ARE YOU CRYING?

Dear Spike:

Me: Why are you crying?

You: Because I'm sad.

Me: Why are you sad?

You: Because I'm unhappy.

Me: Um, OK. Why are you unhappy?

You: Because I'm sad.

Love,
dad

AND YOU CRIED

Dear Spike:

Both your mother and I wear our emotions on our sleeves, so it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise to learn that you’re just a tad bit sensitive.

OK, that’s the understatement of the year. You’re not just a tad sensitive — you emote like Beijing pollutes.

A few weeks ago, your babysitter was reading you the book, “Curious George Goes to the Hospital.” As usual, George got into a bit of mischief and one of the hospital’s nurses scolded him.

And you cried for 20 minutes.

A few days later, we were watching the “Super Why!” episode in which the Super Readers were settling a dispute between the Three Little Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf. When they asked the old dog why he was being so mean, he began to cry.

And you sobbed for an hour.

The slightest hint of melancholy in a musical number makes your chin quiver and your eyes water. So the Beatles’ “Hey Jude” is out. So too for all but the chorus of Don McClean’s “American Pie.” And Burt Bacharach’s entire songbook has been banned from our home.

But I’m glad you’re in touch with your emotions, because people who steel themselves from sorrow are also stealing themselves of joy — for you simply cannot block out one and enjoy the fullness of the other.

So cry, baby, cry.

Love,
dad

MY OWN HEART

Dear Spike:

You're a girl after my own heart.

You can't stand to see your mother leave for work in the morning, so usually we try to distract you with books, games or food while she slips out the back door.

But this morning, nothing worked.

"Mama mama mama," you cried.

I made you an omelette. "Eggs?" I asked.

"No no no," you sobbed. "Mama mama mama!"

I brought you to the cat. "Coltrane?" I asked.

"No no no," you screamed. "Mama mama mama!"

I took you to your bookshelf. "Books?" I asked.

"No no no," you wailed. "Mama mama mama!"

I gave up and walked you around the house, patting your back and telling you that she would be home soon. Still, you seemed unconsolable.

"Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama!"

"Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama!"

"Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama!"

Then we walked into our bedroom, past the television and a stack of DVDs.

"Mama mama mama...

...

...

... MASH?"

"MASH? You want to watch MASH?"

"MASH MASH MASH! MASH MASH MASH!"

You're a girl after my own heart.

Love,
dad

THE FIRST DAY

Dear Spike:

Your mother came home from work today smiling.

This is not altogether unusual, except for one thing: Today was the first day of school — and your mom always comes home from the first day of school in tears.

You see, she cares — deeply, passionately, obsessively — about her students. And on the first day of the year she gets to know them all — the homeless, the war refugees, the undocumented immigrants, the ones that can't speak a lick of English, the ones whose parents have never bothered to read to them, the ones who don't know red from blue, the ones who can't write their first name and don't even know their last name.

Of course, even when she was teaching in the suburbs, she'd come home in tears. She would see road ahead (no matter where you teach, it's long and bumpy and has more than a few dangerous curves) and simply feel overwhelmed at the impending journey.

Something changed this year, though. All of those challenges are still there, but something about your mom is different. She's more confident. She's less afraid.

I'm sure that, in part, it is because last year was such a challenging year — a new school in the inner-city, with a class seemingly hand-picked to drive her out of the business. Despite the challenges, she succeeded. No, she thrived.

And in part, I think it's you. She still cares — deeply, passionately, obsessively. But she also knows that at the end of the day — even the first day — you'll be waiting at home to give her a hug and to tell her that you love her.

And who wouldn't smile about that?

Love,
dad

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

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

BROUGHT SUCH BEAUTY

Dear Spike:

You awoke last night in your mother’s arms to the shrill songs of an legion of crickets, the gurgling of the Green River and — barely audible behind it all — a nightingale calling for moon to rise. Fainter still, the wind rustled through the stickly trees and bushes, making a sound like sandpaper on soft wood.

We’d spent the day with our friends in a tiny town across the Colorado border, before seeing them off in a tow truck this afternoon. We then pointed our wagon back to Dinosaur National Monument, where we were met by ancient petroglyphs, primeval fossils, jagged mountain peaks, rainbow-painted rocksides and this glorious desert symphony.

Yes, I thought, this is how camping should be. This is what camping should sound like.

And then, as if in reply, you began to cry.

And cry.

And cry.

And scream and wail and squeal and moan and shriek.

Innately, I wanted to soothe you. But quickly, I simply wanted to quiet you. It wasn’t a full campground — but it wasn’t empty, either.

No, I thought, this is now how camping should be. This is not what camping should sound like.

If there was ever a time in which I fully understood how much our lives have changed, it was in those moments, when your tears washed away the sounds of nature like the Green River washes through these sandstone mountains.

Yes, I was frustrated. But not for a moment did I wish it were not so. Just as the river has brought beauty to this desert range, so to have you brought such beauty to our lives.

The crickets, the nightingale, the wind against the trees — those sounds were here when the ancients painted these caverns walls. Those sounds will be here tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

We broke camp this morning exhausted and eager to return home. And as you slept, the whole ride back, we laughed at how contentedly you seemed to be slumbering.

Yes, I thought, this is how life should be. This is what camping life sound like.

Love,
dad

HARD TO REMEMBER

Dear Spike:

It got to the point that I was afraid to take you in my arms.

I don’t know what it was with you and I this evening, but we just didn’t seem to be getting along.

Your mother would take you, rock you, soothe you and put you to sleep. Then she’d place your tiny body in my arms.

And you’d cry.

And cry.

And scream. And flail. And cough and gag and spit up and cry some more until I gave in and handed you back to your mom.

It happened first when I got home from work. Then again an hour later. And again and again.

But she finally fell asleep, about an hour ago, and as she closed her eyes, you opened yours. You took one look at me and screamed like Janet Leigh.

More crying. And flailing. And coughing and gagging and spitting up. Until finally, blessedly finally, you passed out in my arms.

You’re now curled up — legs tucked under your body like a funny little frog, arms wrapped around my chest, head tucked into my shoulder — sleeping so quietly that I keep checking to make sure you’re breathing.

And it’s getting hard to remember why I didn’t want to hold you.

Love,
dad

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