Dear Spike:
You've yet to perfect the pronunciation of the letter 'f,' so when your mother and I asked you where you wanted to go for a hike today, we were having some trouble understanding your answer.
"In the sorest," you said.
"The what?"
"The sorest."
"Um... the source?"
"No, the sorest."
"Can you say it again?"
Finally you grew frustrated and took a long contemplative pause.
"The woods," you finally said. "In the woods."
Even after you perfect your phonemes, there are going to be times in which intellectual, linguistic, social, cultural or technological barriers are going to prevent successful communication with those around you.
There's little in life more important that good communication skills. But faced with the inability to get their point across on the first try, many people just give up.
You, apparently, are not one of those people. And as a result, you're going to have access to a world that few others will.
You're going to see the sorest — and the trees.
Love,
dad
Showing posts with label words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label words. Show all posts
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
SOME MORE BREAD
Dear Spike:
You: "May I have some more bread?"
Your mom: "Hey, you took my bread!"
You: "Thank you, mommy, you are very helpful."
Love,
dad
You: "May I have some more bread?"
Your mom: "Hey, you took my bread!"
You: "Thank you, mommy, you are very helpful."
Love,
dad
Sunday, September 13, 2009
A DIFFERENT PLEA
Dear Spike:
Your mother and I took turns corralling you back into bed tonight.
Each time, you reemerged at the door of your bedroom in your two-sizes-too-big piggy pajamas and carrying a different combination of blankets, pillows and stuffed animals in your arms.
And each time, when we'd scoop you up and put you back into your bed, you'd try a different plea, pitch or protest.
My personal favorite of the night: "No, daddy. I don't want to be independent!"
Love,
dad
Your mother and I took turns corralling you back into bed tonight.
Each time, you reemerged at the door of your bedroom in your two-sizes-too-big piggy pajamas and carrying a different combination of blankets, pillows and stuffed animals in your arms.
And each time, when we'd scoop you up and put you back into your bed, you'd try a different plea, pitch or protest.
My personal favorite of the night: "No, daddy. I don't want to be independent!"
Love,
dad
Friday, September 11, 2009
THE SIDE EFFECTS
Dear Spike:
One of the side effects of being tired is feeling crabby.
One of the side effects of being a toddler is the inability to say certain words.
Which is why you've been trotting around the house, all day, saying, "I'm crappy. I'm crappy! I'm crappy!!!"
Love,
dad
One of the side effects of being tired is feeling crabby.
One of the side effects of being a toddler is the inability to say certain words.
Which is why you've been trotting around the house, all day, saying, "I'm crappy. I'm crappy! I'm crappy!!!"
Love,
dad
Saturday, September 5, 2009
A BALL GOWN
Dear Spike:
You: "What's this, mama?"
Your mother: "That's a ball gown."
You: "A ball gown?"
Your mother: "That's right. Where do you think you might wear a ball gown?"
You: "To the ball game!"
Love,
dad
You: "What's this, mama?"
Your mother: "That's a ball gown."
You: "A ball gown?"
Your mother: "That's right. Where do you think you might wear a ball gown?"
You: "To the ball game!"
Love,
dad
Sunday, August 23, 2009
ON IDIOT FATHERS
Dear Spike:
I was waiting for a set of fishing licenses at the sporting good's counter at K-Mart. You were admiring a display case full of BB guns. Your mom was elsewhere in the store.
"You like those?" I asked you while the kid behind the counter punched my info into his computer. "I think you should tell your mother when she gets back that you want a BB gun."
"I want a BB gun?" you asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Say it just like that."
"I want a BB gun," you repeated.
"Perfect. Say that and watch: Your mother's face will turn red and smoke will come out of her ears!"
You thought about this for half-a-second and decided you didn't like that idea whatsoever. Your chin began to tremble. And then you began to cry. And then you began to scream.
"Nooooooooooo!" you wailed. "No smoke out of mama's ears!!!!!"
I have wonderful, bright and extremely sensitive daughter — who takes everything I say litterally. And even though I know this, I still managed to implant in your head an image that could scarcely be more terrifying.
Attention K-Mart Shoppers: We've got a sale on idiot fathers in sporting goods.
Your mom was on scene in seconds. I stuttered out an explanation. But I'm sure something got lost in the translation.
"Nooooooooooo!" you continued to scream and she swept you up into her arms and carried you out of the store as I continued to wait for our fishing tags. "Nooooooooooo!"
The kid behind the counter tried to rush through the rest of the process so that I could go out and face the music, but in his haste he kept hitting the wrong buttons, freezing the computer and forcing him to start all over again.
You were still sobbing when I got back to the car, 10 minutes later. You begged for me to hold you.
"She's terrified of me," you mom said, graciously not adding the words "thanks a lot, moron."
"She keeps telling me that she's sorry and that she doesn't want a BB gun," she said.
"Nooooooooooo!" you screamed. "No BB gun. No BB gun!"
I tried to console you. I rocked you in my arms and patted you on the back and apologized profusely for my use of cartoonish metaphors. All to no avail. Your shrill screams echoed off the building's cinderblock walls.
Meanwhile, a parade of shoppers did their best to pretend not to stare at us as they came and went from the parking lot. There is nothing worse that getting tut-tutted by K-Mart customers.
Finally, blessedly, you passed out in the car. And I drove toward the lake in complete silence for the next 15 minutes.
Your mother sat the the back of the car and — continuing her graciousness when we finally did begin to talk again — didn't bring up the fact that her husband was a complete moron.
Things were a bit better when you woke from your nap. We had a nice boat ride on the lake and I did my best to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the afternoon.
Sometimes I think I should just have the damn thing sewn up so I can't speak at all. But I know better, now, than to tell you something like that.
Love,
dad
I was waiting for a set of fishing licenses at the sporting good's counter at K-Mart. You were admiring a display case full of BB guns. Your mom was elsewhere in the store.
"You like those?" I asked you while the kid behind the counter punched my info into his computer. "I think you should tell your mother when she gets back that you want a BB gun."
"I want a BB gun?" you asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Say it just like that."
"I want a BB gun," you repeated.
"Perfect. Say that and watch: Your mother's face will turn red and smoke will come out of her ears!"
You thought about this for half-a-second and decided you didn't like that idea whatsoever. Your chin began to tremble. And then you began to cry. And then you began to scream.
"Nooooooooooo!" you wailed. "No smoke out of mama's ears!!!!!"
I have wonderful, bright and extremely sensitive daughter — who takes everything I say litterally. And even though I know this, I still managed to implant in your head an image that could scarcely be more terrifying.
Attention K-Mart Shoppers: We've got a sale on idiot fathers in sporting goods.
Your mom was on scene in seconds. I stuttered out an explanation. But I'm sure something got lost in the translation.
"Nooooooooooo!" you continued to scream and she swept you up into her arms and carried you out of the store as I continued to wait for our fishing tags. "Nooooooooooo!"
The kid behind the counter tried to rush through the rest of the process so that I could go out and face the music, but in his haste he kept hitting the wrong buttons, freezing the computer and forcing him to start all over again.
You were still sobbing when I got back to the car, 10 minutes later. You begged for me to hold you.
"She's terrified of me," you mom said, graciously not adding the words "thanks a lot, moron."
"She keeps telling me that she's sorry and that she doesn't want a BB gun," she said.
"Nooooooooooo!" you screamed. "No BB gun. No BB gun!"
I tried to console you. I rocked you in my arms and patted you on the back and apologized profusely for my use of cartoonish metaphors. All to no avail. Your shrill screams echoed off the building's cinderblock walls.
Meanwhile, a parade of shoppers did their best to pretend not to stare at us as they came and went from the parking lot. There is nothing worse that getting tut-tutted by K-Mart customers.
Finally, blessedly, you passed out in the car. And I drove toward the lake in complete silence for the next 15 minutes.
Your mother sat the the back of the car and — continuing her graciousness when we finally did begin to talk again — didn't bring up the fact that her husband was a complete moron.
Things were a bit better when you woke from your nap. We had a nice boat ride on the lake and I did my best to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the afternoon.
Sometimes I think I should just have the damn thing sewn up so I can't speak at all. But I know better, now, than to tell you something like that.
Love,
dad
Thursday, August 6, 2009
WHAT YOU SAID
Dear Spike:
"No door! Don't steal my butt!"
That's what you said.
No more LSD in your milk.
Love,
dad
"No door! Don't steal my butt!"
That's what you said.
No more LSD in your milk.
Love,
dad
Friday, July 3, 2009
YOUR REAL NAME
Dear Spike:
Last week, inexplicably, you demanded that we start calling you by your real name...
...
...
... Banana Dog.
"Banana Dog?" you mother asked.
"Uh huh, Banana Dog," you replied.
"Um, OK. Hello Banana Dog," she said.
"That's right!" you beamed.
This morning, you decided, you needed a new name.
"I'm Walrus the Fob," you explained.
"Um, OK," I said. "Good morning Walrus the Fob."
"Good morning, daddy," you replied.
I think I like this.
Love,
Buck Duck Brahma
Last week, inexplicably, you demanded that we start calling you by your real name...
...
...
... Banana Dog.
"Banana Dog?" you mother asked.
"Uh huh, Banana Dog," you replied.
"Um, OK. Hello Banana Dog," she said.
"That's right!" you beamed.
This morning, you decided, you needed a new name.
"I'm Walrus the Fob," you explained.
"Um, OK," I said. "Good morning Walrus the Fob."
"Good morning, daddy," you replied.
I think I like this.
Love,
Buck Duck Brahma
Thursday, January 22, 2009
JOY OF LEARNING
Dear Spike:
Today was a day of firsts for you.
For several weeks you've been convinced that the highest number in the universe is 2. Today, with a little help from some decorative wooden apples that were resting in a basket near the fireplace at a local bakery, you got all the way up to 3, which is rather good, because up until that point you were living a life devoid of odd prime numbers. Three is also a good numeral because it is the number of people in our little family, the number of chickens in our backyard and the number of meals most people eat in a day.
You also figured out how to spell your name today, which is also a very good skill to have. The ability to spell your name comes in rather handy when applying for jobs, writing letters to friends and making purchases online. It's also good for those occasions in which you lose your voice in a freak fishing accident and have to communicate with people from a quaint Maine fishing down with only the use of a little chalk board -- it'll just makes things easier if they know what to call you.
Life is full of firsts — and the joy of learning something new is not something you have to give up as you age. Do something new every day. Commit something new to your memory every waking hour. This is one of the many ways that your life can be rich and rewarding — even if you don't have three pennies to your name.
I'm proud of you.
Love,
dad
Today was a day of firsts for you.
For several weeks you've been convinced that the highest number in the universe is 2. Today, with a little help from some decorative wooden apples that were resting in a basket near the fireplace at a local bakery, you got all the way up to 3, which is rather good, because up until that point you were living a life devoid of odd prime numbers. Three is also a good numeral because it is the number of people in our little family, the number of chickens in our backyard and the number of meals most people eat in a day.
You also figured out how to spell your name today, which is also a very good skill to have. The ability to spell your name comes in rather handy when applying for jobs, writing letters to friends and making purchases online. It's also good for those occasions in which you lose your voice in a freak fishing accident and have to communicate with people from a quaint Maine fishing down with only the use of a little chalk board -- it'll just makes things easier if they know what to call you.
Life is full of firsts — and the joy of learning something new is not something you have to give up as you age. Do something new every day. Commit something new to your memory every waking hour. This is one of the many ways that your life can be rich and rewarding — even if you don't have three pennies to your name.
I'm proud of you.
Love,
dad
Sunday, January 18, 2009
OH HOLY HECK
Dear Spike:
I couldn't help but sigh when your social security card came in the mail, a few weeks after you were born. The nine digits on that baby will follow you around for the rest of your life, giving employers, insurers, creditors, educators and the government a way to keep tabs on you.
The idea that Big Brother already had you on his grid was depressing enough. But it was those first three numbers were especially depressing. Most folks don't know it, but that prefix is code for the state in which you were born.
And so, no matter where you go, what you do or what place you ultimately come to think of as your home, you will always be a...
... sigh ...
... Utahn.
Your mother and I came to Salt Lake City thinking it was a good stepping stone to somewhere else. A rest stop on the road of life. We figured we'd spend a few years here en route to another place — probably a bigger town on the west coast.
Portland would have been nice. Seattle too. San Francisco or San Diego, oh yeah.
We'd leave Los Angeles to your Aunt Kelly, but anywhere else would have been swell.
But we found a nice home here, right across the street from one of the coolest city parks in the country. We found some good friends, too. We grew to love the mountains and got used to the sweltering summers. The winters? I hardly even notice the cold anymore. And every time it snows, I glance up at the canyons, do a little fist pump, and check our bank account to see if there's enough in there for a lift ticket.
When you came along, we did some thinking about the issue and recognized that this wouldn't be too bad a place to raise a kid.
The clincher came when your mother got hired at the elementary school a few blocks away. It wasn't just the proximity. She'd found a place where she was making a difference — a place where like-minded people were teaching their guts out and where it really mattered that they were.
And yeah, the five-minute bike ride was nice, too. Suddenly, neither of us had a commute. You can't put a price on that.
I like this place. I like our life here. And if we end up staying here for the rest of our lives, I wouldn't be sad about it.
But for whatever reason, I've resisted calling myself a Utahn. Maybe it's just that the word is so funny. Maybe it's that, for whatever reason, I've long held onto the very Californian idea that being from California makes you so much cooler than being from anywhere else. And maybe it's that, for whatever reason, I really came to feel like an Oregonian during the six years I lived there — a period in which I found my calling and found your mother. (And yes, I love the rain. I love, love, love, love, love the rain.)
Or maybe it's that, for most of my life, Utah was little more than an endless plain of salt, a stinky lake, a boring desert, a place so desolate that, after being run out of every other town on the continent, a sect of religious fundamentalists managed to form its own polygamous nation without anyone really noticing or caring, because — hey — it was only Utah.
So for all the effort this state has put into re-marketing itself — and it is true, absolutely true, that Utah has "the greatest snow on Earth" — I just couldn't bring myself to call myself a Utahn.
But you? You were ...
... are ...
... forever will be ...
... oh holy heck ...
... fer goodness sake ...
... gol' dang't fetch ...
... a Utahn.
At least, that's what your social security card says. I resolved, however, to raise you up like the west-coaster I know you really are.
But there's nature...
... and there's nurture ...
... and then there is everything else.
And today you reminded me that no matter how hard your mother and I try, there will be parts of this place that will seep into your veins, that will course through your body and that will, alas, confirm that three-digit prefix is accurate.
It was no small slap in the face that all you did, to make me realize all of that, was to repeat something I said.
We were at the dinner table and your mother passed me a napkin.
"Thanks," I said, wiping the corner of my mouth. " 'preciate it."
" 'preciate it!" you repeated.
I dropped the napkin and stared at you.
" 'preciate it!" you said again. " 'preciate it!"
I shook my head. Your mother laughed hysterically. And you just beamed.
We're Utahns.
Fine.
But if you ever so much as think of cheering for BYU, you'll be out on the street faster than you can say "Provo."
Love,
dad
Thursday, December 25, 2008
MAGIC AND MAJESTY
Dear Spike:
I often wonder what Jesus Christ would think if he were to meet his modern followers. I suspect he wouldn’t be particularly proud of some of them.
In his name they judge and they hate. Sometimes they kill.
They spend millions of dollars trying to ban abortion. They pass laws to ensure homosexuals can’t marry. They even fight to make sure that the 10 Commandments get a prominent place in city parks and to protect “Merry Christmas” from being supplanted by more secular holiday salutations.
I certainly cannot tell you that those Christians who are battling to promote their evangelical agenda are wrong. Just the same, they can’t tell you they are right.
So what would Jesus do? Truth is, most of us are just guessing. As to most of the issues of our modern world, more than two millennia after Christ’s birth, there really is no clear answer.
Save this one:
Time and again, Jesus commanded his followers to love their fellow disciples, their neighbors and even their enemies.
Even if you decide not to believe in the magic and majesty of Christianity, when it comes time to choose a guidebook for your life, the words Christ spoke aren’t a bad option.
But instead of parsing his parables, seeking guidance on complicated modern issues in a 2,000-year-old book, I suggest you start with the simplest commandment he gave.
Love your neighbor.
Start with the person next door. Then move onto every person on your block. Then move onto every person in this world.
A lot of things that we overcomplicate get worked out when love is our guiding force.
For me, Christmastime is a good time to think about how well I’ve been following the Golden Rule — and to recognize that, until I get that right, I’ve got no business whatsoever trying to press my moral agenda on anyone else.
Love,
dad
I often wonder what Jesus Christ would think if he were to meet his modern followers. I suspect he wouldn’t be particularly proud of some of them.
In his name they judge and they hate. Sometimes they kill.
They spend millions of dollars trying to ban abortion. They pass laws to ensure homosexuals can’t marry. They even fight to make sure that the 10 Commandments get a prominent place in city parks and to protect “Merry Christmas” from being supplanted by more secular holiday salutations.
I certainly cannot tell you that those Christians who are battling to promote their evangelical agenda are wrong. Just the same, they can’t tell you they are right.
So what would Jesus do? Truth is, most of us are just guessing. As to most of the issues of our modern world, more than two millennia after Christ’s birth, there really is no clear answer.
Save this one:
Time and again, Jesus commanded his followers to love their fellow disciples, their neighbors and even their enemies.
Even if you decide not to believe in the magic and majesty of Christianity, when it comes time to choose a guidebook for your life, the words Christ spoke aren’t a bad option.
But instead of parsing his parables, seeking guidance on complicated modern issues in a 2,000-year-old book, I suggest you start with the simplest commandment he gave.
Love your neighbor.
Start with the person next door. Then move onto every person on your block. Then move onto every person in this world.
A lot of things that we overcomplicate get worked out when love is our guiding force.
For me, Christmastime is a good time to think about how well I’ve been following the Golden Rule — and to recognize that, until I get that right, I’ve got no business whatsoever trying to press my moral agenda on anyone else.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
WONA BONA WONA
Dear Spike:
Your version of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star:
"Tinkle, tinkle, lil'ar.
Wona bona wona wa,
Hupa bupa pupa high
soma dimon sky.
Tinkle, tinkle, lil'ar.
Wona bona wona wa."
I like it better that way.
Love,
dad
Dear Spike's Friends:
She's a bit camera shy, but I'll work on getting her to sing it on video.
Love,
spike's dad
Your version of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star:
"Tinkle, tinkle, lil'ar.
Wona bona wona wa,
Hupa bupa pupa high
soma dimon sky.
Tinkle, tinkle, lil'ar.
Wona bona wona wa."
I like it better that way.
Love,
dad
Dear Spike's Friends:
She's a bit camera shy, but I'll work on getting her to sing it on video.
Love,
spike's dad
Monday, November 17, 2008
WHATEVER AILS YOU
Dear Spike:
As a matter of parental responsibility, we always kiss your boo-boos. Being rather boo-boo prone, you get a lot of kisses. And so lately you've come to expect a little smooch to cure whatever ails you.
So when you got a splinter in your hand at the playground: "Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!"
And when you got scratched on your leg by the cat: "Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!"
And when you bumped your head on the cabinet: "Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!"
In almost every other situation, your mother and I wouldn't let you get by with demanding anything from us without so much as a "please" and then a "thank you."
But when you're in pain, we always comply. Finishing school can wait. Boo-boos can't.
But today, I really had to draw the line.
You were running around your bedroom when you lost your footing, spun around backward and fell — bum first — onto a wooden block. Unfortunately, you don't really have much of a butt to speak of, so I'm sure it smarted something fierce.
You writhed on the ground before jumping up, hand on butt, to ask for daddy's magic remedy.
"Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!" you screamed.
I looked down at you and shook my head.
"Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!" you pleaded.
"No way, Jose," I said.
"Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!" you cried.
I sighed and rolled my eyes. "Say please."
"Pleeeeeeeaaaase! Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!"
I complied. And just like that, you were all better.
My dignity? That's another story entirely.
Love,
dad
As a matter of parental responsibility, we always kiss your boo-boos. Being rather boo-boo prone, you get a lot of kisses. And so lately you've come to expect a little smooch to cure whatever ails you.
So when you got a splinter in your hand at the playground: "Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!"
And when you got scratched on your leg by the cat: "Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!"
And when you bumped your head on the cabinet: "Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!"
In almost every other situation, your mother and I wouldn't let you get by with demanding anything from us without so much as a "please" and then a "thank you."
But when you're in pain, we always comply. Finishing school can wait. Boo-boos can't.
But today, I really had to draw the line.
You were running around your bedroom when you lost your footing, spun around backward and fell — bum first — onto a wooden block. Unfortunately, you don't really have much of a butt to speak of, so I'm sure it smarted something fierce.
You writhed on the ground before jumping up, hand on butt, to ask for daddy's magic remedy.
"Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!" you screamed.
I looked down at you and shook my head.
"Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!" you pleaded.
"No way, Jose," I said.
"Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!" you cried.
I sighed and rolled my eyes. "Say please."
"Pleeeeeeeaaaase! Kiss it! Kiss it! Kiss it!"
I complied. And just like that, you were all better.
My dignity? That's another story entirely.
Love,
dad
Thursday, September 18, 2008
BOB BOB BOB
Dear Spike:
For a while now, we've been letting you watch "Bob the Builder" videos, usually in the early afternoons when you're getting restless, I'm trying to get some work done, and your mother is not quite home from school.
But it seems that in addition to your little milk problem, you've developed a significant case of Bobaholism.
As in:
Spike's Dad: "What's your name?"
Spike: "Bob."
Spike's Dad: "No, your name is not Bob."
Spike: "Bob."
Spike's Dad: "I'll give you a hint, your name starts with a..."
Spike: "Bob."
Spike's Dad: "That's not even a letter."
Spike: "Bob. Bob. Bob."
Spike's Dad: "If I let you watch Bob, will you stop saying Bob?"
Spike: (Nods solemnly.)
Spike's Dad: "You promise?"
Spike: (Eyes wide. Continues to nod solemnly.)
Spike's Dad: "OK. But just one episode."
Spike: (chin trembling.)
Spike's Dad: "Don't do that."
Spike: (chin trembling.)
Spike's Dad: "Oh please don't do that."
Spike: "Bob Bob?"
Spike's Dad: "No, just one Bob."
Spike: "Bob. Bob. Bob?"
Spike's Dad: "No. No. No."
Spike: "Bob. Bob. Bob, Bob, Bob!"
Spike's Dad: "OK. Forget it. No Bob."
Spike: (chin trembling) "No Bob?"
Spike's Dad: "Don't do that."
Spike: "Love-oo daddy?"
Spike's Dad: "That's not fair."
Spike: "Love-oo! Love-oo daddy!"
Spike's Dad: "That's SO not fair."
Spike: "Love-oo daddy... ... ... ... Bob?"
This afternoon your Auntie Sue came over to watch you while your mother was in a night class. I showed her where your food was, where your toys were and, finally, where the computer was hidden...
Spike's Dad: Here's the computer. If she get crabby and there's just nothing else that works, feel free to put on a B--O--B video.
Spike: Bob!?
Auntie Sue: She can spell?
Spike's Dad: (sighs) Um, apparently so.
Spike: (proudly) Bob! Bob! Bob, Bob, Bob!
Love,
dad
P.S. — You mother just now...
Spike's Mom: (reading over Spike's Dad's shoulder) "She did not say 'Love-oo Daddy,' did she?"
Spike's Dad: (unhappily) "Yes. As a matter of fact she did."
Spike's Mom: (laughing) "She said that just to get her way?"
Spike's Dad: "Yes. And I'm adding a new word to label the blog posts..."
Spike's Mom: "What?"
Spike's Dad: "Manipulation."
Spike's Mom: (smiling broadly) "She's SOOOOOO my child!"
Monday, September 8, 2008
I SAID IT
Dear Spike:
I think we've discovered a new species of fauna: Porifera verbum: the word sponge.
You've picked up so many new words in the past two weeks, I'm afraid your little head is going to explode like a volcano full of molten dictionary entires. . .
"What's this Spike?" "Pillow!"
"What's that Spike?" "Tail!"
"What's this Spike?" "Chair!"
"What's that Spike?" "Plum!"
"What's this Spike?" "Hat!"
Ka-Boom!
Because you're so quick on the uptake, you mother and I have taken to spelling out almost everything, lest you get too happy, sad, angry or excited about what you hear us talking about. This does, however, have the potential to create certain problems. . .
Mom: "Is Spike going to go to the B-A-B-Y-S-I-T-T-E-R today?"
Dad: "The what?"
Mom: "The B-A-B-Y-S-I-T-T-E-R."
Dad: "Um, slow down a bit."
Mom: "B---A---B---"
Dad: "D?"
Mom: "No B"
Dad: "OK."
Mom: "Y--S--"
Dad: "Y? S? I thought the word started with a B?"
Mom: "It does, I'm starting from the middle."
Dad: "You've lost me... start from the beginning again..."
Mom: "B---A---B---Y---S---I---"
Dad: "Oh! Babysitter."
Spike: "Sitter! Sitter! No! No! No, bye bye! No!"
Dad: "Shit"
Mom: "Hey! Don't say that!"
Dad: Say what?
Mom: "S-H-I-T"
Dad: "Shit?"
Spike: "Shit?"
Dad: "Uh oh."
Mom: "Well that's wonderful."
Dad: "Um... sit! sit! Sit down Spike! Sit!"
Mom: "She's not a dog!"
Spike: "Shit!"
Dad: "Uh fu..."
Mom: "Matt!"
Dad: "I didn't say it! I stopped before I said it!"
Spike: "It! Shit!"
Dad" "Sit!"
Mom: "It's too late"
Dad: "No it's not! Sit, Spike! Sit!"
Mom: "She is not a dog!"
Dad: "Spit?"
Mom: "Oh yeah, that's much better."
Dad: "Grit?"
Spike: "Shit! Shit! Shit!"
Dad: "Bugger!"
Mom: "Great, now you're teaching her to swear in British?"
Dad: "Who cares? We don't live in England."
Mom: "We could someday"
Spike: "Shit!"
Dad: "Bugger!"
Spike: "Bugga!"
Mom: "Oh great, now she can swear in two languages!"
Dad: "Really, it's just one language."
Mom: "Oh crap!"
Spike: "Crap!"
Love,
dad
I think we've discovered a new species of fauna: Porifera verbum: the word sponge.
You've picked up so many new words in the past two weeks, I'm afraid your little head is going to explode like a volcano full of molten dictionary entires. . .
"What's this Spike?" "Pillow!"
"What's that Spike?" "Tail!"
"What's this Spike?" "Chair!"
"What's that Spike?" "Plum!"
"What's this Spike?" "Hat!"
Ka-Boom!
Because you're so quick on the uptake, you mother and I have taken to spelling out almost everything, lest you get too happy, sad, angry or excited about what you hear us talking about. This does, however, have the potential to create certain problems. . .
Mom: "Is Spike going to go to the B-A-B-Y-S-I-T-T-E-R today?"
Dad: "The what?"
Mom: "The B-A-B-Y-S-I-T-T-E-R."
Dad: "Um, slow down a bit."
Mom: "B---A---B---"
Dad: "D?"
Mom: "No B"
Dad: "OK."
Mom: "Y--S--"
Dad: "Y? S? I thought the word started with a B?"
Mom: "It does, I'm starting from the middle."
Dad: "You've lost me... start from the beginning again..."
Mom: "B---A---B---Y---S---I---"
Dad: "Oh! Babysitter."
Spike: "Sitter! Sitter! No! No! No, bye bye! No!"
Dad: "Shit"
Mom: "Hey! Don't say that!"
Dad: Say what?
Mom: "S-H-I-T"
Dad: "Shit?"
Spike: "Shit?"
Dad: "Uh oh."
Mom: "Well that's wonderful."
Dad: "Um... sit! sit! Sit down Spike! Sit!"
Mom: "She's not a dog!"
Spike: "Shit!"
Dad: "Uh fu..."
Mom: "Matt!"
Dad: "I didn't say it! I stopped before I said it!"
Spike: "It! Shit!"
Dad" "Sit!"
Mom: "It's too late"
Dad: "No it's not! Sit, Spike! Sit!"
Mom: "She is not a dog!"
Dad: "Spit?"
Mom: "Oh yeah, that's much better."
Dad: "Grit?"
Spike: "Shit! Shit! Shit!"
Dad: "Bugger!"
Mom: "Great, now you're teaching her to swear in British?"
Dad: "Who cares? We don't live in England."
Mom: "We could someday"
Spike: "Shit!"
Dad: "Bugger!"
Spike: "Bugga!"
Mom: "Oh great, now she can swear in two languages!"
Dad: "Really, it's just one language."
Mom: "Oh crap!"
Spike: "Crap!"
Love,
dad
Friday, July 18, 2008
HAS THE VOCAB
Dear Spike:
You're a talkative little girl. I suppose you take after you dad in that way.
Just to be sure you don't take after your dad (who did time in the Navy and has the vocab to prove it) in other ways, your mother and I are on a no-swearing campaign. And let me tell you, it's fucking hard.
Oops.
So far, at least, our vow against cursing in your presence seems to be working. You probably know 50 words now — and not one of them will get you sent to the principal's office.
As you'll hear from me many times, there is a time and a place for everything — ever cussin'.
But the truth is, most of us swear far more than we need to. And curse words are mostly laziness disguised as edginess.
The language we've inherited from our ancestors can be quite a pretty thing. And ne'er have I head it prettier spoken than when it is spoken by you.
You know enough of your body parts now for a good old fashioned game of Simon Says. Starting with the chickens in our backyard, you've added quite a few farm animals to your vocabulary. And thanks to our family pass for the Salt Lake City Zoo, you know the names of a few more exotic animals, too.
You know "up" and "down." And "peek-a-boo." And because you have a really bad habit of picking things up off the ground and stuffing them into your mouth, you also know the word "yuck."
You know your name. And your mom's. And once in a while, you say my name, too (though mostly, these days, you just want your mother.)
And this week, a breakthrough of magnificent proportions: You know the word "potty." Oh thank you, dear God, you know the word "potty."
Moreover, you're using it in the future tense. As in "I need to go," not "I just went."
Funny thing, that a word like "potty" could sound so pretty. But it does. Yes it does.
Our language is lovely in that way. In proper context, even the most scatalogical of words can sound quite beautiful.
Which is why I won't tell you that you cannot use any of the words that George Carlin, heaven bless his sinful soul, made famous with his "Seven words you can never say on television" schtick.
But yes, there's a time and a place for everything. And if you're uncertain whether you've come upon that time and place, you might just want to keep it clean.
Love,
dad
You're a talkative little girl. I suppose you take after you dad in that way.
Just to be sure you don't take after your dad (who did time in the Navy and has the vocab to prove it) in other ways, your mother and I are on a no-swearing campaign. And let me tell you, it's fucking hard.
Oops.
So far, at least, our vow against cursing in your presence seems to be working. You probably know 50 words now — and not one of them will get you sent to the principal's office.
As you'll hear from me many times, there is a time and a place for everything — ever cussin'.
But the truth is, most of us swear far more than we need to. And curse words are mostly laziness disguised as edginess.
The language we've inherited from our ancestors can be quite a pretty thing. And ne'er have I head it prettier spoken than when it is spoken by you.
You know enough of your body parts now for a good old fashioned game of Simon Says. Starting with the chickens in our backyard, you've added quite a few farm animals to your vocabulary. And thanks to our family pass for the Salt Lake City Zoo, you know the names of a few more exotic animals, too.
You know "up" and "down." And "peek-a-boo." And because you have a really bad habit of picking things up off the ground and stuffing them into your mouth, you also know the word "yuck."
You know your name. And your mom's. And once in a while, you say my name, too (though mostly, these days, you just want your mother.)
And this week, a breakthrough of magnificent proportions: You know the word "potty." Oh thank you, dear God, you know the word "potty."
Moreover, you're using it in the future tense. As in "I need to go," not "I just went."
Funny thing, that a word like "potty" could sound so pretty. But it does. Yes it does.
Our language is lovely in that way. In proper context, even the most scatalogical of words can sound quite beautiful.
Which is why I won't tell you that you cannot use any of the words that George Carlin, heaven bless his sinful soul, made famous with his "Seven words you can never say on television" schtick.
But yes, there's a time and a place for everything. And if you're uncertain whether you've come upon that time and place, you might just want to keep it clean.
Love,
dad
Sunday, July 13, 2008
OUT FOR GAK
Dear Spike:
All day long you've been crying out for "Gak."
Sometimes, in this awkward stage in which you're picking up new words faster than we can keep up with your unique pronunciations, we simply don't know what the heck you're talking about. But sadly, I understand this one...
You want your grandmother.
My parents spent the past 10 days with us, first here in Salt Lake City and then down in Los Angeles, where we all visited your Aunt Kelly. Then, yesterday afternoon, we parted ways between Gates 3 and 5 at the L.A. airport.
I'll admit, I was ready to see them get on the plane.
I love my parents. They're my best friends. And seeing them as often as we have over the past 13 months — after nearly 10 years in which I only got to see them once or twice a year — has been wonderful. But I've also grown accustomed to having a fair amount of space. And, quite frankly, I think I wear on them, too.
You're a different story, though. Over the past few months, especially, you've developed a lovely relationship with your grandparents, who call you every Sunday afternoon to chat on the Webcam and come to Utah to visit you at least once every couple months. (Such is the burden of being a first grandchild — and don't expect any different if you decide to give them their first great-grandchild, someday.)
So it is that you have decided, at least where it concerned your grandmother, it was time for a name.
Enter "Gak."
She didn't seem to mind that the name you chose sounds like the sound you make when you're choking on your morning oatmeal.
And I didn't think much of it until today, when you woke up and "Gak" was one of the first words out of your mouth.
"Sorry kid, she's gone home," I told you.
You looked up at me like I was talking in Farsi.
And I understood. In baby time, 10 days is a very, very long time. You might not even remember a time when your grandparents weren't all up in your Kool-Aid all day long.
You'll see them again in a few months. And, of course, you'll see them on the computer screen sooner than that.
Until then, my little friend, you're stuck with your mother and me.
Love,
dad
All day long you've been crying out for "Gak."
Sometimes, in this awkward stage in which you're picking up new words faster than we can keep up with your unique pronunciations, we simply don't know what the heck you're talking about. But sadly, I understand this one...
You want your grandmother.
My parents spent the past 10 days with us, first here in Salt Lake City and then down in Los Angeles, where we all visited your Aunt Kelly. Then, yesterday afternoon, we parted ways between Gates 3 and 5 at the L.A. airport.
I'll admit, I was ready to see them get on the plane.
I love my parents. They're my best friends. And seeing them as often as we have over the past 13 months — after nearly 10 years in which I only got to see them once or twice a year — has been wonderful. But I've also grown accustomed to having a fair amount of space. And, quite frankly, I think I wear on them, too.
You're a different story, though. Over the past few months, especially, you've developed a lovely relationship with your grandparents, who call you every Sunday afternoon to chat on the Webcam and come to Utah to visit you at least once every couple months. (Such is the burden of being a first grandchild — and don't expect any different if you decide to give them their first great-grandchild, someday.)
So it is that you have decided, at least where it concerned your grandmother, it was time for a name.
Enter "Gak."
She didn't seem to mind that the name you chose sounds like the sound you make when you're choking on your morning oatmeal.
And I didn't think much of it until today, when you woke up and "Gak" was one of the first words out of your mouth.
"Sorry kid, she's gone home," I told you.
You looked up at me like I was talking in Farsi.
And I understood. In baby time, 10 days is a very, very long time. You might not even remember a time when your grandparents weren't all up in your Kool-Aid all day long.
You'll see them again in a few months. And, of course, you'll see them on the computer screen sooner than that.
Until then, my little friend, you're stuck with your mother and me.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
EXPRESS IT ALL
Dear Spike:
I wonder, sometimes, what it all must be like for you.
It must have been terrifying, those first few days in this bright, cold world — like being thrown into a pool of freezing water. Electrifying. Breathtaking. Mind numbing.
And then, when you said your first words — calling for your mother, realizing as you did so that your lips and tongue and throat had purposes beyond eating, drinking and screaming — my God, what a surreal moment that must have been.
And now, an explosion of comprehension. You're talking to us. Listening to us. Signing what you cannot say. Sharing ideas. Following directions. Asking questions — one simple word at a time.
Yes, I can tell — there is still so much in your sweet little head that you'd like to express. You're just not sure of how, quite yet. How frightening and frustrating it must be to know what you want and know what you need and know there is a way — some way — to express it all...
...
...
... and yet, to be unable to do so.
I'm sorry to tell you, it never quite goes away. I still feel this way sometimes — as though this awkward, exhausting, guttoral thing we call language is simply insufficient for every emotion that passes through our mind or strikes us through our heart.
Don't worry, little one. As you grow, you will get better at finding the best words — as imperfect as best may be.
or right now, we'll keep working on "nose" and "ear" and "mouth." We'll learn the signs for "up" and "down." We'll laugh and sing those Sesame Street songs that will never, ever, ever leave your mind.
And when you get tired... when you get frustrated... when you get frightened... we'll sit together in silence, sharing a moment no words could describe.
And I'll wonder what it all must be like for you.
Love,
dad
I wonder, sometimes, what it all must be like for you.
It must have been terrifying, those first few days in this bright, cold world — like being thrown into a pool of freezing water. Electrifying. Breathtaking. Mind numbing.
And then, when you said your first words — calling for your mother, realizing as you did so that your lips and tongue and throat had purposes beyond eating, drinking and screaming — my God, what a surreal moment that must have been.
And now, an explosion of comprehension. You're talking to us. Listening to us. Signing what you cannot say. Sharing ideas. Following directions. Asking questions — one simple word at a time.
Yes, I can tell — there is still so much in your sweet little head that you'd like to express. You're just not sure of how, quite yet. How frightening and frustrating it must be to know what you want and know what you need and know there is a way — some way — to express it all...
...
...
... and yet, to be unable to do so.
I'm sorry to tell you, it never quite goes away. I still feel this way sometimes — as though this awkward, exhausting, guttoral thing we call language is simply insufficient for every emotion that passes through our mind or strikes us through our heart.
Don't worry, little one. As you grow, you will get better at finding the best words — as imperfect as best may be.
or right now, we'll keep working on "nose" and "ear" and "mouth." We'll learn the signs for "up" and "down." We'll laugh and sing those Sesame Street songs that will never, ever, ever leave your mind.
And when you get tired... when you get frustrated... when you get frightened... we'll sit together in silence, sharing a moment no words could describe.
And I'll wonder what it all must be like for you.
Love,
dad
Sunday, June 15, 2008
YOUR FAVORITE WORD
Dear Spike:
How did your favorite word become "no"? How did that happen?
Oh Lord, we're in for it.
Love,
dad
P.S. — Some other words you know: dog, cat, mama, dada, up, done, more, kiss, dog, cat, elephant, cheese, balloon, boom, bounce, bottle, book, chicken, milk, butt, fish, head, tummy and tri-pod. Yes, tri-pod.
How did your favorite word become "no"? How did that happen?
Oh Lord, we're in for it.
Love,
dad
P.S. — Some other words you know: dog, cat, mama, dada, up, done, more, kiss, dog, cat, elephant, cheese, balloon, boom, bounce, bottle, book, chicken, milk, butt, fish, head, tummy and tri-pod. Yes, tri-pod.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
BUTT BUTT BUTT
Dear Spike:
You don't have a lot of words.
You say "mama" a lot. And "phapa" (dad?) sometimes.
Occassionally you ask to be picked "up" and once in a while, when we leave the grocery store or a friend's home, you say "bye bye."
And that was about it until late last week, when just after a bath, your mother and I were commenting on what a cute little bottom you have.
"Butt!" you cried.
"What?!" we asked.
"Butt! Butt! Butt!!!!!!" you squealed.
The average adult knows tens of thousands of words. And so I realize that this is just one of many, many words you will one day come to use in conversation. So I don't mind — not really.
After all, we've all got one. And I suppose you're going to need to know what to call it.
Love,
dad
You don't have a lot of words.
You say "mama" a lot. And "phapa" (dad?) sometimes.
Occassionally you ask to be picked "up" and once in a while, when we leave the grocery store or a friend's home, you say "bye bye."
And that was about it until late last week, when just after a bath, your mother and I were commenting on what a cute little bottom you have.
"Butt!" you cried.
"What?!" we asked.
"Butt! Butt! Butt!!!!!!" you squealed.
The average adult knows tens of thousands of words. And so I realize that this is just one of many, many words you will one day come to use in conversation. So I don't mind — not really.
After all, we've all got one. And I suppose you're going to need to know what to call it.
Love,
dad
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