hornbill is from Africa," I read aloud from the sign on the cage. "It eats reptiles, frogs, insects and small mammals."
I turned to you. "What does the hornbill eat?"
"Milk, like me!" you said.
Funny, albeit incorrect. Problem was, I misheard you. I though you said, "Mammals, like me!"
"That's right!" I said, giving you a big hug. "You're so smart."
Just then, a group of older children walked by.
"Hornbills eat milk, like me!" you told them, obviously impressed with this new piece of information. "Hey kids. Hey kids! Hornbills eat milk, like me."
It took some time to explain to you that, in the animal kingdom, only mammals drink milk.
By then it was too late.
"Did you know those birds over there drink milk?" I overheard one of the kids tell him mom.
"Really?" the mom said. "I thought that only mammals drink milk. I tell you, I learn something new every time I come here."
Love,
dad
Visiting a flock of friends at the aviary yesterday, we came upon the southern ground hornbill habitat.
"The hornbill is from Africa," I read aloud from the sign on the cage. "It eats reptiles, frogs, insects and small mammals."
I turned to you. "What does the hornbill eat?"
"Milk, like me!" you said.
Funny, albeit incorrect. Problem was, I misheard you. I though you said, "Mammals, like me!"
"That's right!" I said, giving you a big hug. "You're so smart."
Just then, a group of older children walked by.
"Hornbills eat milk, like me!" you told them, obviously impressed with this new piece of information. "Hey kids. Hey kids! Hornbills eat milk, like me."
It took some time to explain to you that, in the animal kingdom, only mammals drink milk.
By then it was too late.
"Did you know those birds over there drink milk?" I overheard one of the kids tell him mom.
"Really?" the mom said. "I thought that only mammals drink milk. I tell you, I learn something new every time I come here."
Love,
dad
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
FINE AND DANDY
Dear Spike:
Three things about you...
1) Suddenly, you're terrified of the toilet. Oh, you're just fine and dandy about doing your business in the backyard, in the park or in a parking lot, but the big white pot makes you scream.
2) You were playing with your Noah's Ark set. I was perusing the U.S. State Department's Website. At one point, you trotted over, glanced up at the screen and said, "peacock." "No," I said. "There's no peacock there." "Peacock! Peacock! Peacock!" You cried, pointing at the screen. I looked again and laughed. "Yes," I said. "The Statue of Liberty does look a bit like a peacock."
3) You're teething again. Molars. Sometimes you grab the side of your mouth and cry: "Teeth! Teeth! Teeth!" It is perhaps one of the saddest things I've ever seen.
Love,
dad
Three things about you...
1) Suddenly, you're terrified of the toilet. Oh, you're just fine and dandy about doing your business in the backyard, in the park or in a parking lot, but the big white pot makes you scream.
2) You were playing with your Noah's Ark set. I was perusing the U.S. State Department's Website. At one point, you trotted over, glanced up at the screen and said, "peacock." "No," I said. "There's no peacock there." "Peacock! Peacock! Peacock!" You cried, pointing at the screen. I looked again and laughed. "Yes," I said. "The Statue of Liberty does look a bit like a peacock."
3) You're teething again. Molars. Sometimes you grab the side of your mouth and cry: "Teeth! Teeth! Teeth!" It is perhaps one of the saddest things I've ever seen.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
EXPRESS IT ALL
Dear Spike:
I wonder, sometimes, what it all must be like for you.
It must have been terrifying, those first few days in this bright, cold world — like being thrown into a pool of freezing water. Electrifying. Breathtaking. Mind numbing.
And then, when you said your first words — calling for your mother, realizing as you did so that your lips and tongue and throat had purposes beyond eating, drinking and screaming — my God, what a surreal moment that must have been.
And now, an explosion of comprehension. You're talking to us. Listening to us. Signing what you cannot say. Sharing ideas. Following directions. Asking questions — one simple word at a time.
Yes, I can tell — there is still so much in your sweet little head that you'd like to express. You're just not sure of how, quite yet. How frightening and frustrating it must be to know what you want and know what you need and know there is a way — some way — to express it all...
...
...
... and yet, to be unable to do so.
I'm sorry to tell you, it never quite goes away. I still feel this way sometimes — as though this awkward, exhausting, guttoral thing we call language is simply insufficient for every emotion that passes through our mind or strikes us through our heart.
Don't worry, little one. As you grow, you will get better at finding the best words — as imperfect as best may be.
or right now, we'll keep working on "nose" and "ear" and "mouth." We'll learn the signs for "up" and "down." We'll laugh and sing those Sesame Street songs that will never, ever, ever leave your mind.
And when you get tired... when you get frustrated... when you get frightened... we'll sit together in silence, sharing a moment no words could describe.
And I'll wonder what it all must be like for you.
Love,
dad
I wonder, sometimes, what it all must be like for you.
It must have been terrifying, those first few days in this bright, cold world — like being thrown into a pool of freezing water. Electrifying. Breathtaking. Mind numbing.
And then, when you said your first words — calling for your mother, realizing as you did so that your lips and tongue and throat had purposes beyond eating, drinking and screaming — my God, what a surreal moment that must have been.
And now, an explosion of comprehension. You're talking to us. Listening to us. Signing what you cannot say. Sharing ideas. Following directions. Asking questions — one simple word at a time.
Yes, I can tell — there is still so much in your sweet little head that you'd like to express. You're just not sure of how, quite yet. How frightening and frustrating it must be to know what you want and know what you need and know there is a way — some way — to express it all...
...
...
... and yet, to be unable to do so.
I'm sorry to tell you, it never quite goes away. I still feel this way sometimes — as though this awkward, exhausting, guttoral thing we call language is simply insufficient for every emotion that passes through our mind or strikes us through our heart.
Don't worry, little one. As you grow, you will get better at finding the best words — as imperfect as best may be.
or right now, we'll keep working on "nose" and "ear" and "mouth." We'll learn the signs for "up" and "down." We'll laugh and sing those Sesame Street songs that will never, ever, ever leave your mind.
And when you get tired... when you get frustrated... when you get frightened... we'll sit together in silence, sharing a moment no words could describe.
And I'll wonder what it all must be like for you.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
WARMING THINGS UP
Dear Spike:
The mercury tipped above 80 yesterday, which was a little bit strange because we hadn't even had a 70-degree day yet this Spring.
And then today we had a blizzard, which isn't strange at all for Salt Lake City in mid-April, except for the fact that YESTERDAY IT WAS FLIPPIN' EIGHTY DEGREES OUTSIDE!
If there's one thing you can count on not counting on in this world, it's the weather. And that's a real nice thing, because it always gives you something to talk about with people on the bus, in line at the grocery store or while stuck in an elevator.
"Some weather we're having. . . " is all you've got to say. And with those four words — BAM-O! — the ice is broken.
Some folks say everything is part of God's plan. If that's true, I'll bet She created the weather just to get us all talking. And if that's the case... well... way to go God.
The world can be a cold enough place without us being cold to one another. The weather is a pretty good place to start warming things up. Where things go from there is up to you.
Love,
dad
The mercury tipped above 80 yesterday, which was a little bit strange because we hadn't even had a 70-degree day yet this Spring.
And then today we had a blizzard, which isn't strange at all for Salt Lake City in mid-April, except for the fact that YESTERDAY IT WAS FLIPPIN' EIGHTY DEGREES OUTSIDE!
If there's one thing you can count on not counting on in this world, it's the weather. And that's a real nice thing, because it always gives you something to talk about with people on the bus, in line at the grocery store or while stuck in an elevator.
"Some weather we're having. . . " is all you've got to say. And with those four words — BAM-O! — the ice is broken.
Some folks say everything is part of God's plan. If that's true, I'll bet She created the weather just to get us all talking. And if that's the case... well... way to go God.
The world can be a cold enough place without us being cold to one another. The weather is a pretty good place to start warming things up. Where things go from there is up to you.
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
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
Friday, December 21, 2007
A SUDDEN CONNECTION
Dear Spike:
Snowing again today. Nine inches, maybe more.
The roads haven’t been plowed yet, so your mother decided to walk to work. We’re upstairs watching this amazing white world from the window in my office (which over the past few months has come to more closely resemble your office.)
A few short and random thoughts on this beautiful winter morning:
• Over the past few days, I’ve spoken to or corresponded with several friends whom I have not seen in some time. I’ve made an effort this year to reengage those friends with whom, for whatever reason, I have lost contact — and there’s a long list. I’m glad I’ve done this. It’s been especially rewarding to share with them your story and to hear about their lives, their families and their journeys.
• I think I may have made a new friend in Kenya this week. He’s a fellow journalist who wrote me in response to an article I penned regarding America’s use of Third-World mercenaries to defend its military and diplomatic bases in Iraq. Seems we’ve got a lot in common and we’ve begun to correspond.
• A song comes to mind... “Make new friends but keep the old,” I think it goes.
• I heard on the radio this morning that machete sales are up in Kenya. And though I’ve never even met my new friend in the flesh, I felt a sudden connection to that place, where candidates for parliament and the presidency have been stirring ethnic divisions in an attempt to win more votes.
• I’ve had similar experiences when reading or hearing reports from many of the places I’ve traveled and many more where I have friends. It is often a woeful experience, but I feel very privileged to be connected to this world in this way.
• Another song comes to mind (and probably won’t leave my head all morning now) “it’s a world of laughter, a world of tears, it’s a world of hope and a world of fears.”
• Outside it looks as though someone has shaken a snow globe, with tiny flakes swirling about in the air up, down, left, right. The trees look like cotton bushes. The street is like a long, flat sheet of white paper.
• It looks like we’re going to have a white Christmas. And so will those we know and love in places like Herat, Afghanistan; and in Frankfurt, Germany; and in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
• Yes, it’s a small world after all.
Love,
dad
Snowing again today. Nine inches, maybe more.
The roads haven’t been plowed yet, so your mother decided to walk to work. We’re upstairs watching this amazing white world from the window in my office (which over the past few months has come to more closely resemble your office.)
A few short and random thoughts on this beautiful winter morning:
• Over the past few days, I’ve spoken to or corresponded with several friends whom I have not seen in some time. I’ve made an effort this year to reengage those friends with whom, for whatever reason, I have lost contact — and there’s a long list. I’m glad I’ve done this. It’s been especially rewarding to share with them your story and to hear about their lives, their families and their journeys.
• I think I may have made a new friend in Kenya this week. He’s a fellow journalist who wrote me in response to an article I penned regarding America’s use of Third-World mercenaries to defend its military and diplomatic bases in Iraq. Seems we’ve got a lot in common and we’ve begun to correspond.
• A song comes to mind... “Make new friends but keep the old,” I think it goes.
• I heard on the radio this morning that machete sales are up in Kenya. And though I’ve never even met my new friend in the flesh, I felt a sudden connection to that place, where candidates for parliament and the presidency have been stirring ethnic divisions in an attempt to win more votes.
• I’ve had similar experiences when reading or hearing reports from many of the places I’ve traveled and many more where I have friends. It is often a woeful experience, but I feel very privileged to be connected to this world in this way.
• Another song comes to mind (and probably won’t leave my head all morning now) “it’s a world of laughter, a world of tears, it’s a world of hope and a world of fears.”
• Outside it looks as though someone has shaken a snow globe, with tiny flakes swirling about in the air up, down, left, right. The trees look like cotton bushes. The street is like a long, flat sheet of white paper.
• It looks like we’re going to have a white Christmas. And so will those we know and love in places like Herat, Afghanistan; and in Frankfurt, Germany; and in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
• Yes, it’s a small world after all.
Love,
dad
Monday, September 17, 2007
SHE JUST KNOWS
Dear Spike:
9:54 p.m.: Long night, tonight. It took an entire Earl Scruggs album to put you out and even now you remain restless.
I like to think it might be because you had such an amazing day today — the kind you simply don’t want to end.
Oh no, you’re up again...
10:10 p.m.: We went to the zoo early this morning, — so early that you and I were practically the only visitors in the park. We were alone as we dropped in on the white alligator, the kangaroos, the zebras, the colubus monkeys, the amur tiger, the african elephants and the orangutans. You seemed to be engaged in the experience in a way that wasn’t there the last time we visited the zoo.
But it was the giraffes that seemed to captivate you most. I’ve never seen such an inquisitive look on your face or such recognition in your eyes. You watched one of the giants, in particular, for five minutes straight, following it left and right, near and far — nearly without blinking. It staggered me to realize that you were giving him some serious thought. And he, in turn, seemed to be contemplating you. I wondered, for a moment, whether you two were having a conversation that I simply don’t have the capacity to understand.
And now you’re up again...
10:24 p.m.: The first time he met you, my friend Roger looked deep into your eyes and sighed.
“She knows,” he said.
“Knows what?” I asked.
“She just knows.”
Indeed.
You’re awake again.
10:52 p.m.: I often feel as though you are — at once — learning about me and yet also telling me everything about me that I need to know.
I wonder if you were having the same experience with the giraffe, today. I wonder what he must have told you. And I wonder what you must have told him.
11:58 p.m.:You’re asleep (I think for good) in your cradle, underneath your mobile — the one with the dangling duck, frog, turtle, elephant... and giraffe.
I’d give anything to know what you’re dreaming about.
Love,
dad
9:54 p.m.: Long night, tonight. It took an entire Earl Scruggs album to put you out and even now you remain restless.
I like to think it might be because you had such an amazing day today — the kind you simply don’t want to end.
Oh no, you’re up again...
10:10 p.m.: We went to the zoo early this morning, — so early that you and I were practically the only visitors in the park. We were alone as we dropped in on the white alligator, the kangaroos, the zebras, the colubus monkeys, the amur tiger, the african elephants and the orangutans. You seemed to be engaged in the experience in a way that wasn’t there the last time we visited the zoo.
But it was the giraffes that seemed to captivate you most. I’ve never seen such an inquisitive look on your face or such recognition in your eyes. You watched one of the giants, in particular, for five minutes straight, following it left and right, near and far — nearly without blinking. It staggered me to realize that you were giving him some serious thought. And he, in turn, seemed to be contemplating you. I wondered, for a moment, whether you two were having a conversation that I simply don’t have the capacity to understand.
And now you’re up again...
10:24 p.m.: The first time he met you, my friend Roger looked deep into your eyes and sighed.
“She knows,” he said.
“Knows what?” I asked.
“She just knows.”
Indeed.
You’re awake again.
10:52 p.m.: I often feel as though you are — at once — learning about me and yet also telling me everything about me that I need to know.
I wonder if you were having the same experience with the giraffe, today. I wonder what he must have told you. And I wonder what you must have told him.
11:58 p.m.:You’re asleep (I think for good) in your cradle, underneath your mobile — the one with the dangling duck, frog, turtle, elephant... and giraffe.
I’d give anything to know what you’re dreaming about.
Love,
dad
Monday, September 10, 2007
LAUGH SO HARD
Dear Spike:
For as long as you’ve been with us, we’ve always known when you are unhappy.
You cry when you’re hungry. You cry when you want to be held. And — particularly as of late — you cry when your little gums hurt.
But today, for the first time, you discovered a new way to communicate with us: You giggled.
It happened first while we were in the kitchen, then several times while we were at the park. You laughed. You laughed so much it made me laugh too — and then I laughed so hard that I nearly cried.
I love the sound of laughter. I love how it fills a room, rising above the din of normal conversation, demanding and contagious. I love how perfectly it translates into any language, any culture. I love how everyone laughs a little bit different than everyone else, but how we all — every last one of us — laugh.
The past three months not withstanding, you will laugh a whole lot more, in this life, than you will cry. You will smile more than you frown. And you will feel joy far more than you feel sadness.
Share that joy. Share those smiles. And share your laughter. Laugh hard, laugh long, laugh often. Laugh so much it makes others laugh too.
Laugh so hard it makes you cry.
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
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
OH MY MY
Dear Spike:
There was a time, before you were born, that I pledged never to talk about my children’s bodily functions as if I were discussing presidential politics, the Major League Soccer standings or a hot stock tip.
It took me less than a week, after you were born, to nullify that promise.
In my defense, we’ve spent the past week swimming in your diapers. Following one particularly astonishing diaper-changing incident, your mother and I actually got out a tape measure to record the distance that your poop flew (60 inches — that’s more than three times as far as you are long.) And hey, from a purely scientific point of view, the stuff that has been coming out of your body really has been quite fascinating.
But none of that justifies the utter hypocrisy and lack of social grace your father demonstrated the other day when my friend Sheena came to visit us (well, to visit you, anyway.)
We’d made it through the obligatory “how the doctors stormed Spike’s mom’s castle” explanation. Though graphic — even nauseating for those with weak stomachs — there is, in fact, an exceptional interest in this subject, particularly on the part of women who are still contemplating whether they want to experience the so-called “miracle” of birth.
Those details out of the way, we’d chatted about work at the newspaper; about your mother’s new job; about how Utah has once again distinguished itself by spending less on education than any other state in the union; and about Sheena’s new house, just a few blocks away.
And at some point, I guess I just ran out of other interesting things to say.
“Your daughter is beautiful,” Sheena said.
“Thanks,” I said. “You know, you’d be amazed at all the different colors of poop she makes.”
And just like that, in 15 little words, I was the parent I’d professed I’d never be.
I might as well have bought a giant Sports Utility Vehicle, an enormous house in the suburbs and a trampoline for the backyard. I might as well have sent away for the entire ten-thousand video disc edition of Baby Einstein. I might as well have dropped everything I was doing to make an emergency shopping spree at Baby Gap.
Oh my my. Oh Hell yes. I was that parent: The one who talks about his daughter’s poop.
At just 10 days old, you’ve already made me a better person in so many different ways.
This just doesn’t happen to be one of them.
Love,
dad
Thursday, February 22, 2007
CARROTS, YOUR HONOR
Dear Spike:
In preparation for your arrival, I’ve been working from home in the mornings — mostly upstairs in my office. Today, however, I couldn’t even get out of my bed.
Coltrane was always a cat that liked to cuddle, but ever since Emma died he’s been downright needy. This morning he was sprawled out on my chest, head tucked into the crook of my arm as I balanced my computer on my thighs so that I could see the screen over his body. It wasn’t the most conducive environment for getting work done, but he looked so very comfortable and content, I just couldn’t bear to move him.
At first I thought your mother and I were simply projecting our own emotions onto Cole, following Emma’s death. We felt sad, so we assumed he was sad. We felt lonely so we assumed he was lonely. That’s something pet owners do a lot.
But while we were away in California, this week, I had my friends come by to check on Cole, as they have done many times in the past. And they noticed the change, too.
“He just wouldn’t let us leave,” my buddy Matt told me. “He just wanted so much attention.”
Other than the obvious — simply spending more time cuddling and petting Cole — I don’t know what I can do for him. After all, it’s not like we can sit down and chat about his needs.
That, of course, has gotten me thinking about how I’ll know what you need, once you arrive. It will be some time, after all, until we can sit down and chat about your needs.
I’ve heard other parents say they learn to recognize their children’s cries — perhaps a certain octave means ‘I’m wet,’ a certain tone means ‘I’m hungry,’ and a certain pattern means ‘I’m cold.’
I’m not sure there’s any science backing it up, but I’m not about to knock it until I know. Besides, I like the idea that there may be some small way in which we you will be able to communicate your needs with me, early on.
Later on, we’ll try sign language — a trend that’s quite en vogue, at the moment. If it works you’ll be able to tell us, months before you can talk, that you want a certain toy, a bottle, some food or a warm blanket.
But what about those times before I know your cries and before you can squeeze your hands (as if milking a tiny invisible cow) to tell me it’s time for lunch? How will I know what you want? What if I change you when I need to be feeding you and I feed you when I need to be putting you down for a nap? What if I wrap you in a blanket when you really need to cool down and I sing you a song when you really just need a few moments of silence?
I do think parents (like pet owners) can overanalyze how to best meet their children’s needs — and they often worry needlessly about what might happen, years down the road, if they don’t...
“Well, Your Honor, it’s like this: Spike was a good kid — a real good kid — but her dad just didn’t understand that she needed mashed carrots, not peas, when she was an infant. That’s why my client’s here before you today.
You see, the way I see it, there are two victims here. Of course Mr. Smith didn’t deserve to be run down in the parking lot of that Burger King, but is he the only victim? I submit to you that he is not.
Carrots, Your Honor. All she needed was a few bites of carrots.”
So I suppose I’m not worried about the long-term consequences of mistaking an “I’m hungry” cry with a “my socks are bunched up around my ankles and it’s bugging the heck out of me” cry. And yet, I really want to know — not because I think you’ll wind up on turning tricks on State Street if I don’t, but because I simply want to make you happy.
Until we can chat about it (and sometimes even after that) I suppose I’ll just have to guess.
And in the meantime, like Coltrane, I’ll just hold you a lot. That may not always be exactly what you need, but it’s probably never a bad alternative.
Love,
dad
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