Dear Spike:
"Oh bother," I sighed, and grabbed you at the hips to flip you over, so that I could continue buttoning your pajamas.
You promptly flipped back onto your belly and tried to crawl away again. "Oh bother," I sighed again.
In the great, long list of ways you've changed my life, this probably wouldn't even make the Top 250.
But just for the record, I never used to say, "oh bother."
Love,
dad
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
FROM YOUR VILLAGE
Dear Spike's Friends:
Spike's first birthday will be here soon. All fretting aside about WHERE THE HELL THE PAST 10 MONTHS WENT, I would like to enlist your help in putting together THE GREATEST BIRTHDAY PRESENT OF ALL TIME.
No, it's not a pony.
So I know this is waaaaay presumptuous of me, but at least I'm not asking for cash. No, what I want is blood. Your blood. And sweat. And tears. And maybe a little bile, just for kicks.
Here's the deal: I would like to give Spike a book of letters from people all over this country and all over this world — from people who know her and from people who don't.
I think we'll call it, "Dear Spike: Letters From Your Village."
Catchy, no?
Here's how it works:
1) You write a letter to Spike. Appropriately, it will start "Dear Spike:" and end with "Love,(yourname)"
2) EVERYTHING ELSE IN THE LETTER IS UP TO YOU.
3) It can be very short or very long.
4) It can be very happy or very sad.
5) It can be very serious or very funny.
6) It can be about ANYTHING YOU WANT except...
6a) It can't be about me or Spike's mom, even if you know us.
6b) It can't be about how much you love or hate DearSpike.com, even if you really love it or hate it.
7) You send said letter, by May
8) I'll publish all the letters here at DearSpike.com.
9) I'll edit them all into one big, beautiful file.
10) I'll send them off to print.
11) Someday when Spike can read, she will receive a book written to her from people — many of whom she doesn't even know — whose stories will nonetheless touch her heart and make her laugh and make her cry and make her think and make her love and make her sigh.
12) It will be a beautiful thing.
So, OK, I know that right at this very moment, there is someone from Nottingham, England, who is saying: "Surely, this chap doesn't expect me to contribute to this bloody project."
Oh yes, I do. And I'm hoping — really, really hoping — that Spike also will receive letters from Omaha and Dublin, from Perth and Nashville, from Vancouver and Baden-Wurttemberg and Tampa and Lexington and Raleigh and Nasiriyah all the other places from which people have stumbled upon this blog and then, FOR SOME STRANGE REASON, thought it would be fun to come back again and again.
And if you know people in Bejing or Mexico City or Mumbai or Capetown or Toledo (Ohio or Spain, either way) or anywhere else on the globe and you think they'd enjoy participating in this little birthday experiment, would you invite them along?
OK, now I'm all giddy. This is so crazy, it might just work.
Love,
spike's dad
Monday, April 7, 2008
NEVER LET GO
Dear Spike:
You usually sleep in our bed on Friday nights. Sometimes on Saturdays, too. Your mother and I stay up and watch movies and you nestle right between us as Coltrane looks on from the foot of the bed, flexing his paws and, I’m sure, wondering why the hell is she in my spot?
Tonight is Monday night. You should be in your crib, in your room. And with April 15 just around the corner, your mother and I should be doing our taxes. But as your bedtime neared, this drafty old house just seemed so very cold. And, well, here you are.
You’re wearing your soft, green nightgown, the one with the little dancing bear and the shooting stars. Your hands are cocked behind your head, like a talent agent who just signed a big movie deal for his client and is about to light a fat and moderately expensive cigar to celebrate. Your feet are bare. Such pretty little feet. You’re resting on your mother’s stomach — right over the spot where you spent nine whole months, cooking away like a little pot roast until finally popping out last May, just a tad underdone.
Your mother’s reading “My Sister’s Keeper” by Jodi Picoult, who, accoridng to the photograph on the back of the book, has curly red hair and doesn’t feel the need to smile for the camera.
And I’m sitting here with my computer balanced on my knee. Tap, tap, tapping away.
Avoiding the subject. Avoiding the reason why, perhaps — no, I’m quite sure the reason why, in fact — I wanted you to come sleep with us tonight.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
They buried her today.
She was a sweet little seven year old girl. Just a bitty thing. She liked the color pink and the company of her neighbors. Her family taught her to trust the people in her communty. It takes a village, some have said.
I have said.
Hser Ner Moo wandered away from her home last Monday afternoon. Off to a friend’s home, it was assumed. By Tuesday she was dead. The man who killed her was an aquaintance of her family. The home where she died, she’d visited before. This was her village.
Back when it was merely an academic pursuit, I theorized that the measures Americans go to in order to protect their children from harm were, in fact, of greater collective detriment than the remote possibilities that harm might, in fact, be inflicted. Maybe that's still true. But tonight, all I want to do is plop a helmet on your head and safety pads on your arms and legs and teach you Kung Fu and buy you a loud whistle and get a burglar alarm for your room and tag your ear with a GPS tracking chip like they do to endangered animals.
We live right across the street from the most beautiful urban park you’ll ever see. Right across the street. There are ducks to feed and boats to ride and a carosel and a merry-go-round and the nation’s largest public aviary and tennis courts and fountains and a greenhouse and bike paths and two lovely playgrounds.
I’d always imagined that you would play there — with us nearby at first, of course, but eventually by yourself and with your friends. I imagined I would watch from the porch as your rounded the corner and disappeared. Maybe when you were seven or eight — big enough to be seen by cars and to scream loud enough for someone to hear, if need be.
But small enough to play — to learn to be independent and to handle your own conflicts with other kids. Like we used to, when I was a kid.
“I’m going to play,” I’d call over my shoulder on the way out the door.“Be back before dinner,” my mother would call back as the door slammed behind me. Most of the time, I think, she had a vague idea of where I was headed. And that was enough for her.
I’d like it to be enough for me. For you.
But how can I send you out into this village? How do I ballance my desire to help you learn about community when I don’t feel as though I truly trust our community?
So maybe not seven. Maybe not eight. Maybe not nine or 10.
Of course, tonight is a bad night to be making decisions about these things. I’m sad and hurt and heartbroken for that poor little girl’s family. The world feels like an ugly place.
And all I want to to hold you between your mother and I. Tight and close and safe.
And never let go.
Love,
dad
You usually sleep in our bed on Friday nights. Sometimes on Saturdays, too. Your mother and I stay up and watch movies and you nestle right between us as Coltrane looks on from the foot of the bed, flexing his paws and, I’m sure, wondering why the hell is she in my spot?
Tonight is Monday night. You should be in your crib, in your room. And with April 15 just around the corner, your mother and I should be doing our taxes. But as your bedtime neared, this drafty old house just seemed so very cold. And, well, here you are.
You’re wearing your soft, green nightgown, the one with the little dancing bear and the shooting stars. Your hands are cocked behind your head, like a talent agent who just signed a big movie deal for his client and is about to light a fat and moderately expensive cigar to celebrate. Your feet are bare. Such pretty little feet. You’re resting on your mother’s stomach — right over the spot where you spent nine whole months, cooking away like a little pot roast until finally popping out last May, just a tad underdone.
Your mother’s reading “My Sister’s Keeper” by Jodi Picoult, who, accoridng to the photograph on the back of the book, has curly red hair and doesn’t feel the need to smile for the camera.
And I’m sitting here with my computer balanced on my knee. Tap, tap, tapping away.
Avoiding the subject. Avoiding the reason why, perhaps — no, I’m quite sure the reason why, in fact — I wanted you to come sleep with us tonight.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
They buried her today.
She was a sweet little seven year old girl. Just a bitty thing. She liked the color pink and the company of her neighbors. Her family taught her to trust the people in her communty. It takes a village, some have said.
I have said.
Hser Ner Moo wandered away from her home last Monday afternoon. Off to a friend’s home, it was assumed. By Tuesday she was dead. The man who killed her was an aquaintance of her family. The home where she died, she’d visited before. This was her village.
Back when it was merely an academic pursuit, I theorized that the measures Americans go to in order to protect their children from harm were, in fact, of greater collective detriment than the remote possibilities that harm might, in fact, be inflicted. Maybe that's still true. But tonight, all I want to do is plop a helmet on your head and safety pads on your arms and legs and teach you Kung Fu and buy you a loud whistle and get a burglar alarm for your room and tag your ear with a GPS tracking chip like they do to endangered animals.
We live right across the street from the most beautiful urban park you’ll ever see. Right across the street. There are ducks to feed and boats to ride and a carosel and a merry-go-round and the nation’s largest public aviary and tennis courts and fountains and a greenhouse and bike paths and two lovely playgrounds.
I’d always imagined that you would play there — with us nearby at first, of course, but eventually by yourself and with your friends. I imagined I would watch from the porch as your rounded the corner and disappeared. Maybe when you were seven or eight — big enough to be seen by cars and to scream loud enough for someone to hear, if need be.
But small enough to play — to learn to be independent and to handle your own conflicts with other kids. Like we used to, when I was a kid.
“I’m going to play,” I’d call over my shoulder on the way out the door.“Be back before dinner,” my mother would call back as the door slammed behind me. Most of the time, I think, she had a vague idea of where I was headed. And that was enough for her.
I’d like it to be enough for me. For you.
But how can I send you out into this village? How do I ballance my desire to help you learn about community when I don’t feel as though I truly trust our community?
So maybe not seven. Maybe not eight. Maybe not nine or 10.
Of course, tonight is a bad night to be making decisions about these things. I’m sad and hurt and heartbroken for that poor little girl’s family. The world feels like an ugly place.
And all I want to to hold you between your mother and I. Tight and close and safe.
And never let go.
Love,
dad
Sunday, April 6, 2008
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
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
Friday, April 4, 2008
ONE MORE DAY
Dear Spike:
Sometimes, life's just going to feel like this...
One more day until the weekend.
Love,
dad
Sometimes, life's just going to feel like this...
One more day until the weekend.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
JUST THE STUFF
Dear Spike:
You will never need clothing again — or not until you're four or five, at least.
Our good friends Scott and Lesli called yesterday to say they had some clothes for you. This was exciting. A good portion of your wardrobe already comes from their beautiful daughter, Zoe, who is growing like one of those little sponge dinosaurs and has recently busted out of another set of clothing.
We knew we'd be getting some good stuff — all of Zoe's clothes are super cute — but we really had no idea that we'd be leaving with an entire truckload of baby gear.
No, really, it was quite literally a truckload.
Here's the deal: Scott and Lesli have multiple friends and relatives with little girls, just a bit older than Zoe, who handed stuff down to them. Add that stuff to all the other stuff that Zoe has accumulated from grandparents, other relatives and friends and you've pretty much won the baby hand-me-down sweepstakes.
Pajamas. Onesies. Boots. Sandals. Socks. Hats. Little baby bloomers. There's enough to fill your dresser drawers and then some — and that's just the stuff that will fit you now. There are five or six big bags and several large boxes of OTHER stuff in the basement just waiting for you to grow into.
I know you won't always want to exclusively be wearing hand-me-downs, but I do hope you never grow to think of used clothing as somehow below your dignity, as some folks seem to. One of the very great things we can do for this planet and for one another is use stuff until it’s so worn out that it simply cannot be used anymore. That goes for clothes, but it also goes for cars, computers, toys, TVs and pretty much everything else that we own.
Just because we've been blessed with the ability to replace old stuff with new, doesn't mean we need to. And we can do a lot for our world by simply sharing with our friends and neighbors, as our friends have done for us and we, in turn, will do for others.
You're going to look simply dashing in your new wardrobe.
Love,
dad
You will never need clothing again — or not until you're four or five, at least.
Our good friends Scott and Lesli called yesterday to say they had some clothes for you. This was exciting. A good portion of your wardrobe already comes from their beautiful daughter, Zoe, who is growing like one of those little sponge dinosaurs and has recently busted out of another set of clothing.
We knew we'd be getting some good stuff — all of Zoe's clothes are super cute — but we really had no idea that we'd be leaving with an entire truckload of baby gear.
No, really, it was quite literally a truckload.
Here's the deal: Scott and Lesli have multiple friends and relatives with little girls, just a bit older than Zoe, who handed stuff down to them. Add that stuff to all the other stuff that Zoe has accumulated from grandparents, other relatives and friends and you've pretty much won the baby hand-me-down sweepstakes.
Pajamas. Onesies. Boots. Sandals. Socks. Hats. Little baby bloomers. There's enough to fill your dresser drawers and then some — and that's just the stuff that will fit you now. There are five or six big bags and several large boxes of OTHER stuff in the basement just waiting for you to grow into.
I know you won't always want to exclusively be wearing hand-me-downs, but I do hope you never grow to think of used clothing as somehow below your dignity, as some folks seem to. One of the very great things we can do for this planet and for one another is use stuff until it’s so worn out that it simply cannot be used anymore. That goes for clothes, but it also goes for cars, computers, toys, TVs and pretty much everything else that we own.
Just because we've been blessed with the ability to replace old stuff with new, doesn't mean we need to. And we can do a lot for our world by simply sharing with our friends and neighbors, as our friends have done for us and we, in turn, will do for others.
You're going to look simply dashing in your new wardrobe.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
A CLEANER FREAK
Dear Spike:
The kitchen is a mess again. Really, it looks like the laboratory of a mad scientist who has decided to meld cloned human embryos with various species of mold. And he's really messy about it. And the San Francisco 49ers' entire starting offensive line is staying over at his place. And there was just a nuclear holocaust. And a fraternity party.
Your mom does the laundry. I clean the kitchen. That's the arrangement we have — a deal to which she has faithfully honored and to which I have honored about once a week, usually when we've run out of silverware.
Everything else in the house is pretty much fair game — which generally means she does all that stuff, too. She's not a clean freak, just a cleaner freak than I am. Sometimes I feel bad about this and I move about the house urgently picking up toys and books and piles of clothing. And then, usually right about the time that I find the most recent edition of Newsweek under the week-old stack of junk mail by the front door, I get distracted.
I'm a pretty good guy with really good intentions — and I've got plenty of good excuses. It's not so easy juggling daddy daycare with mild-mannered reporting. There are so many projects in this old house I don't even know where to start. And at the end of the day, you know, I'd just rather spend time with you and your mother than sweeping the hardwood or mopping the tiles.
Truth is, though, that your mom has been extremely tolerant with my inability to focus on any one task for longer that a few minutes at a time. She'd be justified in being a little bit annoyed with me, but I do my best not to let her know that.
When you're looking for someone who completes you on this often lonely planet, I'd definitely advise you to find somebody who can be tolerant of your faults, flaws and failures — and for whom you can exercise tolerance as well.
Nobody's perfect, after all.
Except, I think, for your mother.
Love,
dad
The kitchen is a mess again. Really, it looks like the laboratory of a mad scientist who has decided to meld cloned human embryos with various species of mold. And he's really messy about it. And the San Francisco 49ers' entire starting offensive line is staying over at his place. And there was just a nuclear holocaust. And a fraternity party.
Your mom does the laundry. I clean the kitchen. That's the arrangement we have — a deal to which she has faithfully honored and to which I have honored about once a week, usually when we've run out of silverware.
Everything else in the house is pretty much fair game — which generally means she does all that stuff, too. She's not a clean freak, just a cleaner freak than I am. Sometimes I feel bad about this and I move about the house urgently picking up toys and books and piles of clothing. And then, usually right about the time that I find the most recent edition of Newsweek under the week-old stack of junk mail by the front door, I get distracted.
I'm a pretty good guy with really good intentions — and I've got plenty of good excuses. It's not so easy juggling daddy daycare with mild-mannered reporting. There are so many projects in this old house I don't even know where to start. And at the end of the day, you know, I'd just rather spend time with you and your mother than sweeping the hardwood or mopping the tiles.
Truth is, though, that your mom has been extremely tolerant with my inability to focus on any one task for longer that a few minutes at a time. She'd be justified in being a little bit annoyed with me, but I do my best not to let her know that.
When you're looking for someone who completes you on this often lonely planet, I'd definitely advise you to find somebody who can be tolerant of your faults, flaws and failures — and for whom you can exercise tolerance as well.
Nobody's perfect, after all.
Except, I think, for your mother.
Love,
dad
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
REALLY DON'T CARE
Dear Spike:
It's Monday morning, about 9 a.m., and you're asleep on my lap.
Your head is resting on my left arm, rendering it unusable, which makes typing quite a chore. I could risk moving you to your nap mat, but I fear you'll wake -- and after the restless night you had, last night, I know you need your sleep.
All this likely will set me back a few hours of work today, but I really don't care.
Right now I'm holding my sleeping daughter in my arms. And I know this is a special opportunity that won't be around forever.
Love,
dad
It's Monday morning, about 9 a.m., and you're asleep on my lap.
Your head is resting on my left arm, rendering it unusable, which makes typing quite a chore. I could risk moving you to your nap mat, but I fear you'll wake -- and after the restless night you had, last night, I know you need your sleep.
All this likely will set me back a few hours of work today, but I really don't care.
Right now I'm holding my sleeping daughter in my arms. And I know this is a special opportunity that won't be around forever.
Love,
dad
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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