MY HEART RACED

Dear Spike:

When I was a little boy, I suffered from a condition known as night terrors.

The problem is common with children. Just the other day, my good friend Matt and I shared our childhood war stories. His dreams got so bad that his mom took him to the doctor for medication. Mine were so bad that my mom, convinced that I was possessed, started searching the yellow pages for an exorcist.

Everyone has bad dreams, but those described as terrors usually are limited to children between the ages of 2 and 6.

Very occasionally, though, I still will have a dream that causes me to bolt upright in my bed, sweating and screaming.

I might have had one just last night, in fact.

Here's all I really remember: A loud 'thump' in the middle of the night — and a flash to your tiny body, lying on the ground outside our bedroom window.

When I shot up out of the bed, screaming, I could see that our window drapes were stirring in the early morning breeze. Before I could rush to the window, you're mother put her hand on my back.

"It's alright," she said. "Everything is alright."

I turned to see her, lying in bed with your little head nestled up against her shoulder.

I sighed.

But my heart raced on.

I've been scared before, lots of times. When I was a boy, maybe 9 or 10 years old, I couldn't find my little brother for a period of several hours after school (he'd gone to a friend's house without telling me.) When I was a young man, maybe 19 or 20, I lost control of my car on a narrow mountain road (the passenger-side wheels went off the edge of the cliffside, but fortunately the car stayed on the road.) And when I was in Iraq, a few years ago, I dove under the relative safety of an un-armored Humvee as rockets crashed down all around (two men died that day, but I walked away unscathed.)

But nothing — absolutely nothing — scares me like the thought of losing you.

It took quite a while to get back to sleep, last night. And even when I did, it was a restless slumber. When I awoke, this morning, my heart was still pounding in my chest.

There's a great risk, we take, when we fall in love, for it is all too easy for a child to get lost, for a car to go off the road, or for any of a number of life's many paths to lead us into uncertainty, danger and death.

But there's a great reward that comes along with these risks, as well, for it is our worry and our fear and our terrors that illuminate our love.

And when my heart pounds, it pounds for you.

Love,
dad

MY LITTLE PIRANHA

A note from Spike's Mom...

Dear Spike:

You smelled of chlorine — and vomit — as we walked through the door of our home this morning.

Today was your first swim lesson. I guess it is safe to say that your first experience with "big water" was not everything I had envisioned with I signed us up for swim classes. I woke up this morning excited — giddy — that today was the day my little piranha would terrorize the waves! But in the pool I was reminded that we do not always emerge from the water like Bo Derek.

We will return next week and you will kick a little more, splash a little more and cry a little less.

I was proud of you today for trying something new.

Love,
mom

P.S. — Something good to remember: You don't have to enjoy swimming to play soccer or win the Nobel Peace Prize.

OF ROBOT NANNIES

Dear Spike:

It all began with a 10 p.m. fit of tormented cries. You're teething again — and this time has been particularly tough. Four hours, three locations and zero seconds of sleep later, the pain had subsided, but by this time you were wide awake, bouncing on my lap in the rocking chair as though you were on a carnival ride that you wanted to go faster. Faster. FASTER!!!!!!!

At 2 a.m. I gave in, setting you on the floor of your bedroom to play with your books and toys. I lied down beside you, making a wall of my body, trapping you in the corner of your room between the changer and the desk, and closed my eyes. Ten minutes of half-sleep later I was jarred awake by a loud bang. You'd discovered your favorite pie tin in your toy box. I made you a trade, offering a quiet plush dinosaur in exchange for the noisy pan, and began to doze off again. After another 10 minutes I lifted my eyelid just enough to see that you'd settled down with a book. "Beebo," you cooed as you flipped a page. "Beebo, beebo, beeeeeeeeee-bo!" I chuckled softly and fell back into my semi-slumber.

Another 10 minutes. I opened my eyes to see you sitting inches away, staring at my nose as though you were trying to figure something out. I worried you might be plotting my death and made a quick search of the area for sharp objects before closing my eyes again.

Ten minutes more. You tugged on my ear. Hard.

"Time for sleep?" I asked.

You rubbed your eyes in reply.

I lifted you from the floor and we returned to the rocker. But the fight wasn't over. I rocked you and sang your favorite lullabyes until I couldn't hit but one lonely monotone note.

Rock-a-bye. And-good-night. Sweet-dreams. Sweet-dreams.

As I listened to my own hoarse, staccato singing I imagined myself as the central, soulless character in a science fiction story about a world where parents leave their children in the care of robot nannies. And I wondered whether the robots ever felt this tired.

Ten more minutes. You were still up. Quiet, now, but still very much awake and staring out the window at a whispy snow fall and a slow dancing lilac bush.

Quite beautiful, it was. But I was too tired to appreciate it. And too tired to even recognize how sad that was.

I offered you a bottle. You declined and began to sit up to get a better view of the outside world.

"Why?" I asked aloud to no one in particular. "Oh why? Why? Why?"

Ten more minutes. I looked down to see you sleeping soundly in my arms. Your head was nestled between my bicep and my shoulder. You were softly snoring. A whisp of hair had fallen over your left eyebrow. One hand was grasping my shirt, the other was on your cheek.

"Oh," I whispered, feeling the steel, wire and plastic of my robot heart melt once again into muscle, blood and tissue.

"That's why."

Love,
dad

SPIKU. . . TWO

Dear Spike's Friends:
Per a fun and lovely suggestion from Spike's Godmother, it's time for the second irregular edition of "Spiku." This week's challenge: Write a Haiku in the form of a classified advertisement. The ad must be baby related. Anything else goes. You can either act as buyer or seller. But please, none of those creepy "I saw you at the Starbucks" ads. I'll pick the top four, then let you vote in a poll. Winner gets a genuine press pass from the Miss America Pageant. No, really. (I'll be writing Spike more about it soon.)
Love,
Spike's dad
P.S. — This is all in good fun. Please do not call child protective services.

From Spike's dad:
For sale: one baby
Good condition, hardly used
Will take best offer

From Spike's mom:
Wanted: A hot bath
An uninterrupted sleep
Slumbering baby

BIG LITTLE GRUMP

Dear Spike:

You’re driving us nuts.

Don’t get me wrong, we still like you a lot. You’re cute, charming, smart and funny.

But lately, you’ve also been one big little grump.

You don’t sleep — not in your crib, not in our bed, not on your nap mat in my office. It takes 30 minutes to put you down for a 15-minute nap, which, to say the least, makes it hard to get much work done. At night, you wake up three, four, five times — not for food or to use the bathroom, it seems, but simply to make sure that we know you’re still there. Nonetheless, your mother wakes up every time to give you an opportunity to eat (that’s what moms do when their eight-month-old babies are only as big as most four-month old babies.) I’m not sure how she does it. Frankly, I’m tempted to check her pill box for methamphetamines.

You only eat sporadically. A little oatmeal here, some milk there. When I bring you to see your mother at lunch, you spend more time fussing than sucking. She doesn’t get a lot of time to feed you when she’s at work, so it’s frustrating for her.

It’s 20 degrees outside, but you rip off you hats, your socks and your leg warmers. You squirm out from under your blanket.

You pull at the velcro straps on the brance on my arm. You tug at your mother’s hair.

And you scream. All. Day. Long.

Back in high school I had a 1969 Ford Mustang. It was a beautiful old car, but it was troubled. The engine stalled. The headlights sometimes wouldn’t go on. The transmission was shot.

But I loved that car. And until recently, I never thought I’d be able to love anything so much that gave me so much trouble.

I was wrong.

Even when you’re completely rotten, you’re still the best thing in the world.

And anyway, since I can’t just take out a classified ad to sell you, like I did with that car, I suppose we’re stuck together for a while.

Love,
dad