FROM THAT SPARK

Dear Spike:

I'm not sure how it escaped me — and I'm not sure how I finally remembered, either — but this evening as I was sitting with your mother, it suddenly occurred to me...

... we have been together for 10 years.

I first met your mom in the kitchen of an apartment I shared with two roommates, Adam and Joel, in Corvallis.

I don't have the best memory in the world, but I remember that moment vividly.

She was wearing a pink sweater and black pants. He shoulder-length brown hair was pulled into a single ponytail. And she had the most striking eyes — one significantly more green, the other significantly more blue — I'd ever seen.

Just one problem: She was dating Adam.

Over the next few weeks we got to know each other, usually while waiting for Adam to get ready for their dates. He always seemed to take a really long time. And I didn't mind that one bit.

While she waited, we chatted. And while we chatted, we might have even flirted a bit.

And why not? She was funny and sassy and confident and intelligent. Absolutely beautiful. And while it seemed that she and Adam were having a good time together, it never seemed that their relationship was destined to be more than a college romance.

I learned that she was a local girl – she lived in north town with her parents. She learned that I was a bit of a cad — after a long relationship had gone sour, I was... um... exploring my new-found freedom.

I was getting close to graduation. She was in her freshman year. We both needed to take an astronomy class — and we agreed to take it together. At least, we reasoned, we'd have something to talk about when she was waiting for Adam.

Then, one day, Adam came home and told me that they'd broken up. No big deal, he said. They just weren't meant for each other.

And I started counting the days until our astronomy class began.

It didn't take long for me to convince her to ditch class...

... first for lunch at the New Morning Bakery, where we sat next to one another and she glibly mocked my vegetarian diet ...

... next for a picnic at Avery Park, where we shared strawberries and a bottle of wine and watched the Marys River trickle by.

I liked her. She liked me. But I was, I admit, a little standoffish. She knew I'd recently been seeing several women — and I didn't want her to think that she was just another one of the bunch.

Then, one evening, we took a stroll through her neighborhood and wound up facing one another on a sliding platform in the playground at her old elementary school.

I leaned forward. She did too.

I've shared a lot of great kisses with your mother, but none so soft and tender as that one. Ten years it has been, and I can still feel the wetness of her lips. I can still hear her stuttering breath as I touched the back of her neck. I can still see her coy smile as we parted.

It was only a matter of weeks later that we were living together. And just a matter of months before we were engaged. We were married in your grandparent's backyard on a stunning August night.

Ten years, we've been together. And while things are not always perfect — nothing in life is perfect, you see — I wouldn't change a thing.

Because out of that first meeting, there was a spark.

And from that spark, there was a kiss.

And from that kiss, there grew love.

And in that love, a family began.

No, nothing in life is perfect. But I couldn't imagine how it could be any better, either.

Ten years it's been. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Love,
dad

WHAT AN ADDICT

Dear Spike:

You tiptoed into our room this morning with your big brown eyes and even bigger hopes.

"May I have some chocolate milk?" you asked.

"You may have some plain milk," your mother replied. "You had chocolate milk last night before you went to bed.

"But," you pleaded, "I really don't want plain milk. I want a little bit of chocolate milk."

"I'm sorry," your mother responded. "But you are an addict."

"If I could just have a little bit of chocolate milk, I could be very happy today," you said.

"Yes," your mother said. "That is what an addict would say."

We're looking for a 12-step program for you.

Love,
dad

FOR VALENTINE'S DAY

Dear Spike:

Every year on Valentine's Day, I count myself among the luckiest schmucks in the world.

Take today, for instance: While other people were running around buying candy, picking up flowers, making dinner reservations and selecting risqué gifts for their significant other, I was spending the day snowboarding.

You see, your mother spent several years working at a Hallmark gift shop. After that, she's sort of lost her taste for Valentine's Day. So I help her celebrate, each year, by doing the least romantic things possible. For instance, today I took our only car and left her to care for you all by herself a while I sought to feed my adrenaline addiction in Big Cottonwood Canyon.

Wasn't that sweet of me?

Truth is, though, that I'm not an unromantic guy. I just choose to perform gratuitous acts of affection on days in which I have not been told to perform gratuitous acts of affection. After all, flowers aren't really all that romantic if it takes the annual celebration of the death of a mythical martyr to remind you to buy them. Follow me?

So I say to you, my child: Do not settle for false romance. When it comes time for you to fall in love, make sure you respect that love with kindness, selflessness and generosity on every day of the year.

And if you have to let your outward affection lapse for just one day, Feb. 14 ain't a bad date on the calendar to do just that.

Love,
dad

OF A MIRACLE

Dear Spike:

Your mother's new students arrive today — and the spectacle that is Title 1 Kindergarten starts anew.

Most will show up unable to spell their names or recite their ABCs. Some of them can't count to 10. Quite a few can't speak any English.

By June, they'll all be reading. They'll be able to count to 100 — by ones and twos and fives and tens. And the ones that couldn't speak any English at the beginning of the year will be translating for their parents at the end of the year.

What your mother does, in nine short months each year, is little short of a miracle, particularly considering the fact that, at the school she teaches, many of the children are homeless, or in the country illegally, or have fled to this nation from their war torn native lands, or are being abused at home, or have parents in prison. And some of them have all of those problems.

But she welcomes them into her classroom and gives them a seat at their very own desk. She tells them that they are special but also reminds them that they are no more special than anyone else. She teaches them how it feels to put their noses to the grindstone.

For most, her expectations are higher than anything that's ever been expected of them. For many, her classroom rules are more structure than they've ever had in their lives. For some, her class is the only place they have to feel loved.

And under her watchful eyes they bloom.

She doesn't always notice the miracles she creates. The changes are magnificent over time, but usually quite subtle from day to day to day. And when her students succeed, she's more likely to praise their efforts than to take any credit for herself.

That's just the way your mother is.

But you and I know the truth.

She makes miracles.

Love,
dad

NECKLACES AND BRACELETS

Dear Spike:

Your mother and I were chatting in the kitchen when we suddenly realized that you'd disappeared.

We checked the bathroom, the living room, the dining room and your bedroom...

... and then we heard a rustling sound coming from our room — where you had overturned your mother's jewelry box and were busy trying on her necklaces and bracelets.

Quite cute — save for the fact that you'd managed to tangle up all the chains into one of those mind-numbing Chinese sculpture puzzles.

Your mother was not happy.

I don't wear her jewelry, so I just had a nice, long schadenfreudian belly laugh.

Love,
dad

MELT MY HEART

Dear Spike:

I came home from work yesterday to find you and your mother curled up together in bed.

You both melt my heart.

Love,
dad

MY OWN HEART

Dear Spike:

You're a girl after my own heart.

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

But this morning, nothing worked.

"Mama mama mama," you cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mama mama mama...

...

...

... MASH?"

"MASH? You want to watch MASH?"

"MASH MASH MASH! MASH MASH MASH!"

You're a girl after my own heart.

Love,
dad

HAVE YOUR EVER?

Dear Spike:

Sometimes you'll look at your partner and swim with feelings of love.

Sometimes you'll feel something else...


Spike's mom: Have you ever felt like smothering me?

Spike's dad: Um, no.

Spike's mom: Oh, that's good.


There's an obvious follow-up question I could have asked her. But I didn't. I'd rather not know.

Love,
dad

THE FIRST DAY

Dear Spike:

Your mother came home from work today smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And who wouldn't smile about that?

Love,
dad

QUIETLY DREAMING AWAY

Dear Spike:

We're all asleep in a tent in your grandparents' backyard.

OK, to be precise, you and your mother are asleep in a tent in your grandparents' backyard and I am beginning to think very seriously about getting some sleep, too.

It's hard, though, because I'd really much prefer just to stay up to watch you, curled up against your mother's belly, quietly dreaming away in your white flannel pajamas.

Sigh.

Love,
dad

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

LIKE YOUR MOM

Dear Spike:

Sometimes, when I look at you, I can't help but think...

Yeah, that's my adorable daughter.

Thank God you look like your mom.

Love,
dad

FEW MORE DAYS

Dear Spike:

Your mother sent her students off for their summer break today. A few more days of meetings and her summer will begin, too.

She's excited to spend her days with you. And I'm excited for her.

But a bit sad, for me.

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

NEVER IN NOTHING

Dear Spike:

Your mother began the school year with a classroom of 25 students, many of whom didn't speak English and most of whom had never had a book read to them, much less ever owned one.

She fretted. She cried. She wondered whether she was the right teacher for the job.

But she didn't run away. She didn't say no. And when she was advised to simply treat her kindergarteners as pre-schoolers, she declined.

Yesterday, the students' test scores came in. Almost all of them are reading on grade level.

Winston Churchill said it best: "Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never-in nothing, great or small, large or petty — never give in."

Love,
dad

AS MOTHERS DO

Dear Spike:

You could not know it, but at this moment you are giving to your mother the very best Mother's Day gift you possibly could give. You are asleep on her lap, in the rocking chair in your room. And she, in turn, has slumped down in the chair for a nap of her own.

We celebrated last Mother's Day with an anxious excitement. You were due to arrive within weeks. Your mother had set to work sweeping and vacuuming, arranging the baby clothes in the dresser drawers of your room, and pacing around our home looking for things to set straight in preparation for your arrival.

Some call these sorts of behaviors "nesting." Fathers feel it, to some extent, but not nearly as instinctually as mothers do. And perhaps that says something about the bond moms have with their babies — bonds that can be closely emulated but never fully duplicated by dads. For how could we possibly know what it is to share one body? To be one being?

That is, in part, what makes Mother's Day so special. And it is, I imagine, why your mother never looks happier than in those times when you are asleep, resting on her belly, as close as you ever will get to those times in which your rested inside of her.

Maybe when you are older, you will come to your mother, on this day, and lay your head on her lap. Perhaps you will fall asleep there and she, in turn, will fall asleep too. I can think of no greater present you could give her than to rest there together, as one body and one being, if only for a few moments.

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.

A FEW OUNCES

Dear Spike:

Fourteen pounds.

For all our hopes, you didn't put on more than a few ounces over the past month. And so, alas, you remain a very small child. Still tiny but tough.

But given the start you had, you ain't done half bad for yourself. At 11 months, most babies weigh about two-and-a-half times what they weighed at birth. You're more than three times bigger than you were when you arrived.

I credit your mother's patience and persistence.

The past week has been tough on her, though. You've stopped showing any interest in breastfeeding. Kicked the habit cold turkey, you did. I'll never be able to understand bond that forms during nursing, of course, but I can see very clearly what it has meant to your mother over the past 11 months. And I also can see how sad she has been over losing that connection to you.

There's little I can do but be supportive, I suppose. And so I just keep reminding her what an amazing job she's done with you, quite litterally nursing you to health after such a scrawny little start.

I couldn't be prouder of either of you.

Nope. Couldn't be.

Love,
dad

A CLEANER FREAK

Dear Spike:

The kitchen is a mess again. Really, it looks like the laboratory of a mad scientist who has decided to meld cloned human embryos with various species of mold. And he's really messy about it. And the San Francisco 49ers' entire starting offensive line is staying over at his place. And there was just a nuclear holocaust. And a fraternity party.

Your mom does the laundry. I clean the kitchen. That's the arrangement we have — a deal to which she has faithfully honored and to which I have honored about once a week, usually when we've run out of silverware.

Everything else in the house is pretty much fair game — which generally means she does all that stuff, too. She's not a clean freak, just a cleaner freak than I am. Sometimes I feel bad about this and I move about the house urgently picking up toys and books and piles of clothing. And then, usually right about the time that I find the most recent edition of Newsweek under the week-old stack of junk mail by the front door, I get distracted.

I'm a pretty good guy with really good intentions — and I've got plenty of good excuses. It's not so easy juggling daddy daycare with mild-mannered reporting. There are so many projects in this old house I don't even know where to start. And at the end of the day, you know, I'd just rather spend time with you and your mother than sweeping the hardwood or mopping the tiles.

Truth is, though, that your mom has been extremely tolerant with my inability to focus on any one task for longer that a few minutes at a time. She'd be justified in being a little bit annoyed with me, but I do my best not to let her know that.

When you're looking for someone who completes you on this often lonely planet, I'd definitely advise you to find somebody who can be tolerant of your faults, flaws and failures — and for whom you can exercise tolerance as well.

Nobody's perfect, after all.

Except, I think, for your mother.

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