Dear Spike:
We spent last night in a tent in your grandparents' backyard, looking up through the tall swaying oaks at the same stars under which your mother and I fell in love, years ago. You were exhausted after two days with your cousins in Portland and though it was a bit chilly, you slept soundly, all night long.
We've had a lovely trip so far. In Portland (where we were greeted, early Friday morning, with a misty rain) you were smitten with your Aunt Molly, Uncle Matt and cousins Jay and Brett. We took walks through their neighborhood and visited one of their favorite parks, where we looked out over a tree-lined horizon just as green as your could dream.
We drove, last night, through the heart of Oregon's wine country. Memories marked the journey like road signs. Here we took a long bike ride and made love in a field of irises. Here we lived in a little apartment, above a church, and watched the ragtag July 4 parade from our balcony. Here we found a little hidden park and dreamed about our future.
Now in Corvallis, where your mother grew up and we met at Oregon State University, you've been playing with your grandmother, great grandmother, Aunt Alisa and cousins Zach and Katarina. The backyard here opens up into the McDonald Forest, where quail run between the brush and chipmunks dance from oak tree to oak tree. This is where your mother and I were married, on a perfect August night, nearly six year ago.
Tomorrow, we'll go to the lovely, rocky coast near Newport — to spend a day at the same place where your mother and I were engaged. — and then we'll return to Corvallis for a few more days before heading to central Oregon, where one of my dearest friends from college is to be married.
I do so love this place.
Though it seems likely that we'll be raising you in Utah, I do hope that you will consider yourself, at least in part, an Oregonian.
Home is, of course, is largely a geographical and genealogical concept. But it is also a spiritual one.
Love,
dad
Showing posts with label observations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label observations. Show all posts
Monday, August 4, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
BOUGHT IT ANYWAY
Dear Spike:
We bought you a Batman onesie today.
You didn't need a Batman onesie, but we bought it anyway.
It cost $18.95 plus tax.
That's a ridiculous amount of money for something you're going to grow out of in no time at all.
I don't approve of our behavior. Not one bit.
But I really like your new Batman onesie.
Love,
dad
We bought you a Batman onesie today.
You didn't need a Batman onesie, but we bought it anyway.
It cost $18.95 plus tax.
That's a ridiculous amount of money for something you're going to grow out of in no time at all.
I don't approve of our behavior. Not one bit.
But I really like your new Batman onesie.
Love,
dad
Thursday, May 1, 2008
A CLASSY JOINT
Dear Spike:
"No," the woman behind the restaurant bar brusquely responded. "We don't have high chairs or booster seats at this restaurant."
The underlying message was clear: This was a classy joint. Too classy for kids. And the last thing they wanted to do was encourage parents to bring their little tykes by having someplace for said tykes to sit.
Fair 'nuff. I've seen my fair share of really amazingly awful children left to run amuck at nice restaurants — pulling tablecloths, throwing silverware, spilling wines. One time, I was on a date with your mother at a rather fancy bistro in the city when I looked down to see a ruddy little redheaded boy, with what looked to be raspberry jelly stuck to his face, sitting by my leg. His mother, sitting two tables away, waved apologetically, but didn't bother to get up out of her chair to come get her son.
So sure, I can understand why this place doesn't have a kid's menu.
But while this venerable downtown haunt is a perfectly respectable place to drop $100 for dinner and wine on a Friday evening, with selections such as "Lavender Seared Halibut with Watercress-Leek Cream, with crimson lentils and caramelized escarole," its lunch menu is far less intrepid.
I mean, really, I ordered a bacon cheeseburger, alright? And that wasn't even the most low-brow item on the menu.
In any case, you and I were there to meet friends. And we weren't going to jet just because they didn't have crayons for you to draw on the table with. That's not withstanding the fact that I really like showing off how well behaved you are.
When you were just five months old, we took you to see a Charlie Chaplain flick at the downtown Capitol Theater. When we walked in everyone cringed. But you didn't so much as make a squeak the whole time we were there.
We get compliments all the time about how quiet and self-entertaining you are. I'd like to take credit — and of course, I do — but really, this is one of those nature over nurture things, I'm sure. You're just that way.
So today you sat quietly on my lap, eating fruit from my plate and staring at yourself in the mirror above our table. You squirmed, a bit, but didn't make a sound. A few old ladies waved at you. And I overheard the couple in the booth next to ours, who had been making faces at you, discussing whether it was time to start their own family. The poor suckers.
I guess what I'm trying to say is thanks, kid, for making it so easy to look like a good dad.
I don't expect anything less from you as you grow older. But I'll love you just the same — even if the only restaurants we can go to are drive-thru.
Love,
dad
"No," the woman behind the restaurant bar brusquely responded. "We don't have high chairs or booster seats at this restaurant."
The underlying message was clear: This was a classy joint. Too classy for kids. And the last thing they wanted to do was encourage parents to bring their little tykes by having someplace for said tykes to sit.
Fair 'nuff. I've seen my fair share of really amazingly awful children left to run amuck at nice restaurants — pulling tablecloths, throwing silverware, spilling wines. One time, I was on a date with your mother at a rather fancy bistro in the city when I looked down to see a ruddy little redheaded boy, with what looked to be raspberry jelly stuck to his face, sitting by my leg. His mother, sitting two tables away, waved apologetically, but didn't bother to get up out of her chair to come get her son.
So sure, I can understand why this place doesn't have a kid's menu.
But while this venerable downtown haunt is a perfectly respectable place to drop $100 for dinner and wine on a Friday evening, with selections such as "Lavender Seared Halibut with Watercress-Leek Cream, with crimson lentils and caramelized escarole," its lunch menu is far less intrepid.
I mean, really, I ordered a bacon cheeseburger, alright? And that wasn't even the most low-brow item on the menu.
In any case, you and I were there to meet friends. And we weren't going to jet just because they didn't have crayons for you to draw on the table with. That's not withstanding the fact that I really like showing off how well behaved you are.
When you were just five months old, we took you to see a Charlie Chaplain flick at the downtown Capitol Theater. When we walked in everyone cringed. But you didn't so much as make a squeak the whole time we were there.
We get compliments all the time about how quiet and self-entertaining you are. I'd like to take credit — and of course, I do — but really, this is one of those nature over nurture things, I'm sure. You're just that way.
So today you sat quietly on my lap, eating fruit from my plate and staring at yourself in the mirror above our table. You squirmed, a bit, but didn't make a sound. A few old ladies waved at you. And I overheard the couple in the booth next to ours, who had been making faces at you, discussing whether it was time to start their own family. The poor suckers.
I guess what I'm trying to say is thanks, kid, for making it so easy to look like a good dad.
I don't expect anything less from you as you grow older. But I'll love you just the same — even if the only restaurants we can go to are drive-thru.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
JUST AS CONTENT
One day left to vote in Spike's Thanksgiving poll (to the right and down a bit.) And don't forget to write a Spiku for someone you love. (It's just like a Haiku — five syllables, seven syllables, five syllables — you can find some great ones to the right and down a little less bit.)
— Spike's Dad
Dear Spike:
The snow came today. It was nearly a month late but, like a good friend, no one minded once it was here.
That was particularly true as it began to look as though it would be sticking around for a while. Here, we’ve learned not to count the inches that fall to the ground, but rather those that stick to it. And today the snow is sticking.
This is your first snow, and although I wanted to keep you warm as I took you to the car this afternoon, I couldn’t help but pull back the blanket in which you were wrapped so that a few flakes could fall on your nose and your cheeks. You flinched and sniffled and giggled. And then you smiled.
And then you cried. Too wet. Too cold. Too strange.
Later, your mother took you on a walk, knocking the frost from the neighbor’s bushes as she went so that you could watch the leaves turn from white to green. I watched from my office window as you tromped through the powder together. You didn’t look particularly happy, but it was clear that you were interested in all the ways the world had changed.
Your mother, on the other hand — I’ve never seen her happier than she was as she marched you in circles and zigzag patterns through our yard. And for me, it was such a joy just watching you two play.
I sometimes wonder how many of the things that we do for you we’re really doing for ourselves. When we dress you, we choose outfits that we think you look cute in, though you’re just as content in a pair of socks and nothing else. We try to keep you entertained with a variety of toys, but you’re often more fascinated by a handful of your mother’s hair or the buttons on my shirt.
Still, I’ve noticed that you seem happiest when we feel happiest. Our relationship is symbiotic in that way, even if it is a bit illusionary.
And that’s OK, I think.
The things that make us happy don’t have to make sense. They simply have to make us happy.
Maybe that helps explain the snow. Because really, you know, you’re initial observation is right: It’s wet and cold and strange.
And yet it makes so many of us so very happy.
Go figure.
Love,
dad
— Spike's Dad
Dear Spike:
The snow came today. It was nearly a month late but, like a good friend, no one minded once it was here.
That was particularly true as it began to look as though it would be sticking around for a while. Here, we’ve learned not to count the inches that fall to the ground, but rather those that stick to it. And today the snow is sticking.
This is your first snow, and although I wanted to keep you warm as I took you to the car this afternoon, I couldn’t help but pull back the blanket in which you were wrapped so that a few flakes could fall on your nose and your cheeks. You flinched and sniffled and giggled. And then you smiled.
And then you cried. Too wet. Too cold. Too strange.
Later, your mother took you on a walk, knocking the frost from the neighbor’s bushes as she went so that you could watch the leaves turn from white to green. I watched from my office window as you tromped through the powder together. You didn’t look particularly happy, but it was clear that you were interested in all the ways the world had changed.
Your mother, on the other hand — I’ve never seen her happier than she was as she marched you in circles and zigzag patterns through our yard. And for me, it was such a joy just watching you two play.
I sometimes wonder how many of the things that we do for you we’re really doing for ourselves. When we dress you, we choose outfits that we think you look cute in, though you’re just as content in a pair of socks and nothing else. We try to keep you entertained with a variety of toys, but you’re often more fascinated by a handful of your mother’s hair or the buttons on my shirt.
Still, I’ve noticed that you seem happiest when we feel happiest. Our relationship is symbiotic in that way, even if it is a bit illusionary.
And that’s OK, I think.
The things that make us happy don’t have to make sense. They simply have to make us happy.
Maybe that helps explain the snow. Because really, you know, you’re initial observation is right: It’s wet and cold and strange.
And yet it makes so many of us so very happy.
Go figure.
Love,
dad
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