FATTEN YOU UP

Dear Spike:

No snacking between meals.

It seems counterintuitive, given that we're trying to fatten you up for the winter, but that's what the doctor ordered.

Except today, walking back from the park and past the chocolate studio around the corner (two parts blessing, one part curse, five parts yummy) I sort of forgot about the new rules and bought you a chocolate-covered strawberry.

Don't tell the doctor, OK?

Love,
dad

FATTEN YOU UP

Dear Spike:

We went to see Dr. Schriewer today. She kept calling you "peanut."

At a year and a day, you're still not quite 15 pounds, which puts you among the very smallest of babies your age.

Your mother promptly went to the store, picked up a quart of heavy cream, and put some in your bottle. For dinner, she gave you oatmeal with cream and butter. Later this week, she tells me, she's going to reprise your birthday pound cake (which, for the record included butter, cream cheese, eggs, vanilla, orange extract, flour and three cups of sugar!)

One way or another, kid, she's gonna fatten you up.

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

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

YOU'LL BE OFF

Dear Spike:

My God, you're changing fast. I swear that on some mornings, when I fetch you from your crib, I hardly recognize you as the little girl I put to bed just the night before.

After months of moving from here to there in an awkward sort of contorted slither, you've finally begun crawling, but I don't reckon you'll be doing that for long, for you've also pretty much figured out how to walk. You've only now to find your ballance. And then you'll be off.

Walking. Running. Jumping.

Rolling. Sliding. Swimming. Diving.

Your mother brought your little blue baby tub down to the basement last week. You just got too big for it. For the first few times in our big clawfoot tub your mother or I would bath along with you, catching you when you'd slip and slide on the slick porcelain bottom. But now you've got that figured out too. And so we simply sit to the side and run a cup of water over your hair.

Soon, I suppose, you'll be doing that by yourself too.

A few months back, your mother and I purchased a bicycle trailer for you to ride in and came up with a nifty way to strap your car seat into the harnesses. But now you've gotten so long that your feet stick out the front, making it impossible close the front flap. Your mom tried sitting you into the trailer without the safety seat, but you're still too small for that. Not sure how we'll fix that problem, but in any case, I know it's going to be a temporary fix, for you're growing so fast.

Soon, I know, you'll be too big for the car seat. And then, not long therafter, you'll be too big for your trailer. And that will be just fine because, right around the time that occurs, you'll be wanting your own bicycle anyway. And we'll oblige, of course. And then you'll be off.

Riding. Jumping. Sometimes falling. Getting back up and doing it again. Faster. Faster still.

You've almost grown out of the outfit we bought to bring you home from the hospital. Admittedly, I didn't think it would even last this long. But you were such a tiny little thing. And so the Oregon State University onesie in which we'd intended to dress you for the trip home instead was used as a blanket to cover your skinny little legs against the May breeze. Unprepared for such a wee little baby, we dispatched your grandparents to the store to find some premie clothes. You wore those sizes for months. You didn't really fit into that OSU outfit until a few months ago. And within a few weeks, I suppose, we'll pack it away for good.

I try not to spend too much time lamenting the ticking of the clock. It's a waste of today to worry too much about tommorrow.

But sometimes when I rock you at night, and sing to you the songs that help you sleep, I know I will not rock you this way and sing to you these songs forever.

But that's fine, too. Because today is special — exactly because it is today. And tommorrow will be special in its own ways. And the next day. And the next.

I love the way you are today. But I will love you no less tommorrow.

In fact, I'll love you more.

Love,
dad

KEEP CHOWING DOWN

Dear Spike:

I'm hesitant about saying so, but I really think you're growing.

We've been stuffing you so full of food, lately, that I can't imagine that we havn't had some success. And today I noticed, when I lifted you from your crib, that I grunted a bit in the effort.

That can only be good.

Keep chowing down, baby. Weigh in is in two more weeks.

Love,
dad

IN AMAZING WAYS

Dear Spike:

Yesterday marked nine months since the day you were born — and so as of today, you’ve officially spent more time “out” than “in.”

In spite of the fact that you’re still hovering around 13 pounds, the growth we’ve seen since the day you arrived has fascinated me in ways I can’t begin to describe.

You still rely on us for so very much. For food, comfort, warmth and for protection from the cat (who is growing a tad bit ornery about the way you “pet” him.) But you’ve also learned to communicate and interact with us in amazing ways. You sign to us when you want milk. You call to your mother when you see her walking up the steps to our door when she gets home from work.

Lately, we have begun to play a game called “Superman” in which you raise your hand above your head and we, in response, “fly” you around the room. And on your own, you’ve begun to play a game I call “Mess with Daddy’s Mind” in which you begin to cry when I turn away from you, then laugh when I turn back to face you.

Turn away. Cry. Turn back. Laugh. Turn away. Cry. Turn back. Laugh. I feel like a puppet. Or one of those fuzzy-hatted green-skinned guards from the Wizard of Oz... “Oh-weeeee-oh, Ooooh-oh!”

You spent the last three days sick with some sort of ugly stomach bug. As fast as we could pump in the Pedialite you were pumping it out the other end. And yet we didn’t once have to change a wet or messy diaper. You let us know when you needed to go and we obliged. I know I shouldn’t be so fascinated by these sorts of things, but I can’t help it.

And yet, beyond it all, I still look at you and shake my head and simply cannot believe what happened in the nine months before you arrived — how you went from a few small cells to a tiny-but-tough baby girl, with 10 fingers and 10 toes and two eyes and two ears and one cute little belly button seemingly holding it all together in one place.

When your Godmother told us she was pregnant, last month, we quickly rushed out to buy her a book with pictures of all the developmental stages of her baby. Before we sent it off to Oregon, I flipped through its pages and imagined what you once looked like inside the person you now call “mama.”

Amazing.

Amazing.

I wonder whether I’ll ever be able to look into your eyes and not feel awestruck by this miracle. I wonder whether I’ll ever be able to run my fingers through your hair and not be overwhelmed by this gift.

I wonder whether I’ll ever be able to hold your hand in mine and not feel as though the world, spinning round and round and round for so many billions of years, hasn’t suddenly stopped in place in recognition of the moment.

You wow me.

Love,
dad

A GIANT NOW

Dear Spike:

Every few hours, somewhere in the world, a baby is born weighing 13 pounds or more.

Which means that every few hours, somewhere in the world, there appears yet another brand spankin’ newborn as big as you are now — at eight and a half months old.

Sigh.

I took you in to see Dr. Schriewer today. Ostensibly, we were there for your ear infection, but we spent far more time talking about you weight — or lack thereof, as it were. Last time around, she seemed mildly concerned. This time she was obviously more troubled by your stubborn skinniness.

I just keep trying to remember that you came out so very small and, by comparison, you’re practically a giant now.

I also take comfort in knowing that, in other developmental ways, you seem to be doing just fine. You started mumbling “ma ma ma ma” and “da da da da” a while back, but this week it seems you’ve been doing so with a bit more recognition of the particular parent standing before you. Meanwhile, you’re pulling yourself up to a standing position against the bars on your crib and you usually can manage a few brave shuffle steps before you tumble down. And after a rough week in the potty department (you even peed on our friend, Leslie) you seemed to remember how to do... um... “it” and once again are doing your business in the place where that business belongs.

But, alas, you’re still so very small — just a tiny percentile of a tiny percentile, I’m afraid. That does worry me a bit — and your mother, too.

It’s all well and good that you’re learning to use the toilet, after all, but if you’re never big enough to actually sit on it — without falling in — that’s not really going to do you a heckuva lot of good, will it?

And so, it’s time to eat, my precious tiny child.

It’s time to eat.

Love,
dad

SHE IS GROWING

Dear Spike:

I took you to the doctor’s this morning. Just a quick stop, in and out, to see how much you weigh.

Twelve pounds, nine ounces. Still so very, very small.

Dr. Schriewer plugged the new numbers into her computer and sighed. “She’s still on the same curve. She is growing.”

Just slowly, she said.

“She didn’t like the butter,” I admitted abashedly.

“How could she not like butter?” our gentle Southern doctor gasped. “Everyone loves butter!”

Her words hung in the air — funny, but a little sad, too.

“She seems to like everything else,” I said. “She is starting to eat lots of different foods – quite a bit, really.”

Dr. Schriewer nodded and smiled. She seemed concerned, but not alarmed.

“She is growing,” she repeated confidently. “And look at is this way: You get to have a little baby for longer than most people do. That’s special.”

Yes, it is.

Love,
dad

FEW MORE POUNDS

Dear Spike:

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

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

Like what? We asked.

Like butter, she said.

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

Yeah, she said. Butter.

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

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

Love,
dad

MISS THESE MOMENTS

Dear Spike:

People used to marvel when I’d tell them that you regularly slept through the night. Six, seven, eight hours. “Yeah,” I’d beam, “my baby rocks the party.”

But lately, I suppose because you’ve been growing so fast, you’ve been waking up to eat at least once a night — and sometimes two or three times. And since every bottle I feed you is another bottle that your mother will have to fill at some other point during the day, she’s been pretty insistent that she be the one to feed you at night.

I suppose that’s nice, because I get to sleep. Or have the opportunity to do so, at least.

Except here we are, it’s 3:06 a.m. You’re asleep. Your mother’s asleep. And, really, the vast majority of the United States is asleep. . .

And I’m awake. Up like the Red Sox in Game Three.

OK, Star Wars is partly to blame. At the moment, Luke and Han are searching the Endor Forest for Leia. In a few minutes, the Ewoks are going to open a can of yub nub on the evil Imperial Forces — and who would want to sleep through that?

But also — and more so — I simply enjoy lying here and watching you sleep.

These opportunities seem to be growing more infrequent. You’ve been spending fewer and fewer hours napping during the day. You still take a few 20-minute catnaps. And whenever we’re in the car for longer than 10 minutes, you’re out like the Rockies in Game Four.

But during the daytime, every moment you slumber is an opportunity for me to get a little bit of uninterrupted work done. And so I often miss these moments.

Thankfully, Friday night has become “slumber party night” in our home — the night when you get to escape your cradle and come sleep on the big bed between your mother and me.

And while we say it’s a treat for you, it’s really for us.

And particularly for me.

I love watching your tiny tummy move up and down and my heart melts at the way your sweet little lips curl into a smile while you dream.

I love watching as you curve your back up and stretch your arms out in a way that allows you to take up as much room on the bed as either of your parents — even though you're only five months old and you only weight 11 or 12 pounds.

I love listening to your soft sleepy snorts and your dreamy little squeals.

And I love it when you curl your skinny fingers around my pinky and we sleep together, hand in hand, though the night.

Yeah, my baby rocks the party.

Love,
dad

THE BIGGEST THING

Dear Spike:

OK, so it’s official. You’re really small.

How small? Well, if this is a chart showing the range of height and weight for four-month old babies...

...

...

...

...

...

you...

...

...

...

...

... show up on the chart right down here.



This, of course, wasn't unexpected. The first time we took you to get weighed at the doctor's office, you weighed less than four and a half pounds.

Two months later, you were up to eight and a quarter — big to us, but small overall.

Now, at 10 pounds and five ounces, you’re still smaller than some newborns. But when we visited Dr. Schriewer on Friday, she seemed content that you’re developing in all the most important ways. And that, of course, is what matters to us.

Chances are that you’ll catch up, size wise, in due time — though it’s unlikely you’ll ever be the biggest kid in your class.

But that’s fine by me. Because it doesn’t matter how tall you stand, or how much you weigh.

Because you’re absolutely, positively the biggest thing in my world.

Love,
dad

IN OSU ORANGE

Dear Spike:

A lovely surprise today! Your mother called me into your bedroom and proudly presented you in the outfit in which we had intended to bring you home from the hospital.

It’s still a bit baggy on you, but you look darn good in Oregon State University orange.

Go Beavers.

Love,
dad

(STILL) TINY BUT TOUGH

Dear Spike:

You turned two months old on Friday. We celebrated with a trip to the clinic, where a nice nurse weighed you (8 pounds, 3 ounces) before sticking four needles so deep into your thighs that I thought the tips might come out the other side.

You screamed. Your mother cried. And I watched in dumbfounded awe as you gasped for breath and your face turned three different shades of purple.

Your sheer delicacy still amazes me. You’ve nearly doubled in size since you were born, but most of the newborns we meet still dwarf you.

The doctor told us you’re in the fifth percentile for height and weight. Basically, that means that in a group of 20 babies your same age, you’d be the smallest. But she seemed rather pleased with your growth and — other than the fact that your right ear is slightly larger than your left — she gave you a clean bill of health.

That’s enough for me. You’re small, but you’re healthy. Tiny but tough.

And I still love you more than anything in the world.

Love,
dad

SPIKE'S FIRST TWO WEEKS

Dear Spike's friends:
This is a slide show from Spike's first two weeks on Planet Earth. I'm sure you'll notice that at one point she was down to 4 pounds 6 ounces. Not to worry: By her two-week appointment with Dr. Schriewer, the little screamer was up to 5 pounds and we think she's put on a few more ounces since then.
Love,
spike's dad

YOU'RE (STILL) SO SMALL

Dear Spike:

You're so small I can catch you in my baseball glove...



You're like a little pinapple...



And your tiny feet...



... are the size of my thumbs...



It's going to be a long time before you fit into my sunglasses...



You're the size of a wine bottle...



And smaller than a decent chuck roast...



But you're the biggest thing that's ever happened to me.



Love,
dad

YOU'RE SO SMALL

Dear Spike:

You're so small, I could take you to lunch in a pail...


You didn't even come close to fitting into the outfit we'd planned on bringing you home in...


Your hand is the size of a quarter...


And you look so tiny in your cradle...


But you fill my heart...


Love,
dad