THE BEAUTIFUL GAME

Dear Spike:

I would like to allow you to choose your own path.

So if you love to dance, please dance.

And if you love math, by all means, solve the Goldbach Conjecture.

And if want to do Kung-Fu, go ahead and kick butt.

Likewise, if you don't like spinach, I'll only make you try it — I won't shove it down your throat.

And if you don't like baseball, I won't make you swing for the fences.

And if you don't like the snow, I won't make you ski.

And if you don't like soccer...

... I think we're going to have some issues.

I love the beautiful game. I love to play it. I love to watch it. I love to talk about it.

And, since the moment we learned you were coming, I've loved to dream about watching you play it.

Today, that dream came true. You had your very first soccer practice. And, if I do say so myself, you played like a champ.

With seven days to go before World Cup 2010 begins in South Africa, I'm afraid it might be a bit too late to make the U.S. team.

But with four years until the next cup, in Brazil, I think there's plenty of time.

No pressure.

Love,
dad

AS WE DID

Dear Spike:

We'd been planning on spending the a good part of this week lounging on the beach, making sand castles, splashing in the waves and collecting shells.

You took one step into the ocean and decided otherwise.

"No!" you screamed. "I can't. I can't."

Your mother and I looked at each other with mutual — and utter — confusion.

First of all, where in the world did you learn to say "I can't"?

And secondly, what do you mean you can't? It's the ocean. It makes up three-quarters of the planet's surface. It's a sunny day in Venice Beach. What could possibly be the problem?

Maybe given a few more days, you'll find out that you really do like the beach. But it was a bit sad for both your Oregonian mother and Californian father to realize, in the midst of your panicked screams, that our Utahn daughter isn't going to have the same relationship with the ocean as we had growing up, chiefly because she's just not going to see it as much as we did.

OK, it wasn't a bit sad. It was a lot sad. A whole lot sad. My daughter's afraid of the sea — I'd never felt so guilty for moving our family to Utah as I did on Monday.

Still resolved to get you better acquainted with the beach, but not to scar you for life, we took a break today and instead took a hike a Malibu Creek State Park to the place where the show M*A*S*H was filmed. At the sacred spot, some volunteers have set about recreating the camp's footprint with ropes and stakes and helpful signs. They even recreated the famous 4077th camp sign, next to which we stood for a photograph that will stand as proof of our family's nerdy obsession with a show that ended nearly a quarter-century ago.

We then marched up the path of the old helicopter landing pad, found a patch of shade and sat on the hillside and listened to you tell stories about what you saw in the "camp" below.

"There's Colonel Potter," you said.

"Where?"

"Hiding in the trees... Hello Colonel Potter! I can see you!"

"Who else do you see?"

"Klinger!" you said. "And Radar and Hawkeye... Hello Hawkeye!"

Funny what you pick up from your parents. And funny what you don't.

You appear to have picked up our love for an old television show — but not for the ocean. I guess one out of two isn't bad, though if I had a choice, it would be in the opposite order.

But I guess parents don't really get a choice about those sorts of things. Kids pick up some passions and pass on others.

Tomorrow we'll try the ocean again. And I'll love you no matter what happens when we get there.

Love,
dad





































Today we decided to

JOY OF LEARNING

Dear Spike:

Today was a day of firsts for you.

For several weeks you've been convinced that the highest number in the universe is 2. Today, with a little help from some decorative wooden apples that were resting in a basket near the fireplace at a local bakery, you got all the way up to 3, which is rather good, because up until that point you were living a life devoid of odd prime numbers. Three is also a good numeral because it is the number of people in our little family, the number of chickens in our backyard and the number of meals most people eat in a day.

You also figured out how to spell your name today, which is also a very good skill to have. The ability to spell your name comes in rather handy when applying for jobs, writing letters to friends and making purchases online. It's also good for those occasions in which you lose your voice in a freak fishing accident and have to communicate with people from a quaint Maine fishing down with only the use of a little chalk board -- it'll just makes things easier if they know what to call you.

Life is full of firsts — and the joy of learning something new is not something you have to give up as you age. Do something new every day. Commit something new to your memory every waking hour. This is one of the many ways that your life can be rich and rewarding — even if you don't have three pennies to your name.

I'm proud of you.

Love,
dad

SNIP, SNIP, SNIP

Dear Spike:

We cut your hair yesterday.

Really, we should have gotten to it weeks ago. Maybe months ago. But for the longest time, it just didn't seem right to rob you of the only locks you had — even if that little whisp of hair did hang down over your face, like Eddie Munster on a Rogaine binge.

But things were getting out of hand. You're not a big fan of hair clips, and although we'd always start the day by brushing it to one side or the other, it never stayed that way.

The last straw came the other day, when your hair got stuck under your runny nose. Yeah. It was that kind of gross.

And so, last night, your mother held you down while I played Delilah to your Sampson.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

And just like that, you had bangs worthy of Bettie Page, or maybe one of those creepy Catholic monks.

For a very long time, your mother had a custom of coming home from a haircut feeling as though she'd made the worst decision of her life. "I don't think I like it," she'd fret (sometimes for several days) after each new cut.

I always told her the same thing: "You look darling."

It was always true for her then. And it's true for you now.

You look darling.

Love,
dad

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

BIG GREEN SLIDE

Dear Spike:

Today you conquered the big green slide at the park.

Tomorrow, Mount Everest?

Love,
dad

LITTLE CUCKOO CLOCK

Dear Spike:

You've learned a song.

It goes: "Tick tock, tick tock, I'm a little cuckoo clock."

For now, all you know is the "tick tock" part, but it's nonetheless certifiably adorable, particularly when you rock back and forth as you sing.

Love,

dad 

 

 

STROLL BETWEEN US

Dear Spike:

There was a time when I was convinced you'd be walking before you'd even learned to crawl. That happens sometimes, I've heard. Kids just figure out how to put one foot in front of another and off they go.

You'd been toddling about a bit, using walls and furniture to help yourself balance. At the park, you'd take one of my fingers in your left hand and one of your mother's fingers in your right, and stroll between us as though there were absolutely nothing magical going on.

"There's nothing grand to see here," I could hear your eyes saying. "I'm just on a lazy Sunday stroll with my parents."

Then, one day, you figured out how to crawl. And for quite some time, you forgot about walking altogether. After all, who needs two legs when you can have four? The dogs at the park don't seem to mind not walking upright.

In the past month, you've started to show some interest in walking the way most folks do. A step here. A step there. Sometimes you'd put two steps together. Rarely three.

Finally, just this evening, you mastered the skill that evolutionary biologists say makes humans human.

Well, maybe mastered is a relative term, although clearly it is no longer a matter of liberal interpretation to say that you have joined the ranks of we humans who stand upright and walk to get from one place to another.

You were standing between your mother and me in your room and decided, quite suddenly, that you'd like to be closer to her. You took a step. And then another. And then another. And then you lunged into her arms.

We gasped and cheered and applauded. You must have liked the attention, for when you mother turned your little body around you left her arms and walked, step after step after step, back to me.

Then back to her. Then back to me.

Then we broke, for a few minutes, so that your could scream and cry — for no particular reason, it seemed.

When you stopped, you walked back to your mother. And back to me. And back to her. More gasps. More cheers. More applause.

You wore a smile as big as your strides.

Just this morning, your mother and I were saying that we knew this day was coming. And there was a touch of sadness in our conversation.

You're growing up. Talking. Playing. Imagining.

"Our baby's not our baby anymore," your mother said.

I sighed and knew she was right.

"I know," I said, "but I still want her to walk. She'll be so proud of herself. So happy. I want that for her."

Now it's true. You are walking. You are proud of yourself.

I am proud of you and I am happy for you. And I am sad, too. Our baby's not our baby anymore.

She's figured out how to put one foot in front of another.

And off she goes.

Love,
dad

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

MY LITTLE PIRANHA

A note from Spike's Mom...

Dear Spike:

You smelled of chlorine — and vomit — as we walked through the door of our home this morning.

Today was your first swim lesson. I guess it is safe to say that your first experience with "big water" was not everything I had envisioned with I signed us up for swim classes. I woke up this morning excited — giddy — that today was the day my little piranha would terrorize the waves! But in the pool I was reminded that we do not always emerge from the water like Bo Derek.

We will return next week and you will kick a little more, splash a little more and cry a little less.

I was proud of you today for trying something new.

Love,
mom

P.S. — Something good to remember: You don't have to enjoy swimming to play soccer or win the Nobel Peace Prize.

THE WHOLE DEAL

Dear Spike:

I’ll be heading out of town for a few days, starting this morning.

Viva Las Vegas.

I suppose I should be happy about that. Vegas is, after all, “The Entertainment Capital of the World” — or so the brochure says, anyway.

I am hoping to fit in at least a few hours to see some cards at the Binion’s poker room. I’ve been assigned to travel with my good friend, Rick Egan, the photographer with whom I went to Iraq in 2005. And the assignment I’ve been handed is different enough from what I normally do that it should definitely be an interesting weekend.

But really, I’m feeling rather uninspired about the whole deal. And I’m worried that I’m going to miss something while I’m gone.

It seems like every new minute you’re doing something completely different and amazing.

Last week, for instance, you started imitating your mother when she coughed — it’s really quite funny when you do it. And just this afternoon you started giggling when your mom tickled your feet.

And then tonight, just before bed, there you were in your crib, quoting Spinoza — from memory.

OK, I made that last part up. You had some notes scribbled on your hand, but I pretended not to see.

I’m going to miss you.

Lots.

And lots.

Love,
dad

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

EVERY LITTLE STEP

Dear Spike:

This week was an absolute explosion of development for you.

You’ve begun to sit upright without any help at all. You can now roll from your back to your front and then back again. You’ve started to slither, just a bit, in an attempt to grab out-of-reach toys. You study your hands as they open and close and have begun to experiment with moving one or two fingers at a time. And, just in the past two or three days, you’ve begun to scream — not in sadness or agony, but simply to demand attention and maybe to sing a little song.

I’ve pretty much given up trying to capture every momentous moment with the camera. And recently, I’ve had to abandon the fantasy that I’m even going to be present for every little step.

To wit, this exchange with your mother a few days ago:

Me: “Come quick! Look what she’s doing.”

Your mom: (rushing into the room) “What? What is it?”

Me: (proudly) “Look! Spike is crawling toward her toys!”

Your mom: (sighing) “Oh that? Yeah, she did that with me a few days ago.”

Me: “A few days ago? Where was I?”

Your mom: “Well, you were somewhere.”

Me: “So I missed it?”

Your mom: “No, you just saw it.”

Me: “It’s just not the same.”

Your mom: “Yes, it is.”

She’s right, of course. It seems that we’re often so obsessed with firsts that we tend to miss the significance, the joy, the struggle and the glory in everything that comes next.

Many people know, for instance, that Jackie Robinson was the first black baseball player in Major League Baseball. Far fewer can name the second black player drafted out of the Negro Leagues, Larry Doby, who played his first game for the Cleveland Indians on July 6, 1947.

The world had not, in the 11 weeks separating Robinson’s and Doby’s entries into the big leagues, suddenly become a more tolerant place for black baseball players. Doby spent the rest of the 1947 season – and indeed, a good portion of his Hall of Fame career — suffering through the same indignities as Robinson.

Robinson rightfully went down in history for his place in advancing the cause of civil rights for Americans of color. Doby’s role in the battle, meanwhile, was ignominiously ignored. And yet even in Robinson’s shadow, Doby still shined. He was a seven-time All-Star, twice led the American League in home runs and led the Indians with seven hits, including a double and a homer, in Cleveland’s 1948 World Series victory over the Boston Braves.

Many people know that Sir Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing Norgay were the first men to summit Mt. Everest. Hillary and the expedition’s leader, John Hunt, were promptly knighted for their accomplishment. Nearly lost to history is the subsequent journey of Swiss climbers Ernst Schmied and Jürg Marmet.

The 29,029-foot peak had not shrunk a single inch in the three years that separated the first and second ascents of the world’s tallest mountain. Marmet and Schmied (and, the following day, climbing partners Adolf Reist and Hans Rudolf von Gunten) didn’t have the promise of being first to the top of the world to help drive them up the deadly peak. They climbed not for history but for themselves.

And at the risk of beating a dead horse ...

Many people know that Charles Lindbergh was the first person to make a solo flight across the Atlantic Ocean. The second person to make the solo hop hasn’t exactly been lost to history, but I think that’s likely because her name was Amelia Earhart.

To be certain, Earhart knew there was value in being first. “Never do things others can do and will do,” she once said, “if there are things others cannot do or will not do.”

But it seems equally clear to me that Earhart didn’t make her solo flight across the Atlantic — or any of her other “firsts” — simply to be the first woman to lay claim to those feats.

“Adventure,” she once said, “is worthwhile in itself.”

Being first — or being present to witness a first — is as good an excuse for doing something as anything. But being second should never be an excuse not to do something or appreciate something that is being done beautifully.

The last time our species set foot on the moon was in 1972 — six years before I was born. Someday I hope to see us (you?) return. And when that happens, I assure you, I won’t be disappointed that I’m not watching Neil Armstrong’s first “small step.”

A giant leap is a giant leap, after all.

Congratulations on all of your accomplishments this week. I can’t wait to see you do it all again.

And again.

And again.

Love,
dad

I SPOKE EVIL

Dear Spike:

A few weeks ago, your mother brought home a bucket of alphabet magnets. I think they were originally intended for her classroom, but somehow they ended up on our refrigerator door.

Most people use their fridges to store food and hang their kid's finger paintings. But for us, lately, it's been the site of a never-ending brain teaser, where "I LOVE SPIKE" becomes "I SPOKE EVIL" and where "THIS IS A FRIDGE" becomes "A FRIGID THESIS."

Ah, who knew magnets could be such fun?

I suppose it's just a matter of time before you'll be playing along. Recently, you've started making simple consonant sounds. Your favorite thing to say, particularly when you're upset (but much to your mother's delight) is "ma-ma-ma-ma-ma." Sometimes you also say "pa-pa-pa-pa-pa," but only when you're sitting over the toilet. Weird.

Soon you'll be stringing more sounds together, making words, writing novels and giving speeches before the United Nations General Assembly.

Or, I suppose, we can just start with your ABCs and see where things go from there.

Love,
dad

Did you know that the words "Dear Spike Love Dad" can be mixed into hundreds of other words? My favorite, so far: "A Dead Devils Poker." What can you come up with?

FEW MORE POUNDS

Dear Spike:

We visited Dr. Schriewer on Friday for your six-month checkup. You’re up to 12 pounds — which is almost three times what you weighed when you were born, but that’s still very small for a baby your age.

Dr. Schriewer said we shouldn’t be concerned, but she did recommend that we start feeding you some more fatty foods.

Like what? We asked.

Like butter, she said.

Butter? Like slather-it-all-over-your-french-toast, mash-it-into-your-potatoes, drizzle-it-all-over-your-lobster butter?

Yeah, she said. Butter.

She also said it would be good if we started giving you some fruits and vegetables. And so your mother promptly went out and bought every flavor of baby food at the store. This week we’re introducing you to sweet potatoes (the jury’s out) and next week we’ll try carrots. Meanwhile, Dr. Schriewer said we can also give you some zwieback toast (you love it already) and some formula in your rice cereal (you’re not such a fan.)

Over time, we’ll find out what you like best and, hopefully, put a few more pounds on you before your nine-month appointment.

Love,
dad

JUST AS CONTENT

One day left to vote in Spike's Thanksgiving poll (to the right and down a bit.) And don't forget to write a Spiku for someone you love. (It's just like a Haiku — five syllables, seven syllables, five syllables — you can find some great ones to the right and down a little less bit.)
— Spike's Dad

Dear Spike:

The snow came today. It was nearly a month late but, like a good friend, no one minded once it was here.

That was particularly true as it began to look as though it would be sticking around for a while. Here, we’ve learned not to count the inches that fall to the ground, but rather those that stick to it. And today the snow is sticking.

This is your first snow, and although I wanted to keep you warm as I took you to the car this afternoon, I couldn’t help but pull back the blanket in which you were wrapped so that a few flakes could fall on your nose and your cheeks. You flinched and sniffled and giggled. And then you smiled.

And then you cried. Too wet. Too cold. Too strange.

Later, your mother took you on a walk, knocking the frost from the neighbor’s bushes as she went so that you could watch the leaves turn from white to green. I watched from my office window as you tromped through the powder together. You didn’t look particularly happy, but it was clear that you were interested in all the ways the world had changed.

Your mother, on the other hand — I’ve never seen her happier than she was as she marched you in circles and zigzag patterns through our yard. And for me, it was such a joy just watching you two play.

I sometimes wonder how many of the things that we do for you we’re really doing for ourselves. When we dress you, we choose outfits that we think you look cute in, though you’re just as content in a pair of socks and nothing else. We try to keep you entertained with a variety of toys, but you’re often more fascinated by a handful of your mother’s hair or the buttons on my shirt.

Still, I’ve noticed that you seem happiest when we feel happiest. Our relationship is symbiotic in that way, even if it is a bit illusionary.

And that’s OK, I think.

The things that make us happy don’t have to make sense. They simply have to make us happy.

Maybe that helps explain the snow. Because really, you know, you’re initial observation is right: It’s wet and cold and strange.

And yet it makes so many of us so very happy.

Go figure.

Love,
dad

I AM THANKFUL

LOOK! Spike has a new Thanksgiving week poll. Just glance to the right and pick your poison.


Dear Spike:

I’ve never had to struggle to come up with things for which I am thankful.

I grew up in a nice, middle-class home in the San Francisco suburbs, with parents who loved me and siblings that I count as my best friends in the world. Our grandparents lived close by. Our church family was indeed a family. Our schools were good. Our teachers cared. We were healthy and happy.

Come Thanksgiving, there was always a turkey on the table. Come Christmas, there were always presents under the tree.

When I grew up, I married a woman who is intelligent, adorable and fun. We both have careers that we enjoy and of which we are proud. We have a beautiful home that’s just a stone’s throw from one of the greatest city parks in the United States.

Things aren’t always easy. Sometimes I feel worried. Sometimes I feel sad. But I’ve seen poverty. And hunger. And pain. And hate. And violence. And so, on balance, things are good. There’s so much to be thankful for.

Especially now that you’re here.

On this day when we’re encouraged to take a moment to think about those things for which we are most thankful, I don’t even know where to begin.

I am thankful for your smile, your laugh, your screams and even your cries.

I am thankful for your soft little fingers, your tough little grip, your refusal to lie on your tummy and your persistence in learning to stand.

I am thankful for the way you sleep with your arm curled up and your fist tucked into your temple — just like your mom.

I am thankful for how big you’ve grown, having started so very small. For the way you look up at me when you sit on my lap. For the way you make heads turn at the grocery store, the library and the university.

I am thankful for the way you make me want to be a better father and a better husband. I am thankful for the way you make me want to be a better person.

I think you’ll find you’ll have plenty to be thankful for too. You’ve been born into a nice, middle-class home in Salt Lake City, with parents who love you and — who knows? — maybe someday a sibling that you’ll count as your best friend in the world.

None of your grandparents live close, but we stay in close contact and they’ll all be part of your life as you grow.

Come Thanksgiving, there always will be a turkey on the table. Come Christmas, there were always presents under the tree — handmade and heartfelt, as that’s our family’s tradition.

And come every single day of the year, you will have a father and a mother who are thankful for you — who love you unconditionally and will never hesitate to remind you it is so.

May you always have plenty for which to give thanks — so much so that you won’t even know where to begin.

Love,
dad

THE WHOLE BOWL

Dear Spike:

There’s plenty great about being an American.

Freedom. Democracy. The Bill of Rights. And so on an so forth. Yada yada yada.

You know what I like best about being an American?

The food.

Not the American food — although, truly, there is little better than a thick and juicy bacon cheeseburger or a hot and sloppy chili dog.

No, if there’s something wonderful about being the most multicultural nation in the history of the world, it’s the diversity and availability of food from every nook and cranny on the globe.

Salt Lake City is by no stretch of the imagination the food capital of this country, but within four blocks of our home we have access to Lebanese, Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese, Indian, Hawaiian, Italian, Brazilian and four or five different kinds of Mexican food. If you wanted, you could eat the regional food of a different country every single day for a month and never have to leave the city limits.

I’ve traveled around a bit. And yes, the tacos are better in Puerto Vallarta. The schnitzel is better in Saarbruken. The tapas are better in Madrid.

Actually, that last part is a lie. The tapas sucked in Madrid. I mean, really, anchovies and raisins on white bread? What the hell is that? True story: Your mother and I found it difficult to find food we liked in Spain. On the second night of our honeymoon, we went to a Spanish buffet that boasted 100 items on the menu. “Great,” I said. “We’ll find the items we like and we can order those for the rest of the trip.” Ninety-nine items later (neither of us were brave enough to try the sheep brains) we were still hungry. So the next day we decided to follow the locals. And they led us to McDonald’s.

But the gastronomic circle of hell that is the city of Madrid not withstanding, it stands to reason that if you’re looking for the best Italian food in the world, it might be best to go to Rome.

But if you’re looking for the second-best Italian food? Or the second best Cambodian food? Or the second best Greek food? And you want to find them all within a few minutes of one another? This is the place, my darling.

I’ve been thinking a lot about food because you had your very first meal of rice cereal today.

Dr. Schriewer told us that we would know when you were ready to eat when you started paying special interest to us when we were eating. We thought those instructions were a bit vague because you seem to pay close attention to everything we do.

But sure enough, just yesterday as we were eating dinner, you began watching every biteful of food that went from my fork to my mouth. A few minutes later, when you began making chewing movements with your mouth, we understood what Dr. Schriewer had meant.

So this morning we headed to the store to purchase some baby-sized spoons (we already had the box of rice cereal on hand — an impulse buy from a few weeks ago.) And this afternoon, with your great grandparents on hand as witnesses, your mother scooped up a little cereal and gave you your very first mouthful of something other than breast milk.

At first you squirmed and spit up — but then you really seemed to get the hang of it. We all took turns shoveling rice cereal into your adorable little mouth. You ate the whole bowl.

I really liked the determination I saw in you today. It was strange at first, but you stuck to it. And ultimately, I think, you got to liking it.

I hope that becomes a habit for you.

It’s amazing what diversity there is in what different groups of our species considers food. Some of us eat sheep brains, others consume ants. Some enjoy snails and others dine on pig intestines.

There are even groups of people who eat dirt. (The practice is called geophagy, not to be confused with geology, which is the study of dirt.)

I’ve chowed down on Guinea Pig, rattlesnake, muskrat, alligator and camel. I’ve eaten seaweed, dried squid and pickled bok choy.

I didn’t like all of it, but I’m glad I tried it.

You don’t have to try everything, but I’d encourage you to try as much as you can possibly bring your stomach to try. There’s a whole wide world out there — but, if you're willing, you won't have to go far to taste it.

Love,
dad

This video is also on YouTube.

OUR FIRST EXPERIENCE

Dear Spike:

We took a drive up Little Cottonwood Canyon this afternoon. The canyon is beautiful at any time of year, but especially during this time, when the leaves are changing and the snow has frosted the trees.

About halfway up to the ski resorts, we bundled you up in the snowbear suit that you got from your friend Zoe and jumped out of the car to take a walk through a picnic area, next to a stream. Your mother and I have always enjoyed taking short daytrips, like this, but it has never been so fun as it was today with you. You marveled at the leaves, at the cold running water and at the snow (which fell from the branches above onto your face a couple of times) and as you did, we marveled at you.

When our friend Chunn came over for dinner, last week, we stumbled into an interesting discussion about what a shame it is that most of us don’t remember our first experience with snow. So too with so many of life’s other first pleasures — hugs from our grandparents, the changing colors of fall, the taste of our favorite fruits and vegetables.

Chunn — whose parents raised the first Buddhist temple in California’s Fresno Valley after immigrating here from Cambodia — thought about this for a moment and then said: “It would be good, then, if just we thought of everything as a first.”

Indeed.

Love,
dad