EVERY DAMN TIME

Dear Spike:

Your fourth birthday fell on a Saturday. We celebrated on that day with your grandparents and then, the following Saturday, with your friends. You and the gang painted flower pots, costumed up for an impromptu street parade, and devoured a (pralines-and-cream) ice cream cake. It was a dandy time.

My 33rd birthday came the following Wednesday. It wasn't such a dandy time.

We were planning to go out for a fancy family dinner that night at my favorite restaurant (the delightful and delectable Mazza — which also happen to be your favorite restaurant) but you had a bit of a melt down while trying to decide which bow you would wear in your hair.

And so you went to "time out." And while you were sitting there in the corner, whimpering like a wounded Yorkshire Terrier, your mother and I changed out of our swanky clothes and resigned ourselves to an uneventful, un-birthdarific evening.

I'm not telling you this to make you feel guilty. That's not my style and, besides, my birthday has never been all that important to me.

I tell you this because I want you to understand what happened after we canceled dinner:

You screamed. You flailed. You sobbed. You gasped. You begged. And you cried, off and on, for the rest of the night.

And even though you're a well-behaved kid, (the best kid I know, in fact,) we knew this was going to happen, because there ain't nothing you like more than puttin' on the Ritz.

Truth is, it would have been a lot easier to just let you get over the small hissyfit you were having about that damned bow, then clean you up and march ever-forward to Mazza. That certainly would have been easier for your mother and I, but would have been wrong for you — because it would have deviated from our standard parenting procedure.

That is to say: When you commit the crime, you serve the time — every time.

Every. Damn. Time.

So sure, this was supposed to be a special night — but any other time, your little melt down would have resulted in the cancellation of whatever fun thing we had planned for that day. And while folks can (and probably do) criticize our parenting on a variety of levels, I don't think anyone would ever accuse us of being inconsistent with you when it comes to discipline.

And I really believe that is the reason why nights like the one we experienced on my birthday are so rare with you. You understand our expectations. You understand what happens when those expectations are not met. You make decisions accordingly.

That's not to say that you don't occasionally make the wrong decision (as evidenced by Wednesday night's tantrum, you most certainly do make the wrong decision sometimes.) But you never have to guess — and so you have very little incentive to test our limits.

Someday you'll probably have your own kids. And I'm certainly not the type of guy who will be standing over your shoulder to tell you how to raise'm right. Everybody parents differently, after all, and it's not my place to criticize — so I'll just offer this observation: The most convenient decisions for parents are not often the best decisions for their children.

And come to think of it, that's not just a good rule for parenting. It's a good rule for life: The most convenient decisions are not always the best decisions for anyone.

That doesn't mean you always have to do things the hard way. It just means you should always at least consider the hard way, along with its costs and its benefits.

Earlier this evening, we made another run at going out for a fancy birthday dinner. Afterward, we went next door for some gelato.

And you were an absolute angel.

It was the best birthday present ever.

Love,
dad

FOR THREE YEARS

Dear Spike:

Three years ago this evening, your mother and I were cuddled together on the couch, watching Chevy Chase, Steve Martin and Martin Short in The Three Amigos in a desperate, yet ultimately futile, attempt not to think about what was ahead.

Nine months of pregnancy had come and gone. Her contractions were getting stronger and stronger.

You were on the way.

Here's what I wrote to you as we awaited the point in which your mother's contractions were close enough to warrant driving to the hospital:

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 turbulence. 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.

A few hours later, you were born — all four pounds, nine ounces of you. And I waited for all of those feelings to go away.

And I waited.

And I waited.

It's been three years, now, and I still feel the same way I did on that day. Every time I look at you. Every time I think of you.

I've had my share of adventures. More than most, I'd be willing to bet. I've been shot at by insurgents, Tasered by police officers and threatened by murderers. I've stood toe-to-toe with presidents, generals, astronauts and elephants. I've climbed mountains, jumped out of airplanes, landed on aircraft carriers and rode horseback ahead of madly charging buffalo.

But nothing compares to the adventure that began three years ago this evening. Nothing compares to you.

For three years you have enlightened me, entertained me and challenge me. For three years you've exceeded every lofty expectation I've ever had of you. For three years, you've demanded that I exceed the meager expectations I have of myself.

Some people ask: Where does the time go? But I don't feel that way. The past three years have been the best of my life — and I've known it. Every passing moment, I've known that I'm experiencing the best moments of my life. And when you know something like that, you savor it. You chew on it. You ponder it.

This evening, before you went to bed, you hugged me for the last time that you'll hug me as a two year old. And I swear that hug lasted forever.

No, there's no feeling like this in the world.

Happy birthday.

I love you.

More than anything.

love,
dad

THE LITTLE TADPOLE

Dear Spike: 

Your godmother gave birth to a beautiful baby boy last night.

At least, we're pretty sure he's beautiful. We haven't seen his photo yet, but I talked to his grandpa on the phone, and he assured me that the little lad was a handsome youth indeed (and, of course, who could possibly be a more credible source?)

Since you're more than a year older than the little tadpole, we'll expect you to set a good example. 

For instance, when it's time to attend his first protest rally, perhaps you could show him how to properly pump his fist in the air with righteous indignation. And when he needs someone to talk to about his plan to quit school, join a band, and tour the country in a VW van singing songs about the heartland, I'm certain that you'll assure him that this is a very good plan. 

And when the revolution begins, I know you'll be right there, holding his hand. 

Love,

dad 

P.S. — Welcome to the world, Tadpole.

 

CHANGE FOR YOU

Dear Spike:

Today marks two years since you came into our lives — and 15 months since we met you face to face in the maternity ward at LDS Hospital.

It probably goes without saying that you've changed a bit since I first held your tiny four-and-a-half-pound body in my arms. Perhaps more remarkable, though, is how much you've changed since just last month.

Or heck, since just last week. And you know, in some ways, it's like meeting a new person every day.

One day you're a bold social butterfly — jumping into the arms of strangers and talking to everyone you pass at the supermarket. The next day you're like a nervous little squirrel, hiding behind our legs, scurrying up into our arms when you feel frightened of someone new.

One day you're stoic. The next day you're just silly.

One day you're completely engrossed in your ever-expanding library. The next day you'd rather lie on the floor doing absolutely nothing than be forced to read.

One day you're pining for the outdoors. The next day you're hankering to stay home.

We took you to see Dr. Schriewer today. You've always been fond of her in the past. But today you screamed and screamed and screamed as she tried to listen to your heart and check your eyes and look into your ears. We're talking banshee screaming. And that was long before the shots came.

Yesterday at the park you couldn't get enough of the climbing wall. Today you wanted to do nothing but slide down the big red tube.

Last week you liked your little plastic penguin. Now it's your little brown horse.

I wonder if you're not simply trying things out — sampling all of life's flavors before settling on a favorite. If that's your plan, it's not a bad one.

Lots of people talk about the benefits of trying new things. Not many people recognize the value of trying to be a new person. But you can. And not just right now but always. If you wake up one morning and decide you'd like to change you, you can.

There's only one rule: When you change, change for you.

Not for friendship. Not for love. And not for popularity. Oh please, please, please, not for popularity.

But if you want to change for you, change for you.

And whoever you are tomorrow, that's who I'll love. Even more than I love you today.

Love,
dad

Dear Spike's Friends:
For those of you keeping track, Spike weighed in at just over 17 pounds today. That's pretty darn small — and Dr. Schriewer made an appointment for us to visit a child nutritionist in November. But she also assured us that, developmentally, Spike is developing quite nicely — despite the banshee screamfest.
Love, Spike's Dad

A FEW OBSERVATIONS

Dear Spike:

A few observations about you on the day marking your 14th month in this world:

1) Most people shake hands and say "hello" when they meet people. You, on the other hand, reach up and rub people's cheeks with whatever soft item you happen to have in your hand, and say "nice."

2) You have a very strange fascination with cotton balls. In fact, you won't even use the toilet unless we give you one to hold. We had to go to the store this evening to get a new bag of cotton balls because we were nearly out and we feared you might get backed up if you suddenly didn't have one to hold.

3) You love to touch the strings on my guitar when I play. It doesn't make for the prettiest music, but you don't seem to care.

4) You really hate hair clips, but you've started to tolerate hats.

5) You've begun to give your toys names. You have a small plastic penguin named "Gumbini."

6) You don't like it when people leave — even if you've only known them for five minutes.

7) You scream and cry whenever you see you mother leave the room. But if she slips out when you're not looking, everything is fine.

8) You like balloons, soft blankets, walks in the park, riding in your chariot behind you mother's bike, the sound of rain, the feel of your own hair, eating pasta, pretending to brush my hair (which is really pretty funny, as I have none), peeing on trees, Sesame Street podcasts, talking to your grandparents on the Webcam, taking baths, watching your mother cook, reading books and climbing the stairs.

9) You don't like being away from your mom, changing your clothes, washing after supper, kissing your dad, drinking cold milk, not being the center of attention, going to sleep, being forced to walk when you don't want to, falling off the bed and having bad dreams.

10) I love you. Your mother does too.

Love,
dad

IN MANY YEARS

Dear Spike:

Yesterday was my 30th birthday. We celebrated with a hike up Emmigration Canyon, to a place your mother and I call "Little Korea" for its striking resemblance to the outdoor set from the M*A*S*H movie and television series. You hadn't taken a nap before we left, and got a bit crabby just about a half-mile into the hike. And so, as we walked, your mother and I sang to you one of your favorite lullabies, "I Don't Want to Live on the Moon," and soon you were asleep.

I've been dreading this birthday. Back in my parents' day, they used to say you couldn't trust people over the age of 30. These days, they say 30 is the new 20 — but it still felt 30 to me.

But now the day has come and gone and it really wasn't so bad. I spent a wonderful day with you and your mother. And later we saw our friends Rob and Sue, and Gus and Emily. Emily gave you your first-ever Girl Scout cookie, and like the rest of America, you now appear to be hopelessly addicted. There's heroin in those Thin Mints, of this I am quite confident.

In many ways, being a dad has made me feel my age. I think much more these days about things like health insurance, making smart car purchases and buying healthy food. I drive slower. I drink less. And yes, I groan more.

Yet at the same time I feel much younger than I have in many years. I'm less cynical. I strive to be more kind. And I sing and whistle and dance and play more than I have in a long, long time.

There was a time when you would never have found me walking hand-in-hand with your mother in the mountains, singing as though I was a member of the VonTrapp family, completely unconcerned about whether or not anyone else could hear. But things are different now.

They're better.

And as for 30, I think I'll be OK.

Love,
dad

AIN'T NO DOUBT

Dear Spike:

A year ago at this moment I was holding your tiny body in my arms, rocking in you a not-so-comfy chair in your mother's room on the maternity ward at LDS Hospital.

That chair, that room and that entire ward are all gone now — moved to a new hospital a couple of miles down the road.

That's just the way things work in this world. The new replaces the old. Then the new gets old. And so on an so on.

Some people think it all moves too fast. And maybe they're right. After all, one moment I was rocking you in my arms, the next moment I was listening to you say "mama" for the very first time, a few moments later you we're going to swimming lessons.

And then, boom, here we were, eating birthday cake, singing that silly song, blowing out your candle.

Sure, it can all go by in the blink of an eye. Faster even. And particularly when you really don't want it to.

But if you stop to breathe, to watch, to listen, to smell, to touch, to laugh, to feel, to hurt, to know, to learn, to love — yes, especially to love — you can still enjoy the hell out of it along the way.

The past year has been the best of my life.

Yes, because of you, but maybe not in the way you think. You've forced me to turn on my senses in a way I've never had to do before — at least not for minutes upon hours upon days upon weeks upon months at a time. Together, and particularly with your mother's help, we've enjoyed the hell out of this thing called life, slowing down to watch the birds dancing in the lilac bush outside your window; to listen to the rain patter, patter plop against the backyard fence; to smell the lillies that grow in Mr. Vestal's front yard; to laugh at laughing, just because laughing itself is so darn funny; to feel the cat's long black and white fur (and sometimes to yank it); to hurt when we bump heads together in an ill-fated attempt at a hug; to know every single inch of the floor (and to eat most of what is on it - yecckhhh!); to learn about each other, step by step and sometimes by trial and error...

...

...

... and to love each other. To love the heck out of each other. To love the low-down, right-on, sure-as-can-be, ain't-no-doubt, gonna-be-yours-forever-and-then-some heck out of each other.

Thank you. For all of it.

Love,
dad

EVERYTHING YOU ENCOUNTER

Dear Spike:

Seven thoughts I'd like to share with you in the week before your first birthday,

7) Leave everything you encounter in this world better off than when you found it.

Love,
dad

YOU MEAN IT

Dear Spike:

Seven thoughts I'd like to share with you in the week before your first birthday,

6) Love like you mean it.

Love,
dad

ANYTHING WORTH SAYING

Dear Spike:

Seven thoughts I'd like to share with you in the week before your first birthday,

5) Anything worth saying is worth the whole world hearing. Anything worth saying about someone is worth saying to someone.

Love,
dad

EVERYTHING AND WINNING

Dear Spike:

Seven thoughts I'd like to share with you in the week before your first birthday,

4) Winning isn't everything and winning isn't the only thing. Play accordingly.

Love,
dad

IN INNOCENT BLOOD

Dear Spike:

Seven thoughts I'd like to share with you in the week before your first birthday,

3) Measured in innocent blood, nothing separates just war from genocide.

Love,
dad

TO HANDLE VICE

Dear Spike:

Seven thoughts I'd like to share with you in the week before your first birthday,

2) Moderation is a good way to handle vice. It is not good excuse for having vice.

Love,
dad

BE A FRIEND

Dear Spike:

In the final seven days before your first birthday, I thought I'd share with you seven thoughts about living in this sometimes big, sometimes small, mixed up, no good, beautiful, horrible, funny, tragic world.

Today, friendship:

1) Never fail to be a friend for someone who needs a friend.

Love,
dad

FROM YOUR VILLAGE

LETTERS RECEIVED:


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 1227, to me at dearspike@gmail.com
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

IN AMAZING WAYS

Dear Spike:

Yesterday marked nine months since the day you were born — and so as of today, you’ve officially spent more time “out” than “in.”

In spite of the fact that you’re still hovering around 13 pounds, the growth we’ve seen since the day you arrived has fascinated me in ways I can’t begin to describe.

You still rely on us for so very much. For food, comfort, warmth and for protection from the cat (who is growing a tad bit ornery about the way you “pet” him.) But you’ve also learned to communicate and interact with us in amazing ways. You sign to us when you want milk. You call to your mother when you see her walking up the steps to our door when she gets home from work.

Lately, we have begun to play a game called “Superman” in which you raise your hand above your head and we, in response, “fly” you around the room. And on your own, you’ve begun to play a game I call “Mess with Daddy’s Mind” in which you begin to cry when I turn away from you, then laugh when I turn back to face you.

Turn away. Cry. Turn back. Laugh. Turn away. Cry. Turn back. Laugh. I feel like a puppet. Or one of those fuzzy-hatted green-skinned guards from the Wizard of Oz... “Oh-weeeee-oh, Ooooh-oh!”

You spent the last three days sick with some sort of ugly stomach bug. As fast as we could pump in the Pedialite you were pumping it out the other end. And yet we didn’t once have to change a wet or messy diaper. You let us know when you needed to go and we obliged. I know I shouldn’t be so fascinated by these sorts of things, but I can’t help it.

And yet, beyond it all, I still look at you and shake my head and simply cannot believe what happened in the nine months before you arrived — how you went from a few small cells to a tiny-but-tough baby girl, with 10 fingers and 10 toes and two eyes and two ears and one cute little belly button seemingly holding it all together in one place.

When your Godmother told us she was pregnant, last month, we quickly rushed out to buy her a book with pictures of all the developmental stages of her baby. Before we sent it off to Oregon, I flipped through its pages and imagined what you once looked like inside the person you now call “mama.”

Amazing.

Amazing.

I wonder whether I’ll ever be able to look into your eyes and not feel awestruck by this miracle. I wonder whether I’ll ever be able to run my fingers through your hair and not be overwhelmed by this gift.

I wonder whether I’ll ever be able to hold your hand in mine and not feel as though the world, spinning round and round and round for so many billions of years, hasn’t suddenly stopped in place in recognition of the moment.

You wow me.

Love,
dad

YEAR AFTER YEAR

Dear Spike:

Your mother’s birthday is tomorrow.

She’s already gotten her “big gift” — a green and white mountain bike she’s named “Dragon” — and you and I went to pick her up a few other tokens of our collective affection last week. Tonight I’ll sneak out of the house to go pick up some cake mix and frosting (“white cake with confetti frosting,” she has reminded me at least twice a day for the past two weeks.)

I’ve never been a big fan of my own birthday, but I love the way your mother gets excited about hers — as though she is perpetually turning seven years old, year after year after year.

I hope you take after her. And not just on one day of the year.

Life sometimes has a way of sucking the joy out of joyful things, but there is nothing wrong with feeling joy.

There’s nothing wrong with expressing excitement about things that make you happy.

And there’s nothing wrong with turning seven, year after year after year.

Love,
dad

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

GREW AND GREW

Dear Spike:

It’s been four months since the day you arrived in our lives — and just over a year since the day that I came home from work and your mother told me that there would be “three for dinner.”

My how our lives have changed.

Your mother grew and grew and grew. She gave birth to you. And then she shrunk and shrunk and shrunk. She’s around here somewhere, right now, I’m just not sure where.

I’ve grown too. Maybe a bit around the belly (I was eating for two, too) but mostly around the heart. I never knew it could feel so big, beating inside my chest, until I met you.

And my, my how you have grown. At the time we learned you were coming, you were just about the size of an apple seed. A few weeks later, we got a picture of you from the doctor — you looked like a speckled jelly bean (and when you finally arrived, at 7:28 a.m. on May 27, 2007, you really weren’t much bigger than that — just four-and-a-half pounds.)

Tomorrow we’ll go to see Dr. Schriewer to see how much you weigh. I say 10 pounds. Your mom says 11. Either way, you’re still a tiny kid. Tonight we went to dinner and I ran into a coworker who has a little girl who is a few weeks younger than you. Baby Alice was eating when you two were introduced, thank God, otherwise I’m afraid she might have had you for a snack.

Still, you’re strong and — we think — pretty darn smart. Not a day goes by that someone doesn’t comment, rather astonishedly it often seems, on how “alert” you are. (I’ve gone ahead and volunteered you for the 2 a.m. shift of the neighborhood watch.)

Your mother and I often comment on how difficult it is to remember what our lives felt like before you came. And maybe that’s simply because we don’t really want to.

You’re the best thing that ever happened to us. You’ve grown with us and made us grow with you. And my, my, my how it’s better.

Love,
dad

The Number 29

Dear Spike:

I turned 29 a few weeks ago — happy, for the first time in a long time, to accept the gaieties with which we celebrate birthdays in our culture. Thank you for giving that back to me, by the way.

The symbolism of 29 was not lost on me in the jocularity of the occasion, however. In our nation, 29 is the age people say they are for many years after turning 30 — and for some, many years after turning 40.

It is the last year of youth — or at least it is the last year in which you can get away with “being young.” According to some, it is the last year you can be trusted. And partial to all of that, it seems, it is the last year you can dream.

Truth be known, I turned the figurative corner on 30 a long time ago. I hope you inherit the same sense of responsibility and early maturity that your mother and I both possess. But I also hope you learn to balance those traits with a desire to maintain a sense of youthfulness in your life.

To put it another way: Don’t grow up too soon. For if you do, far sooner than it should, the world will get small. People will become predictable. And though your path may be richly scenic, as mine has been, it will feel worn.

Reality will set in. And dreaming will be relegated to sleep time.

So it goes.

A few things struck me this week — realities I’ve known to be realities for quite some time but seem to have been calcified by the number 29.

As it turns out, I’ll never be an astronaut. I’ll never be a professional soccer player. I’ll never be president of the United States.

I won’t be an airplane pilot. Or a steamboat captain (there are not too many of those left anyway, but no one bothered to tell me that when I was first introduced to Mark Twain.)

I won’t win an Oscar. Or an Emmy — not even a “Daytime” one.

I’ll never be 6 feet tall. I’ll never be built like Lou Ferigno’s Incredible Hulk. And I suppose I’m never going to get my hair back.

Let me tell you: It doesn’t matter.

Maybe I won’t visit Antarctica. Maybe I won’t discover a new planet. Maybe I won’t sail around the world.

And yet, I don’t think I’m done dreaming. And I don’t think I’m done being young.

Thank you for that, by the way.

Love,
dad