Dear Spike:
I brought home a bronchial infection and some sort of nasty parasite from Cuba. Too sick to work today -- which is fine because I get to devote the day to you. Even when I'm not feeling well, that's still much preferable to working!
You can be an exhausting friend, though. We spent the morning reading books, playing with your animal cards, building towers, eating peaches, chasing the cat, wrestling with stuffed animals, making music, looking at photos of our family and arguing over whether or not you were going to use the potty. Now, you're resting on my lap, downing a bottle of milk like a sorority girl at a kegger.
If you sleep, I can too!
Come on, Sandman...
Love,
dad
Showing posts with label together. Show all posts
Showing posts with label together. Show all posts
Monday, August 25, 2008
Friday, May 2, 2008
OF ROBOT NANNIES
Dear Spike:
It all began with a 10 p.m. fit of tormented cries. You're teething again — and this time has been particularly tough. Four hours, three locations and zero seconds of sleep later, the pain had subsided, but by this time you were wide awake, bouncing on my lap in the rocking chair as though you were on a carnival ride that you wanted to go faster. Faster. FASTER!!!!!!!
At 2 a.m. I gave in, setting you on the floor of your bedroom to play with your books and toys. I lied down beside you, making a wall of my body, trapping you in the corner of your room between the changer and the desk, and closed my eyes. Ten minutes of half-sleep later I was jarred awake by a loud bang. You'd discovered your favorite pie tin in your toy box. I made you a trade, offering a quiet plush dinosaur in exchange for the noisy pan, and began to doze off again. After another 10 minutes I lifted my eyelid just enough to see that you'd settled down with a book. "Beebo," you cooed as you flipped a page. "Beebo, beebo, beeeeeeeeee-bo!" I chuckled softly and fell back into my semi-slumber.
Another 10 minutes. I opened my eyes to see you sitting inches away, staring at my nose as though you were trying to figure something out. I worried you might be plotting my death and made a quick search of the area for sharp objects before closing my eyes again.
Ten minutes more. You tugged on my ear. Hard.
"Time for sleep?" I asked.
You rubbed your eyes in reply.
I lifted you from the floor and we returned to the rocker. But the fight wasn't over. I rocked you and sang your favorite lullabyes until I couldn't hit but one lonely monotone note.
Rock-a-bye. And-good-night. Sweet-dreams. Sweet-dreams.
As I listened to my own hoarse, staccato singing I imagined myself as the central, soulless character in a science fiction story about a world where parents leave their children in the care of robot nannies. And I wondered whether the robots ever felt this tired.
Ten more minutes. You were still up. Quiet, now, but still very much awake and staring out the window at a whispy snow fall and a slow dancing lilac bush.
Quite beautiful, it was. But I was too tired to appreciate it. And too tired to even recognize how sad that was.
I offered you a bottle. You declined and began to sit up to get a better view of the outside world.
"Why?" I asked aloud to no one in particular. "Oh why? Why? Why?"
Ten more minutes. I looked down to see you sleeping soundly in my arms. Your head was nestled between my bicep and my shoulder. You were softly snoring. A whisp of hair had fallen over your left eyebrow. One hand was grasping my shirt, the other was on your cheek.
"Oh," I whispered, feeling the steel, wire and plastic of my robot heart melt once again into muscle, blood and tissue.
"That's why."
Love,
dad
It all began with a 10 p.m. fit of tormented cries. You're teething again — and this time has been particularly tough. Four hours, three locations and zero seconds of sleep later, the pain had subsided, but by this time you were wide awake, bouncing on my lap in the rocking chair as though you were on a carnival ride that you wanted to go faster. Faster. FASTER!!!!!!!
At 2 a.m. I gave in, setting you on the floor of your bedroom to play with your books and toys. I lied down beside you, making a wall of my body, trapping you in the corner of your room between the changer and the desk, and closed my eyes. Ten minutes of half-sleep later I was jarred awake by a loud bang. You'd discovered your favorite pie tin in your toy box. I made you a trade, offering a quiet plush dinosaur in exchange for the noisy pan, and began to doze off again. After another 10 minutes I lifted my eyelid just enough to see that you'd settled down with a book. "Beebo," you cooed as you flipped a page. "Beebo, beebo, beeeeeeeeee-bo!" I chuckled softly and fell back into my semi-slumber.
Another 10 minutes. I opened my eyes to see you sitting inches away, staring at my nose as though you were trying to figure something out. I worried you might be plotting my death and made a quick search of the area for sharp objects before closing my eyes again.
Ten minutes more. You tugged on my ear. Hard.
"Time for sleep?" I asked.
You rubbed your eyes in reply.
I lifted you from the floor and we returned to the rocker. But the fight wasn't over. I rocked you and sang your favorite lullabyes until I couldn't hit but one lonely monotone note.
Rock-a-bye. And-good-night. Sweet-dreams. Sweet-dreams.
As I listened to my own hoarse, staccato singing I imagined myself as the central, soulless character in a science fiction story about a world where parents leave their children in the care of robot nannies. And I wondered whether the robots ever felt this tired.
Ten more minutes. You were still up. Quiet, now, but still very much awake and staring out the window at a whispy snow fall and a slow dancing lilac bush.
Quite beautiful, it was. But I was too tired to appreciate it. And too tired to even recognize how sad that was.
I offered you a bottle. You declined and began to sit up to get a better view of the outside world.
"Why?" I asked aloud to no one in particular. "Oh why? Why? Why?"
Ten more minutes. I looked down to see you sleeping soundly in my arms. Your head was nestled between my bicep and my shoulder. You were softly snoring. A whisp of hair had fallen over your left eyebrow. One hand was grasping my shirt, the other was on your cheek.
"Oh," I whispered, feeling the steel, wire and plastic of my robot heart melt once again into muscle, blood and tissue.
"That's why."
Love,
dad
Monday, March 31, 2008
ONE MORE SMILE
Dear Spike:
Your smile is pure magic. Magic, I say.
Simple, innocent, unbeguiling and contagious. A two-toothed truth beyond any measure I've ever known. No tricks. No smoke. No mirrors. Just real, old-fashioned enchantment.
I must have forgotten what it was like to see such a pure expression of happiness. Or maybe I never knew. For although we all smile — far more than we frown — we're all just a bit jaded, just a bit guarded, just a bit cautious. We wear our smiles as masks. We flash our smiles as weapons. We use our smiles as ploys.
But you don't. Not yet, anyway. For now — and I don't know how much longer — your smile simply means what it most simply means.
"I am happy. I am happy to see you. I love you."
It is an incredible thing, being greeted by your child in this way. No one can love anything more than I love you. And when you smile at me I sense the reciprocal is true. And nothing can be better than that feeling. Nothing in the world.
I am practicing smiling back at you with all the honesty you give to me, and without regard for the rather sad certainty that one day, perhaps one day soon, your smile will reveal more teeth — and more nuance.
Maybe a little flattery. Maybe a little charm. Maybe a little Oh-Daddy-Please-Can-I—?.
Yes, you may. Just one more smile, please. As real and true and magical as you can muster.
Just one more smile, please.
Love,
dad
Your smile is pure magic. Magic, I say.
Simple, innocent, unbeguiling and contagious. A two-toothed truth beyond any measure I've ever known. No tricks. No smoke. No mirrors. Just real, old-fashioned enchantment.
I must have forgotten what it was like to see such a pure expression of happiness. Or maybe I never knew. For although we all smile — far more than we frown — we're all just a bit jaded, just a bit guarded, just a bit cautious. We wear our smiles as masks. We flash our smiles as weapons. We use our smiles as ploys.
But you don't. Not yet, anyway. For now — and I don't know how much longer — your smile simply means what it most simply means.
"I am happy. I am happy to see you. I love you."
It is an incredible thing, being greeted by your child in this way. No one can love anything more than I love you. And when you smile at me I sense the reciprocal is true. And nothing can be better than that feeling. Nothing in the world.
I am practicing smiling back at you with all the honesty you give to me, and without regard for the rather sad certainty that one day, perhaps one day soon, your smile will reveal more teeth — and more nuance.
Maybe a little flattery. Maybe a little charm. Maybe a little Oh-Daddy-Please-Can-I—?.
Yes, you may. Just one more smile, please. As real and true and magical as you can muster.
Just one more smile, please.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
WE'RE ALL AWAKE
Dear Spike:
Merry Christmas.
You woke this morning at 5 a.m., whining and slapping your hands wildly from side to side.
As soon as your mother and I were both up, you quieted down. It was as though you were saying, “well folks, so long as we’re all awake now...”
And so I got up and made some hot cocoa and orange rolls while your mother fed you. I lit some candles while she found your Santa hat. I flipped the switch on the Brio train that circles around the tree and turned on our Bing Crosby album. She gathered a blanket and set it down by the mantle.
We all converged at the foot of the tree.
Bing crooned, “I’m dreaming...”
Outside, two-foot icicles hung from the roof.
And inside, we set to work opening our gifts.
Your mother made me a book with 12 months of family activities. In April, we’ll take a hike up Immigration Canyon. In May, we’ll take a family raft trip on the reservoir. In September, we’ll visit Arches National Park.
For her, I painted a picture of the two of you, working from a photo that I took when you were just a few months old.
You gave me a drawing — your very first with color crayons. (Someday I’m sure I’ll be able to sell it for a million bucks, but I won’t.)
I gave you a book, my first work of fiction (well, other than all that drivel I write for the newspaper each day.) It’s not quite complete yet, and my goal is to have it done by your birthday. In the meantime, I’ve given you a draft of the first six chapters. Another 20 chapters are in my computer, waiting for some minor revisions. And there’s still nine or 10 chapters in my head, waiting for inspiration. Writing this story has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. And keeping it a secret from your mother has been nearly as difficult.
Your mother made you a blanket, silky on one side, fleece on the other, with ribbons and tags of all shapes and textures on the edges. You love it!
But the best gift of all was the joy we felt, sharing this day with you. I've always enjoyed Christmas, but never so much as I did this morning with you and your mother.
Thank you, my precious little girl. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
It’s 7:30 a.m. now, and we’re all back in bed. Bing has run through his entire Christmas repertoire. The Brio train has run out of steam. The candles have been snuffed out.
You’re curled up in your mother’s arms with you new blanket. She’s reading your book.
And I’m ready for a nap.
Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas.
Love,
dad
Merry Christmas.
You woke this morning at 5 a.m., whining and slapping your hands wildly from side to side.
As soon as your mother and I were both up, you quieted down. It was as though you were saying, “well folks, so long as we’re all awake now...”
And so I got up and made some hot cocoa and orange rolls while your mother fed you. I lit some candles while she found your Santa hat. I flipped the switch on the Brio train that circles around the tree and turned on our Bing Crosby album. She gathered a blanket and set it down by the mantle.
We all converged at the foot of the tree.
Bing crooned, “I’m dreaming...”
Outside, two-foot icicles hung from the roof.
And inside, we set to work opening our gifts.
Your mother made me a book with 12 months of family activities. In April, we’ll take a hike up Immigration Canyon. In May, we’ll take a family raft trip on the reservoir. In September, we’ll visit Arches National Park.
For her, I painted a picture of the two of you, working from a photo that I took when you were just a few months old.
You gave me a drawing — your very first with color crayons. (Someday I’m sure I’ll be able to sell it for a million bucks, but I won’t.)
I gave you a book, my first work of fiction (well, other than all that drivel I write for the newspaper each day.) It’s not quite complete yet, and my goal is to have it done by your birthday. In the meantime, I’ve given you a draft of the first six chapters. Another 20 chapters are in my computer, waiting for some minor revisions. And there’s still nine or 10 chapters in my head, waiting for inspiration. Writing this story has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. And keeping it a secret from your mother has been nearly as difficult.
Your mother made you a blanket, silky on one side, fleece on the other, with ribbons and tags of all shapes and textures on the edges. You love it!
But the best gift of all was the joy we felt, sharing this day with you. I've always enjoyed Christmas, but never so much as I did this morning with you and your mother.
Thank you, my precious little girl. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
It’s 7:30 a.m. now, and we’re all back in bed. Bing has run through his entire Christmas repertoire. The Brio train has run out of steam. The candles have been snuffed out.
You’re curled up in your mother’s arms with you new blanket. She’s reading your book.
And I’m ready for a nap.
Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas.
Love,
dad
Friday, June 1, 2007
SOFT BLUE HAZE
Dear Spike:
As I write this, you’re sleeping in my arms — a very real and rare privilege for me over the past few days.
You spend a lot of time at rest, but per your doctor’s orders, it is mostly in a “home bili light” that has been set up on your mother’s dresser. It’s a funny contraption: a baby blue suitcase, about two feet long, that opens like a tanning bed — with two long blue florescent bulbs running down the center. At night, it sets our bedroom in a soft blue haze.
When you’re not sleeping in the box, which is supposed to help with your jaundice, you are usually at your mother’s breast. You’ve been so hungry in the past few days and that is a wonderful sign that you are growing increasingly healthy and strong.
Alas, that has left little time for me and you to simply be together, and so I’ve spent many hours at the side of your box, peeking in (sometimes with sunglasses) at your tiny bare body.
Even is such a surreal setting, you are so beautiful. I marvel at your tiny features, your soft hair and your every delicate breath.
And I pine for when holding you is no longer such a rare treat.
Love,
dad
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