ALONG THE WAY

Dear Spike:

Somewhere between marveling at your birth and worrying about you as your tiny body struggled to adjust to the world, I forgot to take it all in.

But it’s been a few days now, and I’ve had a real opportunity to process this.

I’m a father.

It’s still a bit early for me to be able to say what that all means. So far I know it means I love you an awful lot — so much that I feel as though my heart has swollen and it is making it difficult for my lungs to breath.

And I think I also understand that your mother and I are now fully responsible for keeping you happy and healthy (the latter, I suppose, is more important, but perhaps not much more.)

I’m pretty sure there are some other things in there too. Something about teaching you to throw a curve ball and showing you how to spit over the side of a bridge. Something about protecting you and being here to hold you when your heart aches. Something about setting a good example and making sure you know The Golden Rule and keeping a loaded shotgun as to run off unacceptable suitors.

Something about valuing independence and yet yearning for community.

Something about wonder. And beauty. And faithfulness. And discipline.

Something about forgiveness. And honesty. And tact.

Something about love.

The details are all a bit hazy. I suppose that’s just how it works. Somewhere inside I know there are some things I need to teach you and to show you.

And then, along the way, I do.

I’m really looking forward to that along-the-way part. Because from here on out, it’s along the way — with you.

I’m glad we get to journey together. I hope I’ll be a good guide.

Love,
dad

YOU'RE SO SMALL

Dear Spike:

You're so small, I could take you to lunch in a pail...


You didn't even come close to fitting into the outfit we'd planned on bringing you home in...


Your hand is the size of a quarter...


And you look so tiny in your cradle...


But you fill my heart...


Love,
dad

OUR LITTLE FAMILY

HEALTHIER EVERY MINUTE

You’re getting plenty of attention today.

You’re the smallest in the nursery. Your little heart is beating a bit slower than the doctors would like. Your paper-thin skin has yellowed a bit over the past 24 hours. And at the moment, you’re having a bit of trouble nursing.

But you’re breathing good and steady. Your cries are loud and strong. And your tiny hands grab onto my pinky fingers with a bull-rider’s grip.

You’re beautiful. You’re strong. And you’re getting healthier every minute.

Love,
dad

AS YOU FOUGHT

Dear Spike:

No one expected you to come so early, let alone so rapidly. Within three hours of our arrival at the hospital, early yesterday morning, your mother was bearing down with all of her strength trying to push you free.

Your little heart — it’s given us such trouble over the past nine months — beat faster, slower, faster, slower and then, for a time, not at all. A army of anxious doctors and nurses charged into the delivery room. With grunts and tugs and many sharp tools, they fought their way into your mother’s body to rescue you, pulling you out and — without time even to present you to your mom — they carried you away.

I followed. Scared and proud and confused and helpless. I stood silently to the side, watching like a ghost over his own mortal remains as two doctors worked to recover your heartbeat, then to warm your tiny body. I didn’t understand the words they exchanged. But I knew their faces. I’ve seen those faces before.

Too many times.

No one had expected you to be so small. Four pounds, 8.6 ounces. God, we’ve bought bigger chickens for dinner. The nurses here say they rarely receive babies as small as you are who do not need some time in the newborn intensive care unit.

And so that’s where you spent your first hours on this earth, surrounded by other tiny babies, all hidden under a web of tubes and wires, beneath lamps and warmers, under ever-watchful eyes. You shivered. You tried to cry. You gasped your first breaths.

And as you fought, your mother — like a ravaged ragdoll — began her recovery, stitch by stitch by stitch. The doctors say the cuts and tears she received, as they fought to extract you, were as bad as any they’ve seen. She’ll be in pain for months to come, but her spirit has been buoyed by your remarkable come about (by afternoontime, you’d left the the cold machinery of the intensive care unit for the warm embrace of your mother’s arms.)

There’s still much work for each of you. And though you cannot realize it now, your challenges are vast. Your tiny body must grow warmer and bigger. Your tiny heart must beat harder. Your tiny cries must grow stronger.

Nature gave you my ears and my lips. She gave you your mother’s eyes and her chin. Perhaps you’ll take from us a few other traits.

But I’ve long believed that we are more than crude models of our ancestors. We are more than our genetic code. Our personalities, our bodies and even our souls are inextricably shaped by our experiences.

Your mother and I certainly will be shaped by this experience.

And so I wonder: What of you? Is it possible that these brutal early moments might shape your life? Will you be a fighter? A survivor? With you carry the seen or unseen scars of a life begun under such duress? Will you cower before a challenge? Will you meet adversity without fear?

Ours is a vicious world. It can be violent. It can be brutish. It can challenge you to the heights of your moral, spiritual and physical fiber.

Somehow, I think you’ll know that better than most.

Somehow, I think you are being prepared.

Love,
dad

INTRODUCING SPIKE

Dear Spike's Friends:
More to come soon.
Love,
Spike's dad.

TINY BUT TOUGH

Dear Spike:

You were born this morning at 7:28 a.m., weighing in at 4 pounds, 9 ounces and measuring 17 inches from head to toe.

You’re small, but you’re healthy. Tiny but tough.

And I love you more than anything in the world.

Love,
dad

YOUR HEART BEAT

Dear Spike:

The nurse just brought in a set of warm blankets, but your mother is still shivering — a typical reaction to the pain medication, she tells us.

Other than that, your mom is resting well — even managing to catch a few minutes of sleep between visits from the nurses and anesthesiologist.

On the computer screen behind her, I can see a red line tracking your heart beat (you’re ticking away at about 150 beats per minute) and a blue line tracking your mother’s contractions (they’re coming every minute and a half and, by the looks of your heartline, squeezing the heck out of you.)

You’re coming. Today.

I thought perhaps that I’d have something special or significant to tell you on your birthday — some piece of great advice I’ve been storing away, deep in my soul.

I close my eyes and listen for the voices that tell me what to tell you. But all I can hear is your heartbeat, coming through the computer speaker...

Thu-tump, thu-tump, thu-tump, thu-tump

And all I can think is that it is the most beautiful sound in the world...

Thu-tump, thu-tump, thu-tump, thu-tump

... and all my soul is telling me, right now, is that which I have known since I first learned you were coming...

Thu-tump, thu-tump, thu-tump, thu-tump

... you will be loved. Unconditionally. And forever...

Thu-tump, thu-tump, thu-tump, thu-tump

... and in exchange, all I ask of you is this...

Thu-tump, thu-tump, thu-tump, thu-tump

... in all you do in this world, listen to your heart.

Love,
dad

FEELING LIKE THIS

Dear Spike:

It’s 2:18 a.m. and we’re all awake. Me. Your mom. And you.

It’s too early to believe we need go to the hospital, but it does appear that time is getting closer. You mom’s contractions have become very strong — so strong that they are waking her up.

And she, in turn, is waking me.

“Another one,” she whispers.

“2:12 a.m.,” I whisper back.

We fall asleep.

“Another one,” she whispers.

“2:18 a.m.,” I whisper back.

Now we’re both fully awake. She’s pacing in the hallway, rubbing her back and breathing heavily. I’m tapping at the computer.

“This is another,” she says.

“2:23 a.m.” I say.

There’s no feeling like this in the world. It’s Christmas Eve mixed with the top of Disney’s Matterhorn. A little bit of the pre-soccer game jitters. A little of the apprehension I had the first time I went to war.

Airplane turbulance. Raging hunger. Communion prayer.

It’s they way I felt when I stared into your mother’s eyes the night we were married. It’s the way I felt when we kissed behind the curtains at the reception the night before.

It’s a little bit of staring out over the ocean. It’s a little bit of standing on the side of a cliff.

This could last weeks. Or just a few hours more.

2:28... 2:32... 2:36...

2:39... 2:42...

2:45...

I love you.

Love,
dad

Dear Spike's Friends:
Spike's mom just now: "Am I permitted to change my pool date, or is that like Martha Stewart selling her stocks?"
I shouldn't let her get away with this. But she's really cute. And really scared.
Spike's mom's new date is May 28, 12 to 1 a.m.
Love,
Spike's Dad.

THE BLESSINGS MULTIPLIED

Dear Spike:

Your mom and I have always felt quite blessed. We’re very much in love. We have a wonderful home in a city we adore. We have good careers in fields for which we are passionate.

And now, most of all, we have you.

But this week the blessings multiplied. Your mother received a call to interview at a school just six blocks from our home. The very next day, the principal called to offer her a job teaching kindergarten.

The new job pays significantly better than her current position in the suburbs. It is at a school with many at-risk students, which allows her to help those who need it most. And its proximity to our home means she can walk or ride her bicycle to work, saving about 180 commuting hours a year — roughly the equivalent of an entire extra month of work. And that will allow us both to spend more time with you.

While we don’t always recognize the blessings we’re sent, this one was pretty unmistakable. And it prompted me to begin thinking about some of our more subtle blessings.

Like our garden — which may never produce a single pepper, squash, or tomato, but brings us joy nonetheless.

And the park near our home — where we can go, each spring, to watch the ducklings and goslings as they grow.

And our friends — many of whom seem as excited to bring you into their lives as we are.

And our mountains — which give us a sense of place, direction and humility.

We have been very richly blessed, in ways both subtle and profound. It is important to recognize those blessings.

And then, to make sure we are worthy of them.

Love,
dad

Dear Spike's Friends:
Spike's mom's contractions seem to be getting stronger and more frequent. If you haven't yet picked a date and time in the Spikepool, you may want to consider picking sooner than later. (Just go to "About that Date" — May 20 and post a comment with the date and hour you think Spike will arrive.)
Meanwhile, I'm still holding out for June 8.
Love,
Spike's dad