CHAIRMAN AND SPECIAL

Dear Spike:

When we named your stuffed cat "Chairman Meow" we thought we were being quite clever. Turns out that the word for "cat" in Mandarin is "mao," (or so you tell me) so we could have named the little furry feline "Chairman Mao" and been just as savvy and ironic.

It wouldn't likely change the way you feel about him, which is to say that he's pretty much your best inanimate friend in the world — except for maybe your favorite blanket, a sea green knitted throw you've taken to calling "Special."

You go pretty much everywhere with Chairman and Special. And you won't go to sleep without them. Not without a fight, at least.

Which is why I am, at this moment, sitting on the folding table of the laundry room in the oh-so-posh Desert Inn Hotel, across the street from Disneyland, while you, just upstairs, are fighting sleep like a death row inmate being dragged down the green mile.

In retrospect — goodness, I say that a lot these days — we may have played up this Disney adventure a little too much. We've been talking about it since your birthday, nearly a month ago. And each day of this long trip, we've reminded you that your impeccable behavior would be rewarded with a visit to the Happiest Place on Earth.

Hell, we might as well have called it Mickey Mecca.

You didn't get much of a nap today after playing on the beach with your new friends in San Clemente (turns out you like the ocean after all, but that's another happy story.) So when it came time to put you down to bed, tonight, we thought for sure you'd fall fast asleep, visions of Tinkerbell dancing in your head.

As it turns out, though, you were a little too excited to slumber. In fact, you were pretty much bouncing off the hotel's wall paper.

But you were tired.

So you were a little upset.

And then upset turned into cranky.

And then cranky turned into sick.

And then you puked macaroni noodles all over the hotel bed.

And all over on Chairman.

And all over Special.

It fell to me to find a laundromat — and luckily there was one just downstairs from our room — to clean all that up.

But I've got the easy job. I really don't envy your mother, who at this moment is sitting at your bedside trying to keep you calm so that — in 31 minutes when this drier has run through my buck-fifty and I appear heroically at the foot of your bed holding your freshly-washed friends — you don't respond by puking all over your best buddies again.

If all goes well, though, you'll be curled up with Chairman and Special very soon.

And in any case, I've learned my lesson. I'm not saying the "D-word" again until we're walking down Main Street, U.S.A.

Love,
dad

HUMAN REPRODUCTIVE IMPULSES

Dear Spike:

Of course, you weren't the first kid on this planet. But ever since your arrival, it sure seems as though a lot of the people we know have gotten into the parenting game.

We figure it's just because they saw how cool you are and wanted to have one of their own (although it's possible that basic human reproductive impulses had something to do with it, too.)

Among the most recent additions to this wildly spinning world:

On Tuesday, we learned that your mother's friend Shanda is having a baby boy.

Yesterday, my friend Hank told me he was having his 11th kid... um, yeah, it's sort of a Utah thing.

And today we got photos of your cousin, Stas (rhymes with "wash," unless you're from the Midwest, in which case it rhymes with "squash.")



He's a cute kid. Kind of gooey, but definitely cute.

Be a good friend.

Love,
dad

THE LITTLE TADPOLE

Dear Spike: 

Your godmother gave birth to a beautiful baby boy last night.

At least, we're pretty sure he's beautiful. We haven't seen his photo yet, but I talked to his grandpa on the phone, and he assured me that the little lad was a handsome youth indeed (and, of course, who could possibly be a more credible source?)

Since you're more than a year older than the little tadpole, we'll expect you to set a good example. 

For instance, when it's time to attend his first protest rally, perhaps you could show him how to properly pump his fist in the air with righteous indignation. And when he needs someone to talk to about his plan to quit school, join a band, and tour the country in a VW van singing songs about the heartland, I'm certain that you'll assure him that this is a very good plan. 

And when the revolution begins, I know you'll be right there, holding his hand. 

Love,

dad 

P.S. — Welcome to the world, Tadpole.

 

WILL BE FRIENDS

Dear Spike:

We're in Salem, visiting with your Godmother, Katie, who in about six weeks will be having a baby of her own.

This afternoon we went to the bookstore so that you could help Katie, who is your mother's best friend, pick out some books for her son, including some of your favorites like "Goodnight Moon," "What's Wrong Little Pookie?," "Is Your Mama a Llama?," and "The Belly Button Book."

I'm not sure how often you'll get to see baby Aaron, but I hope that you will be friends. You'll be about one and a half years older than him, which means you can help him learn about all sorts of things — from good books to fun games to nifty ways to get into trouble.

Yes, I already know, the two of you will be plenty of trouble. After all, your mothers certainly are.

Love,
dad

JUST THE STUFF

Dear Spike:

You will never need clothing again — or not until you're four or five, at least.

Our good friends Scott and Lesli called yesterday to say they had some clothes for you. This was exciting. A good portion of your wardrobe already comes from their beautiful daughter, Zoe, who is growing like one of those little sponge dinosaurs and has recently busted out of another set of clothing.

We knew we'd be getting some good stuff — all of Zoe's clothes are super cute — but we really had no idea that we'd be leaving with an entire truckload of baby gear.

No, really, it was quite literally a truckload.

Here's the deal: Scott and Lesli have multiple friends and relatives with little girls, just a bit older than Zoe, who handed stuff down to them. Add that stuff to all the other stuff that Zoe has accumulated from grandparents, other relatives and friends and you've pretty much won the baby hand-me-down sweepstakes.

Pajamas. Onesies. Boots. Sandals. Socks. Hats. Little baby bloomers. There's enough to fill your dresser drawers and then some — and that's just the stuff that will fit you now. There are five or six big bags and several large boxes of OTHER stuff in the basement just waiting for you to grow into.

I know you won't always want to exclusively be wearing hand-me-downs, but I do hope you never grow to think of used clothing as somehow below your dignity, as some folks seem to. One of the very great things we can do for this planet and for one another is use stuff until it’s so worn out that it simply cannot be used anymore. That goes for clothes, but it also goes for cars, computers, toys, TVs and pretty much everything else that we own.

Just because we've been blessed with the ability to replace old stuff with new, doesn't mean we need to. And we can do a lot for our world by simply sharing with our friends and neighbors, as our friends have done for us and we, in turn, will do for others.

You're going to look simply dashing in your new wardrobe.

Love,
dad

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

TINY BABY STEPS

Dear Spike:

Someday, when you have children, you’ll do your very best to engage in talk about art, sports, politics and business. . .

. . . and you’ll still end up talking about your kids.

So it goes. Parents are inherently fascinated by their own children. Every giggle. Every gurgle. Every peep and every. . .

. . . yeah, I’m a bit ashamed to say it, but . . .

Every poop.

So when the invitation came in the mail to attend a new parents party, your mother and I were excited. In a gathering of others who were experiencing the thrills of new mommydom and daddydom, we could talk without shame about our latest thoughts about how thick rice cereal should be, what baby wipes work best and how many diapers should be packed for long car trips.

But the best part of the night was watching you play with the other babies. It was exciting for me to think that — with tiny baby steps — you were making new friends.

Love,
dad

FRAGILE AND RESILIENT

Dear Spike:

The alumni magazine from Oregon State University came in the mail today. It’s typically a pretty skimpy publication, but I usually flip through it to see if any of my college friends are featured.

This edition included a story about the Beavers’ storied run to the 2007 College World Series baseball championship, another article about an OSU grad who produces the records of a rock band I like and a third feature about a new assistant football coach, Jay Locey, whom I covered when he was running the legendary Divison 3 program at Linfield College.

And so it was that, having spent quite a bit more time leafing through the pages than I normally would have, I ended up in the back of the magazine, reading the obituaries.

The first entry was a graduate from the Class of ‘23, Christmas Jean Tuttle Gaily, who boarded a train for Corvallis at the age of 16 and didn’t return until she’d graduated. At the time of her death, she was the oldest living graduate of OSU. She lived to be 105 years old.

One of the last names on the list was Sommer Nicole Chambers, from the Class of ‘02. She lived to be 29.

Sommer was my friend and, for a short time (right around the time your mother and I started dating) my housemate. We met for the first time on a snowy winter day, when she and two other animal rights protesters had locked themselves into small cages in front of the Memorial Union to protest the use of animal test subjects in the university’s science labs. I penned the story for the student newspaper.

Needless to say, we didn’t have a lot in common. She was a heavily tattooed anarchist who worked at a local animal shelter and was raising orphan raccoons in her garage. I was a midshipman in the U.S. Navy Reserve with a part-time job at the school paper.

Over the months, we got to know each other better as she tended the bar at the local coffee shop I frequented — mostly late at night — to read, study and write. After a while, she stopped kicking me out at closing time, I think because she felt better having someone around as she closed out the register, mopped the floors, cleaned out the sinks and locked the doors. I suppose that’s how I ended up in her rather limited circle of trust.

But as things often go, we fell out of contact shortly after graduation. I got married and began a career in the papers. She traveled the globe teaching English and working to promote western ideas about animal welfare, most recently in South Korea.

I didn’t feel surprised when I saw Sommer’s name in the back of the magazine tonight. She always seemed to be a shooting star. And I suppose that one condition of having a lot of friends and acquaintances in the military, in a time of war, is that you grow used to seeing familiar names in the obituaries — even those who would never have the first thing to do with the military.

But I did feel sad. And regretful. And guilty. In an era in which it has become so easy to keep in contact with far away friends, I’ve made a pitiful effort at doing so.

You’ll cross paths with many people in this life. And you can’t keep in touch with all of them — not in any sort of meaningful way, at least.

But do not allow those who are important to you to slip away. Like Sommer Chambers and Christmas Gaily, life is both fragile and resilient.

And so is friendship.

Love,
dad

HAPPY THIS MONTH

Dear Spike:

I've been looking at photos from our recent trip — most of which picture you in the arms of wide-smiling family and friends from all over the western United States.

You made a lot of people happy this month. Well done.

Love,
dad

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

TOUCHED YOUR LIFE

Dear Spike:

I’ve never known anyone I could trust more than my friend Matt. At various times over the past three years, he has been my coworker, my confidant, my workout partner, my coffee pal and my poker adversary.

When it came time to throw a baby shower for you, it was Matt and his fiancee, Leah, who hosted the party. When I have had to leave your mother to report from overseas, Matt has been there to offer his support and friendship. And when, a few years back, I wrote an “if you are reading this” letter to your mother, I left it in Matt’s hands to deliver to her in the event that something went badly for me.

We have a spot, on the balcony of our office building, that looks out over all of the valley. In the summers, we go there for lunch. And all year round, we meet there to talk.

Soon, I’ll be sitting there alone.

Leah will begin law school at the end of this summer. And when she goes, Matt will be leaving with her.

Not so long ago, when ours was a nation of small towns and close communities, the friends you grew up with were the friends you grew old with. And it was not uncommon, in those times, to be employed alongside the the same group of people for decades upon decades.

That served to keep friends close, but it also served to keep minds closed. And so, on balance, I suppose the way things are these days are not so bad.

Still, I will miss my friend.

I’ve done a poor job keeping in contact with the people I was close to growing up. And I’ve done a poor job keeping in contact with the people I was close to when I was in the military. Against that backdrop, I guess you could only consider it a success that I exchange frequent e-mails with some of the people with whom I attended college. Still, I could do better.

To that end, earlier this year, I rekindled a friendship that has grown cold with time. Now I am looking forward to introducing you to my very good friend Anamika when we visit California in July (she will be in transit at that time between her current State Department assignment in Sri Lanka and her next assignment in Jamaica.)

Not all of your friends need to be lifelong friends. Some will come into your life when you need them and drop out of your life at some point down the road. And that is OK.

But when you can — and even more importantly, when you feel you cannot — make a point of reaching out to those who have touched your life in important ways. Do not forget them. And do not let them forget you.

In this day and age, you may still find yourself sitting alone, sometimes. But the view does not have to be a lonely one.

Love,
dad

Dear Spike’s friends:
There are still lots of hours open in the Spikepool. Just go to the comments section under the post “About that date” and pick a date that hasn’t yet been spoken for. Full disclosure: Spike is due on June 6., but the doctor says she could come at any time.
All the cool kids are doing it.
Love,
Spike’s dad

JUST LIKE YOU

Dear Spike:

A man I knew came home from the war in Iraq just in time for the birth of his son. Except that when the boy came out, he looked remarkably like the man’s best friend — the white man’s black best friend.

“Our baby isn’t going to come out a different color than me, is she?” I asked your mom in jest a few days ago.

“Don’t be silly, honey,” she said, not even looking up from what she was doing. “All your best friends are white, just like you.”

•••

She’s joking (I hope) but she’s also right about that. Most of my closest friends are indeed white, like I am (and I am assuming you will be as well.) For while we live in the most diverse city in the state of Utah, it is still... well... the state of Utah.

There are exactly two exceptions — my friends Sheena and Chhun are Indian and Cambodian, respectively. I know it’s not always easy for them being wheat bread in a white bread bakery. For Sheena, especially, things can be particularly tough.

“Just try finding a date in Utah when you’re brown, overweight and not a Mormon,” she told me once. “You’re more likely to get eaten by a Great White Shark in the Great Salt Lake.”

•••

Sometimes I wonder why they stay here.

Take Monday, for example. Chhun’s car was stolen, then found by the police and towed to the impound lot over on the west side.

When we got to the lot, the man behind the window — a big redneck fellow with a long mustache and buzz cut hair — asked Chhun to sign a document saying he’d inspected the car for damages.

Except Chhun hadn’t even seen the car yet.

The man seemed frustrated as Chhun reread the paper.

“Can’t you speak English?” he demanded.

“Yes, I can,” Chhun replied.

“Well, then sign it.”

“But I haven’t seen my car.”

“You’re going to see the car eventually. Just sign the paper.”

Chhun, who has a bit of a stutter even when he’s not nervous, looked flustered. He looked up at the man, then down at the paper. He looked like a kid who was about to give his lunch money to a schoolyard bully.

•••

My argument wasn’t any more reasonable than Chhun’s had been, but low and behold, the guy behind the window actually listened to me.

“He’s not going to sign something that says he’s seen his car until he’s seen his car,” I said.

“Oh... well...” The man seemed embarrassed. “You know I didn’t mean anything by all that. We can go see the car together.”

Gee, white man to the rescue.

•••

I’m not sure I did Chhun any favors by sticking up for him. It wasn’t really my place to butt in and, in fact, I may have been playing into to the same belittling racial stereotypes as the man behind the window.

I’ve been playing it over in my head. Why don’t I think Chhun can stick up for himself? Did I step in because I discerned that he needed help by reading his body language, or did I step in because I decided he needed help because he’s not white?

Damn.

•••

Race can be funny, intriguing and beautiful. It can also be ignorant, wrathful and ugly.

Most of the time, it won’t be any of those things. Most of the time, when you look at your friends, all you’re going to see is your friends.

But color exists. And sometimes it matters. And sometimes, without even intending to, you’ll find out it matters to you. Ignore that, and you’ll find out that it matters more than you think.

But embrace it, examine it, acknowledge it, and you’ll find out it doesn’t matter at all.

•••

As a matter of fact, that’s the case with pretty much everything we use to separate ourselves from one another.

White and black. Gay and straight. Christian and Jew and Mormon and Muslim.

I’m racking my brain to think of a single time in which any of that might matter.

And I can only think of one: White guy, black best friend, black baby.

And even then, the guy who I heard that story from — the one whose wife got pregnant with another man’s kid while he was away at war — he wasn’t upset that a black man had impregnated his wife. He was upset that his best friend had.

Love,
dad

RULES FOR FRIENDSHIP

Dear Spike:



My friend Tom and his wife just returned from China with their new daughter. Donna is a beautiful girl, with an adorable button nose and cute puffy cheeks. She is about a year and a half older than you are, but I hope you will become friends.



Just down the road, Scott and Lesli are hoping their baby, Miles...











and his sister, Zoe, also will be friends with you.








And a little further away, but still close at heart, are your cousins Jay and Brett (the latter of whom who is due to join us just a few weeks after you come.) We’re planning to introduce all of you in early July. And I’m hoping you’ll become close friends with them, as well.

With the exception of the one you pick to be your spouse, you won’t get to pick the members of your family. You’re stuck with me and your mom and your grandparents. If you end up having siblings, you’ll be stuck with them. And someday when you have children of your own, you’ll be stuck with them as well.

Friends are different. Some, like Donna, Miles and Zoe, you’ll get by circumstance. Some, like Jay and Brett and the rest of your cousins, you’ll find through your extended family. And some you’ll pick up along the way at school or work, on sports teams or through shared interests.

And unlike your immediate family members, you’re not stuck with them at all. That makes them very special, because you choose to share your journey with them.

They also get to choose to share their journeys with you. And that makes it important for you to learn to be a good friend.

To that end, a few simple rules for friendship:

Be open. Never ignore the possibility that anyone — no matter how different — might become a friend. Never give up the possibility that a friend — no matter how far you’ve drifted apart — may become a friend again.

Be honest and loyal. Never say an ill word about an absent friend unless you are prepared to say the same thing when they are present. Never let a few ill words ruin an otherwise good friendship.

Be understanding. Let differences in religion, culture, class, color and politics be a reason for friendship.

Be a good listener. Never forget that there are two people involved in every friendship.

And perhaps most importantly, be yourself. A friend doesn’t need you to be anything else.

Love,
dad