Dear Spike:
It's taken some time for me to get used to the addition of school work to my already busy routine, but three weeks into this little adventure, I'm feeling good about the decision.
For the most part, I've been able to keep my academic obligations from taking too much time away from you -- which was my chief concern going in. And although I'm a shameless procrastinator, I've been dutifully working and reading ahead, which I'm hoping will translate into more days like the one we've got scheduled today -- a family hike in the mountains near our home.
Although I fully intend to keep my priorities in proper order, like anything else that steals away a part of the day I know there will be times in which this will interfere with our ability to spend time together. Please forgive me. I'm trying to better myself and, in doing so, put myself in a position to better our family.
But if you need me, I promise I'll be here for you.
It's nice to do well in school. But it's better to do well in life.
Love,
dad
Showing posts with label priorities. Show all posts
Showing posts with label priorities. Show all posts
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
PLEASE GO VOTE
Dear Spike's Friends:
I was there, in the fall of 2005, standing in the shadow of the tapered golden dome of the Imam Ali Mosque in Najaf, as Iraqis braved shootings, bombings, and even beheadings to vote in that nation's first constitutional referendum. On that day, 10 Iraqi poll workers were kidnapped, dozens of others were killed or injured, and six U.S. service members lost their lives.
What's stopping you, today, from voting?
Love,
Spike's dad
I was there, in the fall of 2005, standing in the shadow of the tapered golden dome of the Imam Ali Mosque in Najaf, as Iraqis braved shootings, bombings, and even beheadings to vote in that nation's first constitutional referendum. On that day, 10 Iraqi poll workers were kidnapped, dozens of others were killed or injured, and six U.S. service members lost their lives.
What's stopping you, today, from voting?
Love,
Spike's dad
Thursday, October 30, 2008
MY OWN HEART
Dear Spike:
You're a girl after my own heart.
You can't stand to see your mother leave for work in the morning, so usually we try to distract you with books, games or food while she slips out the back door.
But this morning, nothing worked.
"Mama mama mama," you cried.
I made you an omelette. "Eggs?" I asked.
"No no no," you sobbed. "Mama mama mama!"
I brought you to the cat. "Coltrane?" I asked.
"No no no," you screamed. "Mama mama mama!"
I took you to your bookshelf. "Books?" I asked.
"No no no," you wailed. "Mama mama mama!"
I gave up and walked you around the house, patting your back and telling you that she would be home soon. Still, you seemed unconsolable.
"Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama!"
"Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama!"
"Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama!"
Then we walked into our bedroom, past the television and a stack of DVDs.
"Mama mama mama...
...
...
... MASH?"
"MASH? You want to watch MASH?"
"MASH MASH MASH! MASH MASH MASH!"
You're a girl after my own heart.
Love,
dad
You're a girl after my own heart.
You can't stand to see your mother leave for work in the morning, so usually we try to distract you with books, games or food while she slips out the back door.
But this morning, nothing worked.
"Mama mama mama," you cried.
I made you an omelette. "Eggs?" I asked.
"No no no," you sobbed. "Mama mama mama!"
I brought you to the cat. "Coltrane?" I asked.
"No no no," you screamed. "Mama mama mama!"
I took you to your bookshelf. "Books?" I asked.
"No no no," you wailed. "Mama mama mama!"
I gave up and walked you around the house, patting your back and telling you that she would be home soon. Still, you seemed unconsolable.
"Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama!"
"Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama!"
"Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama! Mama mama mama!"
Then we walked into our bedroom, past the television and a stack of DVDs.
"Mama mama mama...
...
...
... MASH?"
"MASH? You want to watch MASH?"
"MASH MASH MASH! MASH MASH MASH!"
You're a girl after my own heart.
Love,
dad
Friday, October 10, 2008
MY LITTLE LION
Dear Spike:
We went to the new soccer stadium in Sandy last night. It was going to be a cold night, so you and I stopped by the costume store to pick up a warm outfit -- a lion, in honor of the home team, Real Salt Lake.
Super cute, really.
My plan was to parade you around the stadium at halftime, but we never got that far.
Seems all the excitement was just too much for you. About 10 minutes into the game, you got sick. Luckily, the team had given away free commemorative towels at the beginning of the game, so we had something to mop you up with.
Unfortunately, the lion costume didn't survive the onslaught of upchuck. And although we had a change of clothes for you in our backpack, it wasn't likely to keep you warm through the rest of the game.
And so, not more than 15 minutes into the inaugural game at Rio Tinto Stadium — with plenty of folks still on their way in — we headed home.
On the way out, your mother asked if I was disappointed. I'm not sure she believed me when I told her I wasn't, but that was the truth.
There was a time in my life when soccer was everything. But these days, my little lion, it's not even close.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
I WAS HOPING
Dear Spike:
I finished our taxes — and with 22 hours to spare, no less.
After all was said and done, our little family ended up still owing Uncle Sam $450, while Uncle Zion owes us about $250. That's not quite the wash I was hoping for, but after itemizing everything short of the cat (Damn it! I forgot to itemize the cat!) I suppose it's simply as good as we're going to do this year.
It was a busy day for me, and between jousting with the IRS and trying to figure out why an F-16 pilot shot at a couple of soldiers at the local bombing range, you and I didn't get much time together today. I doubt you noticed — or cared — though, because your mom had the day off and took you to a baseball game, and it seems to me that you two had a really good time together.
But even though I've been rooting for you to get a full night's sleep for a long, long time, I'm also sort of hoping that tonight's not the night. I miss you and, if you wake up, I'll have a nice excuse to hold you and rock you to sleep (and then maybe hold you just a bit longer before I put you down again.)
Life sometimes gets in the way of the things that we like best. So, when we can, it's good to have a few moments to put things back in order.
Love,
dad
I finished our taxes — and with 22 hours to spare, no less.
After all was said and done, our little family ended up still owing Uncle Sam $450, while Uncle Zion owes us about $250. That's not quite the wash I was hoping for, but after itemizing everything short of the cat (Damn it! I forgot to itemize the cat!) I suppose it's simply as good as we're going to do this year.
It was a busy day for me, and between jousting with the IRS and trying to figure out why an F-16 pilot shot at a couple of soldiers at the local bombing range, you and I didn't get much time together today. I doubt you noticed — or cared — though, because your mom had the day off and took you to a baseball game, and it seems to me that you two had a really good time together.
But even though I've been rooting for you to get a full night's sleep for a long, long time, I'm also sort of hoping that tonight's not the night. I miss you and, if you wake up, I'll have a nice excuse to hold you and rock you to sleep (and then maybe hold you just a bit longer before I put you down again.)
Life sometimes gets in the way of the things that we like best. So, when we can, it's good to have a few moments to put things back in order.
Love,
dad
Monday, November 5, 2007
WHAT'S MOST IMPORTANT
Dear Spike:
The other shoe dropped today — the folks who sign my paychecks finally got around to spelling out just how much our insurance premiums are going to be raised.
And it’s a bunch. I could rent a pretty decent apartment on the increase alone. Nothing spectacular, mind you: just a little cottage, behind someone’s house, or perhaps a one-bedroom loft, or maybe something like what your mother and I lived in when we first moved to this city, almost four years ago.
I really loved that apartment. Sure, the guy downstairs was a smoker and the nauseating smell of his cigarettes sometimes wafted up through the space below the kitchen sink. And yes, the family in the unit next door was a little bit frightening and a lot bit strange. And granted, there was an old Vietnam War vet named Phil who lived in the garage. But there was a big balcony that was great for barbecues and a funny closet that you had to climb up into to get your clothes out of and a breakfast nook just big enough for our dining room table. Across the street, to the west, was a lovely little Artesian well. And across the street, to the north, was a funky Mexican cafe. There was a bus stop, out front, and sometimes it was fun to sit on the balcony, watch the people get on and off the bus, and wonder where they were going.
We were there for just about six months when, while out on a walk one day, we came upon a lovely old brick home, in the yard of which a man was driving in a “for sale” sign. We’d not really given much thought to buying a home, but we thought we’d take a look anyway. “Couldn’t hurt,” I said.
A month later, we were home owners. Or mortgage owners, I suppose. And in the three years that have gone by, this lovely old home — with its creaking floors and its drafty rooms and its cracking walls and its squeaking doors — has become such an important part of our lives.
I was pretty upset when I got home from the office today. Calmly and wisely, your mother placed you in my arms. Then she dished me up a bowl of French onion soup and sat across the table from me and looked me in the eyes.
“What’s most important?” she asked.
“Spike,” I said.
“And?” she asked.
“And you,” I replied.
“And what else?” she continued.
“Coltrane,” I said, reaching down with my free hand to scratch the back of our cat’s head.
“And?”
“Your family and my family.”
“Anything else?”
I stopped for a moment and looked around. We’re no where near the point that I should worry about losing our home. We’ll find the money somewhere else. Maybe I’ll find some freelance work. Maybe we’ll get rid of a car. Or maybe, as your mother later suggested, I could sell a kidney.
But the thing that struck me, as I looked around our home, was that it doesn’t really matter.
“Anything else?” your mother asked again.
“No,” I said. “That’s it.”
Yes, I love this house and I love our neighborhood and I like our cars and I enjoy being able to go to soccer and baseball games and go out to eat, every now and then, and to meet my friends at the coffee shop down the street. And no, there’s no reason to worry that all of that is going to change.
But for some reason it gave me great comfort to know that, if worst came to worst and the two worsts got together for a worst party — if we were back in that tiny apartment choking on the neighbor’s cigarette smoke and watching people hop onto the bus in the morning from our bedroom window — I’d still be happy.
That’s how good life is.
Yes, that’s how good life is.
Love,
dad
The other shoe dropped today — the folks who sign my paychecks finally got around to spelling out just how much our insurance premiums are going to be raised.
And it’s a bunch. I could rent a pretty decent apartment on the increase alone. Nothing spectacular, mind you: just a little cottage, behind someone’s house, or perhaps a one-bedroom loft, or maybe something like what your mother and I lived in when we first moved to this city, almost four years ago.
I really loved that apartment. Sure, the guy downstairs was a smoker and the nauseating smell of his cigarettes sometimes wafted up through the space below the kitchen sink. And yes, the family in the unit next door was a little bit frightening and a lot bit strange. And granted, there was an old Vietnam War vet named Phil who lived in the garage. But there was a big balcony that was great for barbecues and a funny closet that you had to climb up into to get your clothes out of and a breakfast nook just big enough for our dining room table. Across the street, to the west, was a lovely little Artesian well. And across the street, to the north, was a funky Mexican cafe. There was a bus stop, out front, and sometimes it was fun to sit on the balcony, watch the people get on and off the bus, and wonder where they were going.
We were there for just about six months when, while out on a walk one day, we came upon a lovely old brick home, in the yard of which a man was driving in a “for sale” sign. We’d not really given much thought to buying a home, but we thought we’d take a look anyway. “Couldn’t hurt,” I said.
A month later, we were home owners. Or mortgage owners, I suppose. And in the three years that have gone by, this lovely old home — with its creaking floors and its drafty rooms and its cracking walls and its squeaking doors — has become such an important part of our lives.
I was pretty upset when I got home from the office today. Calmly and wisely, your mother placed you in my arms. Then she dished me up a bowl of French onion soup and sat across the table from me and looked me in the eyes.
“What’s most important?” she asked.
“Spike,” I said.
“And?” she asked.
“And you,” I replied.
“And what else?” she continued.
“Coltrane,” I said, reaching down with my free hand to scratch the back of our cat’s head.
“And?”
“Your family and my family.”
“Anything else?”
I stopped for a moment and looked around. We’re no where near the point that I should worry about losing our home. We’ll find the money somewhere else. Maybe I’ll find some freelance work. Maybe we’ll get rid of a car. Or maybe, as your mother later suggested, I could sell a kidney.
But the thing that struck me, as I looked around our home, was that it doesn’t really matter.
“Anything else?” your mother asked again.
“No,” I said. “That’s it.”
Yes, I love this house and I love our neighborhood and I like our cars and I enjoy being able to go to soccer and baseball games and go out to eat, every now and then, and to meet my friends at the coffee shop down the street. And no, there’s no reason to worry that all of that is going to change.
But for some reason it gave me great comfort to know that, if worst came to worst and the two worsts got together for a worst party — if we were back in that tiny apartment choking on the neighbor’s cigarette smoke and watching people hop onto the bus in the morning from our bedroom window — I’d still be happy.
That’s how good life is.
Yes, that’s how good life is.
Love,
dad
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