SING, PLAY, DANCE

Dear Spike:

Your Uncle Mikey arrived this week, carrying an enormous keyboard under one arm and two guitar cases in the other.

That's good news for you, because while your mother and father have a diverse array of talents, music isn't our strong suit. So when Mike takes care of you during the days when I'm called away to work, I've asked him to play music for you — and with you.

We're not the only species on this planet that makes music, but there's no other animal that has figured out how to do it with such diversity. We make music with our mouths and with our hands, with simple percussion tools and elaborate wind instruments, with wood and brass and plastic, with electricity and with digital ones and zeroes.

I once visited an Alzheimer's home where music was being used as a conduit to people whose minds had otherwise been lost to the present world. Music is good for your brain.

I once heard a muezzin call the faithful to prayer in Iraq's volatile west desert. In the city of Ramadi, where everything stopped at sunset for fear of death, his song continued on. Music is good for your soul.

And today, every time I hear you sing — your sweet little voice rising and falling, mostly in tune — I fall in love with you all over again. Music is good for your heart.

Sing, play, dance and humm. Whistle, tap, snap and clap.

Moan and chant. Scream if you must.

Make music. And don't ever stop.

Love,
dad

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

UNTIL IT GOES

Dear Spike:

You don't really know what you're going to miss until it goes away.

That's how it was when we stopped rocking you to sleep at night. We'd pushed hard to help you learn to go to sleep in your own bed. We even invented a "happy night-night" routine to help you get in the mood for slumber.

And, I'll admit, the first few nights that you fell asleep on your own were grand. You mother and I hardly knew what to do with ourselves in our newly found adults only time. (We figured it out eventually.)

But after a while, I really got to missing the nights when I'd wrap you up in a blanket, give you a bottle of milk and watch as you fell asleep on my lap. And it made me sad to think that I'd never get to do that again.

You don't really know what you're going to miss until it goes away. And you never really understand how to appreciate something until it goes away — and come back.

Recently, you started asking us to rock you to sleep at night once again. And even though we know it would probably be better if you were falling asleep on your own, your mother and I have been more than happy to oblige.

I know that you'll grow out of this soon enough. And one day it will be true that I will have rocked you to sleep for the very last time.

And since I understand that, now, I'm savoring every precious moment. Rock-a-bye, baby. Rock-a-bye.

Love,
dad

YOU COULD BE

From Spike's Uncle Scott, who was in Colorado today covering President Obama's visit...


Dear Spike:

If you don't want to be president, I guess that's OK.

But you could be. Just saying.

Love,
dad

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

YOUR UNCLE MIKEY

Dear Spike: 

Our household is about to get a bit bigger — though not in the way you might expect.

In a few weeks, your Uncle Mikey is going to come to stay with us.

It all seemed to work out quite nicely. Our lovely babysitter, Amanda, is pregnant and won't be available to watch you a the drop of a hat, as she did last year. Mikey, meanwhile, is about to finish the musical in which he's starring in Berkeley and has been having trouble finding a day job that suits him in California. 

 

And so it is that, starting at the end of this month, Mikey will take on his toughest role yet: A sort-of Kato-Kaelin-meets-Mary-Poppins character who will sleep in our home and eat our food while occasionally watching over you when I have to chase a story. 

There are plenty of details yet to be worked out in this arrangement (including how, exactly, to keep your father and your uncle — who have never exactly gotten along — from ripping each other's heads off) but one thing is already clear: You're a fortunate little girl. Among other talents, Mikey is an extremely gifted musician and he'll be here to help you develop your musical gifts, too.  

Most importantly, though, is that he absolutely adores you. And that gives your mother and I faith that everything else will ultimately fall into place.   

This certainly isn't how we expected to arrange for your child care this year, but we're feeling fortunate to have Mikey playing a bigger role in your life.

Love,

dad

 

THE RIGHT PLACE

Dear Spike:

Our Mormon friends would argue that it was a matter of divine inspiration. I'm in no position to say they're wrong, though I've got another theory.

The Day was July 24, 1847. The Mormon leader Brigham Young had just crossed over the Wasatch Mountain range with his band of religious refugees. Looking out over the desert that would become Salt Lake City, Young said, "this is the right place."

The place where Young's party rested when he made the decision to make this place his church's Zion is just a few miles up the road from our home. And until I stood there — and in lieu of any better explanation — I was willing to go with the "divine inspiration" theory.

But from that spot, what you see is miles and miles of desert — followed by another range of rugged mountains. I think Young — who was sick with Rocky Mountain spotted fever and unable to even walk for himself — had simply had enough. And so this was the place.

One hundred and sixty-two years later, the state of Utah still pauses each July 24 to celebrate Pioneer Day (or, as it was once called, The Day of Deliverance) — a day that is met with greater revelry and far greater reverence than the day that marks our nation's independence, three weeks earlier.

There are festivals and fireworks and a parade so grand that thousands of people camp out the previous night to ensure a spot along the miles-long route.

This was all quite difficult for us to understand when we moved here. And even today your mother and I still marvel at the spectacle. Each year on Pioneer's Eve, we ride the parade route on my motorcycle in order to better appreciate the throngs of people sleeping in tents and lounging on blow-up mattresses. And we shake our heads in wonder.

The next morning, scores of church-sponsored parade floats, all celebrating the virtues of the pioneers (though conspicuously disregarding the role that polygamy played in the founding of this state) roll right by our home. Bands play. Soldiers march. Missionaries strut in their starched white shirts and ties. And Brigham Young's most recent successor — at the moment a curmudgeonly looking guy named Thomas Monson — gets a standing ovation as his convertible rolls down the road with the Latter-day version of the Secret Service jogging alongside.

It's all so easy to mock. And we do.

But there's also a lesson to be learned from Young, his polygamous tribe and the worldwide religious movement it spawned.

Young's followers could have noted — just as easily as I did when I first stood at the mouth of what has come to be known as Emigration Canyon — the dubiousness of their leader's choice of the Salt Lake Valley as their new home. Instead they built a city – one of the most beautiful in this nation.

However they got here, they were here. And they made due.

We could spend each July 24 decrying the ridiculous spectacle and the farcical way it came into existence. Instead we celebrate. We gather our friends for mimosas and bloody marys. Your mother cooks up some Jell-O.* And after a few belts we saunter down to watch the parade and cheer the Saints as they go Marchin'.

However we got here, we're here. And we make due.

Life doesn't always makes sense. And whether that's divine inspiration or dumb luck, it doesn't really matter.

No matter how you got here, you're here. So make due.

Love,
dad

* The official desert of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

UPON THE MOON

Dear Spike:

When I tell you, one day, that we went to the moon, I wonder if you’ll think I’m just sharing a story.

This is, after all, a once-upon-a-time tale. And it has been since before I was born.

Man’s first small steps on the Sea of Tranquility came on July 20, 1969. Our last giant leap came on Dec. 7, 1972.

Since then we’ve sent hundreds of astronauts into orbit. We’ve dispatched robots to explore Mars. And we’ve built telescopes that can see billions of years into the past in hopes of learning something about our future.

But we've never returned to the moon. Nor have we made any substantial movement toward sending someone to Mars — which was largely considered to be the logical next step when the Apollo program ended.

So it’s still uncertain what that future holds for us outside our own orbit. Space exploration is dangerous and expensive work. And, alas, we have so many pressing problems here on Earth.

Yet I will not tell you not to dream of running on the moon. I will not tell you not to hope to take that next great leap to Mars. And if you seek to soar beyond our solar system, I will not tell you it cannot be done.

You can do anything. I know this to be true.

Because there was a time when we decided we’d walk upon the moon. And when we went, the world stood still to watch. Hearts raced. Imaginations soared. Untold dreams were realized. And untold more were born.

Perhaps it’s true that we have lost our way, a bit. But there is nothing that you have ever lost that you cannot find once again, if that is what you want to do.

Yes, you can do anything. Yes, I know this to be true.

Because, once upon a time, we walked upon the moon.

Love,
dad

DID YOU KNOW?

Dear Spike:

Visiting a flock of friends at the aviary yesterday, we came upon the southern ground hornbill habitat.

"The hornbill is from Africa," I read aloud from the sign on the cage. "It eats reptiles, frogs, insects and small mammals."

I turned to you. "What does the hornbill eat?"

"Milk, like me!" you said.

Funny, albeit incorrect. Problem was, I misheard you. I though you said, "Mammals, like me!"

"That's right!" I said, giving you a big hug. "You're so smart."

Just then, a group of older children walked by.

"Hornbills eat milk, like me!" you told them, obviously impressed with this new piece of information. "Hey kids. Hey kids! Hornbills eat milk, like me."

It took some time to explain to you that, in the animal kingdom, only mammals drink milk.

By then it was too late.

"Did you know those birds over there drink milk?" I overheard one of the kids tell him mom.

"Really?" the mom said. "I thought that only mammals drink milk. I tell you, I learn something new every time I come here."

Love,
dad

THE BOO-HOO SONG

Dear Spike:

Today you bit your mother so hard that she bled.

Tomorrow you will get nothing resembling lenience from me. You'll get one chance to do everything your mother and I tell you to do. And if you don't, you'll be singing the boo-hoo song in the time-out chair. And if that doesn't work, we'll start taking your stuffed animals hostage.

Oh yeah, that's how I roll.

Love,
dad