Dear Spike:
A few weeks ago, your mother brought home a bucket of alphabet magnets. I think they were originally intended for her classroom, but somehow they ended up on our refrigerator door.
Most people use their fridges to store food and hang their kid's finger paintings. But for us, lately, it's been the site of a never-ending brain teaser, where "I LOVE SPIKE" becomes "I SPOKE EVIL" and where "THIS IS A FRIDGE" becomes "A FRIGID THESIS."
Ah, who knew magnets could be such fun?
I suppose it's just a matter of time before you'll be playing along. Recently, you've started making simple consonant sounds. Your favorite thing to say, particularly when you're upset (but much to your mother's delight) is "ma-ma-ma-ma-ma." Sometimes you also say "pa-pa-pa-pa-pa," but only when you're sitting over the toilet. Weird.
Soon you'll be stringing more sounds together, making words, writing novels and giving speeches before the United Nations General Assembly.
Or, I suppose, we can just start with your ABCs and see where things go from there.
Love,
dad
Did you know that the words "Dear Spike Love Dad" can be mixed into hundreds of other words? My favorite, so far: "A Dead Devils Poker." What can you come up with?
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
AN INSIDE STRAIGHT
Spike's friends are very thankful for Thomas Edison and his amazing light bulb. Thanks for voting. Spike's latest poll is to the right. As they say at the Diebold headquarters in North Canton, Ohio: "Never mind that this election is rigged. It looks like democracy, and that's good enough."
Dear Spike:
It’s anecdotal at best, but you appear to enjoy poker — and specifically seven-card stud. You and I played a bit online today while waiting for a friend at the coffee shop, and while we took a small loss on an ugly beat (we had trip Aces going into the river, when our opponent caught an inside straight) it was fascinating to watch you watching the cards as they fell into place on our virtual table.
I can’t say for certain that you understood everything that was going on. You are only six months old, after all. I don’t expect you to know the odds of pocket pairs versus suited connector overcards until you’re at least eight or nine months old. (It’s pretty much a coin flip, by the way.) Still, I find it highly auspicious that we already seem to share some interests (I mean other than your mother’s breasts.)
When I was a teenager and my father and I agreed on very little, we could still often be found plopped on the couch, late at night, laughing at M*A*S*H reruns. Maybe it wasn’t exactly quality time, but it was something we could share — when anything was something.
You’re not always going to like me. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee that, at some point, I’m going to be the person you dislike more than anyone in the world.
But maybe, when that time comes, you’ll still be able to find us both listening to old Beatles tunes, or making anagrams with the alphabet magnets on the kitchen fridge, or sitting across the felt from one another at the poker table.
So long as you don’t take all my money, we’ll be fine.
Love,
dad
Dear Spike:
It’s anecdotal at best, but you appear to enjoy poker — and specifically seven-card stud. You and I played a bit online today while waiting for a friend at the coffee shop, and while we took a small loss on an ugly beat (we had trip Aces going into the river, when our opponent caught an inside straight) it was fascinating to watch you watching the cards as they fell into place on our virtual table.
I can’t say for certain that you understood everything that was going on. You are only six months old, after all. I don’t expect you to know the odds of pocket pairs versus suited connector overcards until you’re at least eight or nine months old. (It’s pretty much a coin flip, by the way.) Still, I find it highly auspicious that we already seem to share some interests (I mean other than your mother’s breasts.)
When I was a teenager and my father and I agreed on very little, we could still often be found plopped on the couch, late at night, laughing at M*A*S*H reruns. Maybe it wasn’t exactly quality time, but it was something we could share — when anything was something.
You’re not always going to like me. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee that, at some point, I’m going to be the person you dislike more than anyone in the world.
But maybe, when that time comes, you’ll still be able to find us both listening to old Beatles tunes, or making anagrams with the alphabet magnets on the kitchen fridge, or sitting across the felt from one another at the poker table.
So long as you don’t take all my money, we’ll be fine.
Love,
dad
Sunday, December 2, 2007
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
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
DEAR DAD, LOVE SPIKE
Dear Dad:
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Love,
Spike
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Love,
Spike
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
JUST AS CONTENT
One day left to vote in Spike's Thanksgiving poll (to the right and down a bit.) And don't forget to write a Spiku for someone you love. (It's just like a Haiku — five syllables, seven syllables, five syllables — you can find some great ones to the right and down a little less bit.)
— Spike's Dad
Dear Spike:
The snow came today. It was nearly a month late but, like a good friend, no one minded once it was here.
That was particularly true as it began to look as though it would be sticking around for a while. Here, we’ve learned not to count the inches that fall to the ground, but rather those that stick to it. And today the snow is sticking.
This is your first snow, and although I wanted to keep you warm as I took you to the car this afternoon, I couldn’t help but pull back the blanket in which you were wrapped so that a few flakes could fall on your nose and your cheeks. You flinched and sniffled and giggled. And then you smiled.
And then you cried. Too wet. Too cold. Too strange.
Later, your mother took you on a walk, knocking the frost from the neighbor’s bushes as she went so that you could watch the leaves turn from white to green. I watched from my office window as you tromped through the powder together. You didn’t look particularly happy, but it was clear that you were interested in all the ways the world had changed.
Your mother, on the other hand — I’ve never seen her happier than she was as she marched you in circles and zigzag patterns through our yard. And for me, it was such a joy just watching you two play.
I sometimes wonder how many of the things that we do for you we’re really doing for ourselves. When we dress you, we choose outfits that we think you look cute in, though you’re just as content in a pair of socks and nothing else. We try to keep you entertained with a variety of toys, but you’re often more fascinated by a handful of your mother’s hair or the buttons on my shirt.
Still, I’ve noticed that you seem happiest when we feel happiest. Our relationship is symbiotic in that way, even if it is a bit illusionary.
And that’s OK, I think.
The things that make us happy don’t have to make sense. They simply have to make us happy.
Maybe that helps explain the snow. Because really, you know, you’re initial observation is right: It’s wet and cold and strange.
And yet it makes so many of us so very happy.
Go figure.
Love,
dad
— Spike's Dad
Dear Spike:
The snow came today. It was nearly a month late but, like a good friend, no one minded once it was here.
That was particularly true as it began to look as though it would be sticking around for a while. Here, we’ve learned not to count the inches that fall to the ground, but rather those that stick to it. And today the snow is sticking.
This is your first snow, and although I wanted to keep you warm as I took you to the car this afternoon, I couldn’t help but pull back the blanket in which you were wrapped so that a few flakes could fall on your nose and your cheeks. You flinched and sniffled and giggled. And then you smiled.
And then you cried. Too wet. Too cold. Too strange.
Later, your mother took you on a walk, knocking the frost from the neighbor’s bushes as she went so that you could watch the leaves turn from white to green. I watched from my office window as you tromped through the powder together. You didn’t look particularly happy, but it was clear that you were interested in all the ways the world had changed.
Your mother, on the other hand — I’ve never seen her happier than she was as she marched you in circles and zigzag patterns through our yard. And for me, it was such a joy just watching you two play.
I sometimes wonder how many of the things that we do for you we’re really doing for ourselves. When we dress you, we choose outfits that we think you look cute in, though you’re just as content in a pair of socks and nothing else. We try to keep you entertained with a variety of toys, but you’re often more fascinated by a handful of your mother’s hair or the buttons on my shirt.
Still, I’ve noticed that you seem happiest when we feel happiest. Our relationship is symbiotic in that way, even if it is a bit illusionary.
And that’s OK, I think.
The things that make us happy don’t have to make sense. They simply have to make us happy.
Maybe that helps explain the snow. Because really, you know, you’re initial observation is right: It’s wet and cold and strange.
And yet it makes so many of us so very happy.
Go figure.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
SPIKU
Announcing the first semi-regular "Spiku" contest. Write a haiku for Spike (or any kid you love) and post it here. Winner gets a trip to Las Vegas. Or something else.
Dear Spike:
Today you are six months old. I wrote you a poem:
Spiku
Six months. Summer. Fall.
Now, with winter upon us,
Joy, my girl, such joy.
Love,
dad
Dear Spike:
Today you are six months old. I wrote you a poem:
Spiku
Six months. Summer. Fall.
Now, with winter upon us,
Joy, my girl, such joy.
Love,
dad
Sunday, November 25, 2007
AS WE CHANGE
Dear Spike:
Before we met, your mother had never had a corn dog, never seen an episode of M*A*S*H, and never left the borders of the United States of America.
I’d never slept under a feather comforter, never understood the value of a good set of pajamas and never apologized to anyone and really meant it.
We’ve changed a lot, these last few years. And now we’re changing more than ever. And you’re changing too — so much and so fast.
You learned to twist your tiny body today — like a miniature Chubby Checker. Later we went to the park, and you had your first swing. These aren’t big changes. But they’re first steps toward big changes.
Some people think that when you love someone, it means you accept them just the way they are. And that is true.
But love also means accepting one another as we change — and we all change, all the time. Love means allowing yourself to be changed, too.
And love means accepting one another as we come to be whoever we come to be.
I love you, Spike, in ways so deep and so vast that I sometimes wonder whether I’ve finally met my capacity for love, like a runner who takes one final stride and, with that step, simply can run no further.
But tomorrow you will change — if only a little bit — and when you do I will love you more than I do today. And the next day, again. And the next day, again.
And the next day, again.
Love,
dad
Friday, November 23, 2007
MUST BRING CHAOS
Dear Spike:
Finally, Friday.
Even with a day off for Thanksgiving this week, the days seemed to drag on and on. I’ve never been a live-for-the-weekend kind of guy, but these days it often feels as though I’m under water, all week long, just counting the seconds before I get to come up for air on Friday evening.
That’s when the three of us get together, hop in the big bed, sometimes order a pizza, and pop a movie into the DVD player.
Tonight was a bit different. About once every four or five months, your mother decides she “just can’t take it anymore,” and embarks upon a cleaning project so vast that we often must bring chaos to the entire home in order to bring it back into order.
Today’s project: Our bedroom closet (and in particular, my rather slovenly side of it. By the time I’d returned from work, this evening, your mother had completely emptied the closet onto the hallway floor. We spent the next three hours matching socks, tossing clothing that we no longer wear into giveaway bags and creating a latest, greatest system of organization that this time — this time for sure — will help me keep my side of the closet neat and tidy for more than a few weeks.
The best part of the night: Watching your mother try on dresses that she hasn’t fit into since she got pregnant. Just under six months after giving birth, she’s back into all of her old clothes. She looks fantastic and, I think, she is very proud about getting back into shape while also juggling work (her job is ten times tougher than mine) and mommydom — and occasionally doing things like emptying our entire bedroom closet.
I know you don’t know to be both proud of and humbled by your mother yet — but I know you will be someday. I certainly am.
Love,
dad
Finally, Friday.
Even with a day off for Thanksgiving this week, the days seemed to drag on and on. I’ve never been a live-for-the-weekend kind of guy, but these days it often feels as though I’m under water, all week long, just counting the seconds before I get to come up for air on Friday evening.
That’s when the three of us get together, hop in the big bed, sometimes order a pizza, and pop a movie into the DVD player.
Tonight was a bit different. About once every four or five months, your mother decides she “just can’t take it anymore,” and embarks upon a cleaning project so vast that we often must bring chaos to the entire home in order to bring it back into order.
Today’s project: Our bedroom closet (and in particular, my rather slovenly side of it. By the time I’d returned from work, this evening, your mother had completely emptied the closet onto the hallway floor. We spent the next three hours matching socks, tossing clothing that we no longer wear into giveaway bags and creating a latest, greatest system of organization that this time — this time for sure — will help me keep my side of the closet neat and tidy for more than a few weeks.
The best part of the night: Watching your mother try on dresses that she hasn’t fit into since she got pregnant. Just under six months after giving birth, she’s back into all of her old clothes. She looks fantastic and, I think, she is very proud about getting back into shape while also juggling work (her job is ten times tougher than mine) and mommydom — and occasionally doing things like emptying our entire bedroom closet.
I know you don’t know to be both proud of and humbled by your mother yet — but I know you will be someday. I certainly am.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
I AM THANKFUL
LOOK! Spike has a new Thanksgiving week poll. Just glance to the right and pick your poison.
Dear Spike:
I’ve never had to struggle to come up with things for which I am thankful.
I grew up in a nice, middle-class home in the San Francisco suburbs, with parents who loved me and siblings that I count as my best friends in the world. Our grandparents lived close by. Our church family was indeed a family. Our schools were good. Our teachers cared. We were healthy and happy.
Come Thanksgiving, there was always a turkey on the table. Come Christmas, there were always presents under the tree.
When I grew up, I married a woman who is intelligent, adorable and fun. We both have careers that we enjoy and of which we are proud. We have a beautiful home that’s just a stone’s throw from one of the greatest city parks in the United States.
Things aren’t always easy. Sometimes I feel worried. Sometimes I feel sad. But I’ve seen poverty. And hunger. And pain. And hate. And violence. And so, on balance, things are good. There’s so much to be thankful for.
Especially now that you’re here.
On this day when we’re encouraged to take a moment to think about those things for which we are most thankful, I don’t even know where to begin.
I am thankful for your smile, your laugh, your screams and even your cries.
I am thankful for your soft little fingers, your tough little grip, your refusal to lie on your tummy and your persistence in learning to stand.
I am thankful for the way you sleep with your arm curled up and your fist tucked into your temple — just like your mom.
I am thankful for how big you’ve grown, having started so very small. For the way you look up at me when you sit on my lap. For the way you make heads turn at the grocery store, the library and the university.
I am thankful for the way you make me want to be a better father and a better husband. I am thankful for the way you make me want to be a better person.
I think you’ll find you’ll have plenty to be thankful for too. You’ve been born into a nice, middle-class home in Salt Lake City, with parents who love you and — who knows? — maybe someday a sibling that you’ll count as your best friend in the world.
None of your grandparents live close, but we stay in close contact and they’ll all be part of your life as you grow.
Come Thanksgiving, there always will be a turkey on the table. Come Christmas, there were always presents under the tree — handmade and heartfelt, as that’s our family’s tradition.
And come every single day of the year, you will have a father and a mother who are thankful for you — who love you unconditionally and will never hesitate to remind you it is so.
May you always have plenty for which to give thanks — so much so that you won’t even know where to begin.
Love,
dad
Dear Spike:
I’ve never had to struggle to come up with things for which I am thankful.
I grew up in a nice, middle-class home in the San Francisco suburbs, with parents who loved me and siblings that I count as my best friends in the world. Our grandparents lived close by. Our church family was indeed a family. Our schools were good. Our teachers cared. We were healthy and happy.
Come Thanksgiving, there was always a turkey on the table. Come Christmas, there were always presents under the tree.
When I grew up, I married a woman who is intelligent, adorable and fun. We both have careers that we enjoy and of which we are proud. We have a beautiful home that’s just a stone’s throw from one of the greatest city parks in the United States.
Things aren’t always easy. Sometimes I feel worried. Sometimes I feel sad. But I’ve seen poverty. And hunger. And pain. And hate. And violence. And so, on balance, things are good. There’s so much to be thankful for.
Especially now that you’re here.
On this day when we’re encouraged to take a moment to think about those things for which we are most thankful, I don’t even know where to begin.
I am thankful for your smile, your laugh, your screams and even your cries.
I am thankful for your soft little fingers, your tough little grip, your refusal to lie on your tummy and your persistence in learning to stand.
I am thankful for the way you sleep with your arm curled up and your fist tucked into your temple — just like your mom.
I am thankful for how big you’ve grown, having started so very small. For the way you look up at me when you sit on my lap. For the way you make heads turn at the grocery store, the library and the university.
I am thankful for the way you make me want to be a better father and a better husband. I am thankful for the way you make me want to be a better person.
I think you’ll find you’ll have plenty to be thankful for too. You’ve been born into a nice, middle-class home in Salt Lake City, with parents who love you and — who knows? — maybe someday a sibling that you’ll count as your best friend in the world.
None of your grandparents live close, but we stay in close contact and they’ll all be part of your life as you grow.
Come Thanksgiving, there always will be a turkey on the table. Come Christmas, there were always presents under the tree — handmade and heartfelt, as that’s our family’s tradition.
And come every single day of the year, you will have a father and a mother who are thankful for you — who love you unconditionally and will never hesitate to remind you it is so.
May you always have plenty for which to give thanks — so much so that you won’t even know where to begin.
Love,
dad
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