EVERY DAMN TIME

Dear Spike:

Your fourth birthday fell on a Saturday. We celebrated on that day with your grandparents and then, the following Saturday, with your friends. You and the gang painted flower pots, costumed up for an impromptu street parade, and devoured a (pralines-and-cream) ice cream cake. It was a dandy time.

My 33rd birthday came the following Wednesday. It wasn't such a dandy time.

We were planning to go out for a fancy family dinner that night at my favorite restaurant (the delightful and delectable Mazza — which also happen to be your favorite restaurant) but you had a bit of a melt down while trying to decide which bow you would wear in your hair.

And so you went to "time out." And while you were sitting there in the corner, whimpering like a wounded Yorkshire Terrier, your mother and I changed out of our swanky clothes and resigned ourselves to an uneventful, un-birthdarific evening.

I'm not telling you this to make you feel guilty. That's not my style and, besides, my birthday has never been all that important to me.

I tell you this because I want you to understand what happened after we canceled dinner:

You screamed. You flailed. You sobbed. You gasped. You begged. And you cried, off and on, for the rest of the night.

And even though you're a well-behaved kid, (the best kid I know, in fact,) we knew this was going to happen, because there ain't nothing you like more than puttin' on the Ritz.

Truth is, it would have been a lot easier to just let you get over the small hissyfit you were having about that damned bow, then clean you up and march ever-forward to Mazza. That certainly would have been easier for your mother and I, but would have been wrong for you — because it would have deviated from our standard parenting procedure.

That is to say: When you commit the crime, you serve the time — every time.

Every. Damn. Time.

So sure, this was supposed to be a special night — but any other time, your little melt down would have resulted in the cancellation of whatever fun thing we had planned for that day. And while folks can (and probably do) criticize our parenting on a variety of levels, I don't think anyone would ever accuse us of being inconsistent with you when it comes to discipline.

And I really believe that is the reason why nights like the one we experienced on my birthday are so rare with you. You understand our expectations. You understand what happens when those expectations are not met. You make decisions accordingly.

That's not to say that you don't occasionally make the wrong decision (as evidenced by Wednesday night's tantrum, you most certainly do make the wrong decision sometimes.) But you never have to guess — and so you have very little incentive to test our limits.

Someday you'll probably have your own kids. And I'm certainly not the type of guy who will be standing over your shoulder to tell you how to raise'm right. Everybody parents differently, after all, and it's not my place to criticize — so I'll just offer this observation: The most convenient decisions for parents are not often the best decisions for their children.

And come to think of it, that's not just a good rule for parenting. It's a good rule for life: The most convenient decisions are not always the best decisions for anyone.

That doesn't mean you always have to do things the hard way. It just means you should always at least consider the hard way, along with its costs and its benefits.

Earlier this evening, we made another run at going out for a fancy birthday dinner. Afterward, we went next door for some gelato.

And you were an absolute angel.

It was the best birthday present ever.

Love,
dad

AN OVERNIGHT TRIP

Dear Spike:

Last night, for the first time since you came into our lives, your mother and I left you with your grandparents while we went on an overnight trip to Park City.

It’s not that we couldn’t have done this before. We unreservedly trust them to take care of you. And, perhaps more importantly, we unconditionally trust you to be a good girl for them.

But the truth is that we genuinely like your company. So anytime in the past when people have suggested that we “get away,” we’ve always just sort of shrugged our shoulders and asked “from what?”

But last week your mother and I decided that perhaps we could use just a bit of time to ourselves. So we headed up Parley’s Canyon, went horseback riding in the Uinta foothills, played a round of disc golf at The Canyons, had a wonderful dinner at The Cabin restaurant and took a dip in the swimming pool at The Grand Summit Hotel. We slept in a gloriously comfortable bed and woke up this morning for a lovely breakfast at the No Worries Café & Grill.

And, with that, it was back to Salt Lake City.

We probably could have stretched it out a bit more. You hardly glanced up from the table when I walked in the door.

“I missed you,” I said.

“I missed you too, daddy,” you answered, although it was a rather rote reply.

Maybe next time we go away, we’ll try for two days. Maybe three.

Really though, I’m not chomping at the bit to “get away” again.

Your mother is amazing. She’s fun. She’s interesting. She’s beautiful. And I love her more and more every day. But everything she is to me is better because of you. And I know that she feels the same way about me.

That’s just the way it is with us.

Other people are different. That doesn’t mean they love their kids any less. They simply have decided that, in order to be the best parents they can be, they need some time to themselves. And indeed, it’s true that your mother and I walked away from our experience feeling like “we needed that.”

Next time we “get away,” though, it will most likely be with you at our side. That’s just the way we prefer it — most of the time, at least.

Love,
dad

IT'S GAME TIME

Dear Spike:

It’s the dead of winter, but you still remember the names of kids you met only briefly on the playground back when the weather was nice. Two months after our trip to Disneyland, you can still recall what rides we went on — and in what order.

You’ve got your numbers down and will proudly sing your ABCs for anyone willing to listen.

You know all the colors. And your command of animal taxonomy would make Carl Linneaus jealous.

“Isn’t that a pretty bird, Spike?”

“Ibis!”

“How about that over there? See that lizard?”

“Skink!”

“Um, that’s a cute monkey…”

“Capuchin!”

You make small talk — in Mandarin — with the folks at the Asian foods market, down the street.

And that little Bugsbunnian reverse-psychology trick we were using on you last week to get you to do things you didn’t want to do? You’ve pretty much turned the tables on us. (And, come to think of it, that may be why your mother and I ended up reading you books tonight a full hour after we told you “no more books, it’s time for bed.”)

I couldn’t be prouder of you, but I’m also feeling a bit panicked.

Because now it’s game time.

It’s not the intellectual curiosity that has me worried — it’s what that sponge-like nature of yours compels of me as I try to teach you to be as decent as you are smart.

I can’t just say “don’t lie,” because you’re watching. And you’re smart, so you’re going to know when I’m not telling the truth.

I can’t just say “be polite,” because you’re listening. And you’re perceptive, so you’re going to know when I’m being rude.

I can’t just say “respect your mother,” because you’re soaking it all in. And you’re sensitive, so you’re going to know when I fail in that regard.

I’m supposed to be teaching you. But in a really big way, you’re teaching me. You’re holding me accountable to the things I ask of you but don’t demand of myself.

You’re making me a better person.

I just hope I can keep up as a father, too.

Love,
dad

UNDERSTAND OUR DILEMMA

Dear Spike:

We read books. We talk about your day. We listen to Teddy Ruxpin tell a story. We sing a few songs.

All told, it generally takes about an hour to put you to sleep at night.

But with 20 minutes to go before LOST, this evening, you started asking for your bedtime routine.

"Big girl bed?" you pleaded. "Big girl bed! Please! Please! Big girl bed!"

This is a problem. Your mother and I haven't watched television since we moved in together. But then we obtained a DVD recording of LOST. And, well, we sort of got lost.

I mean, how can you say no to a show that combines religion and science and mystery and polar bears all into one fabulous hour a week?

So you can understand our dilemma as the clock ticked down to 8 p.m.

"Big girl bed!" you continued. "Please! Please! Big girl bed!"

"How about we go play in mommy and daddy's bed?" I asked.

"No. No! Big girl bed! Pleeeeeeeeaaaaase!"

You mother lifted her finger at me and flashed me a "watch this" grin.

"Oh no," she told you, shaking her head disapprovingly. "I'm sorry, but you can't go to mommy and daddy's bed."

"Big girl bed?" you begged.

"No, I'm sorry," she said. "You have to go to sleep now, and you can't go to mommy and daddy's bed."

"Big.... girl...."

"There just won't be any mommy and daddy bed time tonight," she continued.

"Mommy and daddy bed?"

"Nope."

"Mommy and daddy bed, please?"

"Well..."

"Mommy and daddy bed, pleeeeeeeeaaaaaaaase?"

"Oh, alright."

It's now 8 minutes 'til LOST, and you're nestled in our bed with a menagerie of stuffed animals.

And you mother is my hero.

Love,
dad

FOR THEIR CHILDREN

Dear Spike:

Since you're still quite small for your age, next month we're taking you in to see a nutritionist. This week, a letter came in the mail explaining what we should expect during our visit — including a meeting with a social worker.

Your mother was aghast. "A social worker! Do they think we're bad parents?"

I did my best to reassure her they no one thought that. But, in a way, I hope that someone suspects it's at least a possibility. I don't mind proving I'm fit to be your dad.

Sometimes I wish more proof was required of us all.

The other day you and I were coming back from a stroll in the park when something caught my eye.

The little girl was sitting on a bus stop bench, watching the cars fly by on 900 South. The man behind her was leaning up against a tree, rocking back and forth and mumbling to himself. We walked by slowly, then stopped about a half block away and watched for a bit longer.

The girl was eight, maybe nine, and decked out in a blue and red cheerleading costume, probably for a school Halloween party. The man was in his 40s. He was hunched over a gray canvas bag, sorting through some papers.

I wasn't even sure they were together. But after a few minutes, the girl walked over, set her hand on the man's shoulder, and whispered something in his ear. He waved her away, and she returned to the bus stop bench.

It probably shouldn't have taken me as long as it did, but I finally pulled the mobile phone from my pocket and called the number for the city's police dispatcher. "Listen," I said. "I don't know what is going on, but it just doesn't look right. That guy's in no position to be looking after a little girl."

A few minutes later an officer drove by. After a while, he was joined by another. It was striking to me how calm the little girl looked as a third, then a fourth officer arrived — as though she'd been through all of this before.

The officers helped the man to his feet, then watched as he took the little girl by the hand and stumbled away.

"That's it?" I asked one of the policemen.

"He told us that he's having a bad reaction to a flu shot," one of them said.

"Yeah, those things can really screw you up," another added.

I'm sure there's something legal to be said here for "probable cause" and "reason to search," but it seemed to me that the officers were taking a rather cavalier attitude to the situation. Maybe they, like the little girl, had simply seen it all before.

The man and the girl walked to the end of the block and rounded the corner, up our street. I lifted you into my arms and followed. When I turned the corner, I saw the man was sitting on the ground. The little girl was standing next to him, trying to help him up. I beckoned for the officers to come see. When they approached the man again, he got up and started to walk away. I suppose that's what tipped the scales for them. Soon he was back on the ground and they were going through his bag.

A few moments later, the man was in handcuffs in the back of a patrol car, and one of the officers was emptying the remaining contents of a large vodka bottle into a bush. The little girl was picked up by a relative. And they all watched together as her father was carted away to jail.

I used to believe that parents were in the best position to make decisions for their children, but I've long since opened my eyes to a darker reality.

Maybe it was the brother-sister pair I met, a few years back, who found their mother dead of a heroin overdose. The little girl had run downstairs to find help as the little boy — just five years old — pulled a needle from his mother's arm and banged furiously on her chest. He was still there, on top of her lifeless body, when the police arrived. "You promised!" he was screaming, over and over. "You promised you would stop!"

Maybe it is the stories your mother comes home with, day after day after day, from the inner-city school where she works. The little girl with the gang markings, stenciled in permanent black marker on her legs. The little boy who complains that there is no food at home, but whose parents can't seem to get him to school on time for a free breakfast there. The little girl, all of five years old, who comes to school dressed like a whore and tells the other girls to "walk more sexy." The little boy who falls asleep on his desk, exhausted because his parents refuse to put him to bed at night.

And then, as if that's all not enough, a reminder on our street of the sheer inability of some parents to make good decisions for their children: A dad, far too drunk to look after himself, being looked after by his young daughter.

There are, of course, plenty of parents who make good decisions for their children, every day — parents who feed them right and treat them right and keep them out of harm's way, insomuch as any parent is capable of doing such things.

But these days, when I hear folks saying the government should get out of the way of parents who just want to raise their kids as they see fit, I wonder where they think we should draw the line.

For the record, I don't know where the line should be drawn, either. I've always thought I was a fan of getting the government out of people's lives, but lately, in my more cynical moments, I've begun to wonder if we shouldn't be licensing people to raise children.

There is a happy medium between those two extremes, I guess, but I'm quite sure we've not found it yet.

I suppose that parenting is both a blessing and a right — I only wish we'd all treat it more like the former than the latter.

Love,
dad

YOUR OWN HERO

Dear Spike:

It all kind of happened in slow motion.

You were sitting on the playground, minding your own business, running your fingers through the tanbark near the base of the slide. All of the sudden, a boy about a year your senior grabbed a handful of bark and, point blank, threw it in your face.

Maybe I'm a bad father, but I didn't really do anything.

It's not that I didn't want to. Every basal impulse in my body was telling me to march right up to that little punk, grab him by his Gymboree jacket collar, and toss his smug little mug into the mud. And that impulse was even stronger after his mother, who watched the whole thing unfold just as I did, sauntered over to let me know that her little pookey "probably didn't mean to hurt your daughter."

So your kid's not savage, just stupid? I should throw you into the mud too, lady.

Luckily for all of us, you were none the worse for the wear. A little stunned, maybe, and with a mouth full of playground nastiness, but not in any sort of pain, so far as I could tell.

I suppose I could have jumped into the fray — I could have swept you up from the spot where you were playing next to that cruddy little kid and whisked you away. I could have run you over to the park restrooms to wash out your mouth and wash off your face and hair, which had little pieces of bark dust stuck in it. I could have packed you back into your stroller and headed home for a bath and a change of clothes.

Maybe any of those things would have been the right thing to do. But I didn't do any of those things.

Instead, I sat back and watched as you looked dumbfounded at the boy and then, quite calmly, went back to digging your fingers into the dirt.

I'm not sure, but I think that was an OK outcome. You took a lump and kept on going — and, at least in a very small way, figured out how to handle the situation on your own, without daddy sweeping in for the rescue.

Someday, I imagine, you're going to need me to sweep in and do what big, angry men do — to thump my chest and pull you away from danger and right the wrongs and generally take care of business.

But most of the time, you're going to need to be your own hero — to remove yourself from danger, to right the wrongs that can be righted, and to generally take care of your own business. Or, when appropriate, to just turn the other cheek as you did today.

Sometimes, I think, you know better than I do. Thank goodness for that.

Love,
dad

DOUBLE EDGED WORLD

Dear Spike:

We were at the park, this evening, enjoying a Venezuelan string band and marveling as you stumbled from me to your mother and back again in the grass near the Old Chase Home.

And then someone caught your eye.

She smiled at you. You smiled back. And then you took off. Walking, then running, then practically leaping into her arms.

"Um... is it OK if I hold her?" she asked apologetically, as you were already clung like a Koala, round her neck.

We've been meeting more people this way, lately. You've just grown so social. So trusting.

It's a good thing. And a discomforting thing, too. I want you to be friendly with your neighbors — and I've never been one to believe that neighbors are only those people whom you happen to know.

At the same time, I worry. About nothing and everything. About no one and everyone. About you.

This is a double-edged world. Trust will make you a kinder, gentler, more compassionate person. It will also make you more vulnerable.

Not only to those terrifying things we all worry about, like kidnappers and child molesters, but to much subtler things like being disappointed by those you wish to be your friend or having your heart broken by those you wish to love. Trust will make you more susceptible to peer pressure, peer pressure will make you more susceptible to drinking, to smoking, to drugs, to sex, to driving fast, to skipping school, to wearing stupid clothes.

OK, stupid clothes are the least of my concerns.

As you grow, we'll try to teach you proper boundaries. And the world will help you learn those boundaries, too. What is a charming thing for a newly walking baby to do might not be so kindly received when you are four or five or six.

Most parents err on the side of safety. We may err on the side of trust. Not too much, mind you, but enough so that you know that the world is full of good people and that, when you expect people to be good, they generally are.

And yes, sometimes you will be disappointed. And yes, sometimes you will be hurt. And yes, I will occassionally wake up in a cold sweat, terrified that I've not taught you enough about how horrifyingly evil this world can be.

Often, it all seems like such a gamble. But then, I suppose, I am a gambling man.

And I'm gambling on this world being good to you, so that you can be good to it.

Love,
dad

KIND OF MAGIC

Dear Spike:

When you were only a few days old, I discovered that I had a special power over you. When you would scream and cry — and indeed, this was common for you — I would hold your little body close to my face and tell you, "It's all right. You're OK. I love you. I love you so much." And soon, you would be out.

Later we discovered that banjo music — Earl Scruggs, in particular — has a special effect on you. And when you were inconsolable, we'd let Earl sooth you to sleep with his Foggy Mountain Breakdown.

Lately, though, old Earl and I just haven't had what it takes. You're going through a mama's girl stage — at least, I think it's a stage — where all you want, when you're tired and crabby, is your mother.

"Mamamama Mama Mama" you cry.

I imagine this is what professional basketball players feel like when they can no longer sink a 20-foot jumpshot or what door-to-door salesmen feel like when they realize they can no longer count on always making a sale or what old politicians feel like when they realize that they're just not as good at rounding up the votes like they once were. It's tough to realize that you no longer have a special kind of magic that you once had.

At least for the moment, nothing in my bag of tricks seems to work. So all I can do, when it's my turn to put you down, is to hold you and rock you and sing to you and let you scream, scream, scream yourself to sleep.

I can't imagine it's much fun for your mother to have to sit through it, knowing that she has the magic to soothe your screams, but we both know that it's best for you, and for us, if you learn that you can't always have everything — or everyone — you want, even when you're throwing a fit to get it.

These are tough lessons, but I suppose that's life.

I hope I find the magic soon, though, for I do so hate to hear you cry.

Love,
dad

HOURS AND HOURS

Dear Spike:

I think I've got Lost Syndrome.

Let me explain: Your mother and I haven't watched a live television program since long before we were married. Our TV isn't hooked up to a cable line or a satellite dish or even an old-fashion antenna.

We do have a DVD player and a nice collection of movies...

... and the entire 11-season series of the show M*A*S*H — all 256 episodes.

That's how it all began.

Your mother was younger than you are now when M*A*S*H ended its run on television. How she managed to get through two more decades on this planet without being exposed to the show in syndication, I don't know, but she'd never seen an episode until I came home, one day, after dropping $39.99 on the DVD collection of the first season. By season two, she was pretty well hooked.

I guess good television, like good film or good music, is simply timeless like that.

They call TV "the boob tube" but my friend DeAnn, a professional TV and movie critic, once told me that she believes the very best things on television are far better than the very best things in the movie theater. I guess that could be so, although I could never bring myself to order cable to find out for sure. It's just all too easy to turn on when you've got nothing better to do — and then leave it on, for hours and hours and hours.

So, we're in the habit of simply waiting for the DVD collections of the best shows to show up at the city library. Largely, we've been unimpressed with what's out there, although there are indeed some gems.

Which brings me to Lost. We started watching the series last week and have been having a hard time turning it off. And even when I'm not watching the show, I'm thinking about the show. We blew through the first season. Then we blew through the second season. Now we're anxiously awaiting the third season (but, alas, we're number 53 on a list of 57 library patrons waiting for the discs.)

It's true: In spite our our best efforts to avoid the great, hungry vortex of television, we got sucked in all the same.

Television isn't bad. Occassionally it can be quite good. But as in all things, moderation is the key.

No one would fault you for loving the symphony. But if you spent every night at the symphony, avoiding other responsibilities and jumping from performance to performance regardless of how good or bad it was, people might start to wonder about you.

And if you loved the museum, no one would think you strange — unless you spent every single afternoon and evening there, looking at exhibit after exhibit after exhibit in lieu of doing anything else with your life.

It's hard for me to say how much of anything is too much, though I suppose that as your father, it will be my job to do just that, at least for the first couple of decades of your life. So we'll limit your TV intake (hopefully better than we've limited our own, over the past week) and try our best to steer you toward things like the symphony and the museum (in moderation, of course.)

But if you occassionally get Lost in the boob tube, I'll understand. I've been Lost too.

Love,
dad

SNAKES AND GYPSIES

Dear Spike:

At first I thought you might have a spot of diaper rash. (You'll forgive my ignorance as to what, precisely, diaper rash looks like, as you've managed to go nearly 12 months without it). In any case, it took me a few moments to realize what I was actually looking at — a series of small red spots all around your thighs and lower back.

Damn spiders.

You didn't seem too bothered, so I tried no to fret. But by the time your mother came home from work you'd scratched about a bit, and it looked like you were wearing a pair of hamburger pants.

(A note to you Googlers: If you got to this Website by searching for "Hamburger Pants," you need professional help. Really.)

It's bedtime now, and your mom has rubbed some hydrocortisone cream on your legs, along with your usual 8 p.m. regimen of Eucerin and 'roids.

I've searched the nooks and crannies of your room for a spider's nest, to no avail, so I suppose we're just going to have to set you out as bait and see what happens.

Early on, (that is to say, within the first two minutes of your birth,) I realized that I wasn't going to be able to protect you from everything this world was going to throw your way. But over the past year, I think your mother and I haven't done too badly in the attempt.

After all, you haven't been swallowed by a boa constrictor, or mistakenly swapped with a similar-looking baby (as far as I know,) or kidnapped by Gypsies. And while there was that one instance when I dropped you on your head in front of pretty much everyone I work with, your skull seems to have regained its nice, round shape, so "no harm, no foul," right?

Right?

Truth is, I don't expect to protect you from the worst parts of life — only the very worst parts of life. And even those things, I'm afraid, I have limited control over.

When Hobbes said life was "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short" he really wasn't kidding. And while I don't think that's the full extent of life, I can't say I entirely disagree, either.

I also can't say that the bad is all bad. From pain we learn endurance, from struggle we learn tolerance, from loss we learn appreciation and in misery we find plenty of company.

You're not the first kid to get bit by a spider. You won't be the first to break your arm or knock out a tooth. And with the best of my focus on the snakes and Gypsies of the world, I'm just not going to be able to protect you from everything else.

But I'll try.

Lie still tonight, my darling little girl, we'll catch those spiders yet.

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

UNSPOILED AND INDEPENDENT

Dear Spike:

My office is just across the street from the downtown sports arena, which means awful traffic on NBA game days, a yearly parade of elephants and clowns when the circus comes to town, and then, yesterday...

... an army of princeses.

It took me a while to understand exactly what was happening. I was walking to my car when I saw two young girls in tiaras. Then, as I rounded the corner, there were two more — these ones sporting tiaras and brightly colored ballroom dresses.

That's when I looked around and realized that I was completely surrounded by little girls in pink, yellow and blue gowns, prancing merrily toward the arena gates with their parents in tow.

Finally, it struck me...

Disney on Ice.

I mentioned this to a friend today, and I guess I must have had a bit of a scowl on my face.

"Oh, you just wait — that'll be your daughter soon enough."

I doubt it.

I've got nothing against Disney, really. Your mother and I have a pretty sweet collection of Disney movies, in fact — everything from 1937's Snow White to 2007's Ratatouille. I grew up watching Disney's Rescue Rangers and Duck Tales in the afternoons after school. And Disneyland may really, truly, genuinely be the happiest place on Earth.

So why would I put my foot down on Princesses on Ice? Call it intuition.

Playing princess is one thing. I hope we do. I'd like to pretend to be your Prince Charming and help you slay a dragon or two. Or maybe you and your mother could be a crime-fighting princess duo — like Cagney and Lacey, but with ball gowns.

But given that my paramount duty is to help you grow up to be a strong, unspoiled and independent woman, I guess I'm just not sold on the idea of letting the whole princess thing go too far.

Thing is, I'm still trying to figure out how to know what, exactly, is "too far" — so for now I'm sticking to a simple rule:

Princesses on Ice?

Probably not.

Nobel Laureates on Ice?

I'll get us front row seats.

Love,
dad

A GOOD FATHER

Dear Spike:

Sometimes I worry whether I’m going to be a good father to you.

Then I go to the market, or the park, or to the movies, and I watch how some other fathers act around their children.

And after that, usually I am not so worried anymore.

Love,
dad

SORT OF MADNESS

Dear Spike:

It’s cliché — my God, it’s cliché — but you’ve really changed my life.

There was a time when I defined myself by my work. But today your mother and I spent a considerable amount of time contemplating whether we could afford for me not to work.

Ultimately we decided we can’t quite cut it. Your mom’s salary might cover our mortgage, insurance, student loans and car payment, but we do like to eat and heat our home in the winter. So at least for the time being, we’ll remain a two-income family.

But in a big way, that’s beside the point. We had a discussion about me quitting my job. And I wasn’t completely sickened by the thought. In fact, I was sort of excited by it.

Maybe that’s the exhaustion talking. I’ve always felt like I was rather adept at multitasking, but you’ve challenged that skill to new heights. Today I gave a lecture while holding you on my hip (in addition to being cute, you made a nice prop when the discussion turned to the subject of teen pregnancy.) I’ve gotten rather good at balancing you between my arms while I type (sometimes with just one hand when I’m feeding you.) And I’ve become pretty good at diapering you with one hand, too (thank God for Bummis.)

But it’s never easy to serve two masters. And at the end of the day I don’t feel like showering or cleaning the kitchen or even reading a book. All I want to do is sleep.

I know your mother is tired, too. She spends all day with her kindergartners (someday ask me to show you the scene in the movie “Gremlins” where the monsters take over the movie theater — that’s what it is like.) Then she comes home and (if she’s lucky) she gets three minutes to decompress before I throw you into her arms.

And maybe this sort of madness might not sound like fun to some people. But in our rare, quiet and calm moments I look down at you and wonder aloud how I ever believed I was happy working without you. And on the days when I have to drop you off at the babysitter’s house for a few hours, all I want to do is get back as soon as possible to pick you up. And while the increasingly rare hours when you nap are my best opportunities to get any substantial work done, sometimes when you sleep I miss you and I feel like waking you up so we can play.

Obviously, I can’t take you to Iraq or Afghanistan with me. And next time I jump out of a helicopter or get Tasered by police officers, you won’t be invited along.

But you know what? Those things aren’t quite as compelling to me as they once were. And while I still feel committed to the profession I’ve chosen, it’s become less of who I am and more of what I do.

I do still like what I do. And that’s a good thing, I suppose, because it doesn’t appear than I’m going to be a full-time house husband any time soon.

But you know, I can dream.

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

BE RIGHT THERE

Dear Spike:

When you are older, you will kneel beside your window sill and watch the birds hopping from branch to branch in the lilac bush. And I will stand quietly in your doorway, lean against the door frame, and sigh.

When you are older, you will walk to the park, all by yourself, for the very first time. And I will sneak out the back door, slip down the alley, and secretly watch you from across the street.

When you are older, you will stay up late to finish a report that you should have started working on days before. And I will brew a cup of coffee, add a lot of cream and sugar, and set it on the table beside you.

When you are older, you will be angry at me for not allowing you to go to a movie or a concert or out with some friends and you will storm up the stairs and slam your bedroom door. And when you open your window to sneak out, later that night, I will just happen to be right there in the backyard, watering the garden at 2 a.m.

When you are older, someone will break your heart. And I will stock your room with tissues, flowers, lavender-blueberry chocolate bars and a stack of Phil Collins albums. And the next morning we will go to breakfast at a diner with a lot of good looking servers.

When you are older, you will go on a trip far away from home. And I will wait by the phone with my computer in my lap, clicking anxiously on the “get new mail” button in anticipation of hearing from you.

When you are older, you will have a child of your own. And I will try hard not to call you every single evening to hear my grandchild giggle, gurgle and cry. But I probably will, anyway.

When you are older, you will bring your family for a visit to our home. And your child will kneel beside the window sill and watch the birds outside. And you will stand quietly in the doorway, lean against the door frame, and sigh.

And I will stand quietly, down the hallway, and watch you. And sigh.

Love,
dad

TO PONY UP

Dear Spike:

My friend Steve sent us a photo of his daughter, Emma, riding a horse. It was her first lesson, but she looked perfectly poised — as though she’s been riding forever.

It seems Emma had gotten it into her mind that she would like to learn to ride and told her parents so. Steve must have panicked a little, because while he’s the kind of dad who encourages his kids to try new things, horse-riding lessons are pretty expensive.

And so he made her a deal: They’d split the cost.

Instead of asking for presents for her eighth birthday, Emma let everyone know that she wanted to take a few riding lessons. When all was said and done, she had collected about $200 — which, along with her parent’s matching contribution, will pay for about 15 lessons. Steve couldn’t have been prouder. In addition to getting to watch his little girl ride, he knows that she’s invested in this activity and values her practice time all the more.

In this world, we live a life of relative luxury. We do not want for food or clothing. We have a wonderful home and two running vehicles. We attend sporting events and movies. We have season passes to the zoo and aviary. We eat out once a week (and sometimes more than that.) Occasionally, we even get to the opera or take in a play at the Eccles Theater.

So when the time comes that you decide that you want to take up horseback riding, or dirtbike racing or ski jumping, you might not at first understand if I am hesitant to agree.

As much as I want you to have a wide variety of experiences and a vast array of exciting activities, I want you also to learn the value of a hard day’s play. And I’m not so sure that, when things are simply given to us, we really appreciate them all that much.

I remember in high school there was a boy named Daniel whose parents gave him, for his 16th birthday, a new Ford Mustang.

At 16 years and one day old, he crashed it.

And so they got him a new one.

And he crashed that one, too.

You will never want for food or clothing (the kind designed to keep you warm and modest, not the kind designed to impress people with fancy labels.) You will never want for an education. You will never want for medicine. And you will never want for our love.

But when you’re ready to pony up, you may just have to pony up. If you want it bad enough, I figure, you’ll find a way to make it happen.

Love,
dad

ABOVE THE LEAVES

Dear Spike:

When I was a little boy, my father would read “Go, Dog. Go!” to me and my siblings, always slowing slightly, toward the end, as the canine cast climbed a tree and then crescendoing in a rapid-fire fit of glee as they surfaced, above the leaves, to reveal...

A dog party!
A big dog party!
Big dogs, little dogs,
red dogs, blue dogs,
yellow dogs, green dogs,
black dogs, and white dogs
are all at a dog party!
What a dog party!

We all loved it.

Not only because P.D. Eastman’s story was such an amusing — and absurd — tale, and not only because our father’s reading of the book was so entertaining.

No, I think we loved it most because we got to see our father — normally so stern and serious — having fun.

For my first Father’s Day, you and your mom gave me a copy of the book I so loved when I was a boy. I immediately turned to the dog party scene, trying to invoke my father’s tone as I read...

A dog party!
A big dog party!
Big dogs, little dogs,
red dogs, blue dogs,
yellow dogs, green dogs,
black dogs, and white dogs
are all at a dog party!
What a dog party!

I’m not sure I have it down, quite yet. But I suspect I’ll have plenty of opportunities, over the next few years, to work on it.

Meanwhile, I’ll be trying to emulate my father in other ways, striving to balance my dedication to work with my devotion to family; trying to teach you to make principled decisions; and hoping to be a righteous example for you.

To be authoritative and yet compassionate. To be strict and yet yielding. To be serious and yet fun.

At times amusing. At time absurd. And always — always — letting you know that you are the most important thing in my life.

Love,
dad

TIMES WE SHARED

Dear Spike:

This is fast becoming my favorite time of the day. I’m in the rocker. You’re on my lap. Your mother’s in bed, next to us, fast asleep.

Every few minutes, I nod down to kiss your head and whisper that I love you. Every hour, you wake up to cry.

I rock you and sing to you. If that doesn’t work I change you. If that doesn’t work I fix you a bottle.

We get to hang out this way until 3:30 or 4 a.m. — maybe two feedings and two changings — and then your mom will get up and I’ll go to sleep.

I know our relationship will change as you grow.

Sooner or later you won’t need me to feed you. Sooner or later (please, God, let it be sooner) you won’t need me to change you.

One day you’ll no longer need me to rock you to sleep. And one day, I know, I won’t be able to rock you at all.

I imagine you’ll let me sing to you for a few years to come. But someday you’ll find someone else to sing to you. That’s just how it goes.

But maybe, from time to time, you’ll let me kiss your head. Maybe you’ll let me whisper that I love you.

Maybe you’ll let me remember these times we shared, late at night, rocking the nights away.

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