LOVE IT ALL

Dear Spike:

Your mother goes back to work this week, which means you and I are about to start spending a lot more time together.

I always look forward to the summers — not because I don't like spending time with you, but because I know how much your mother relishes that opportunity, each year, after nine hard months of splitting her energy between you and a bunch of other people's kids.

By the end of the summer, though, I'm always ready to step back into my work-at-home daddy shoes. I love making you breakfast in the morning. I love our walks to the park. I love reading together and learning together.

Museums. Playgrounds. Movies. I love it all.

Of course, it's not all fun and games. There is actually some working involved in being a work-at-home dad. And this year I'll be balancing fatherhood with not just one job, but two. Then, come January, I'll be teaching a class at Utah Valley University — and that's when sleep will really turn optional.

To do all this, I'm going to need your help. And I'm not worried at all that I won't get it. You're a good kid — the best I know. I'm proud of what that says about your mother and I as parents, but I also know that it says plenty about you. You're kind and considerate. You're intuitive and thoughtful. And you've gotten pretty good at finding suitable diversions when my attention is suddenly taken away by a ringing phone or beeping e-mail alert.

But I'm going to do my damnedest to make sure you never feel like you've been forgotten. I'm very aware that this is likely the last year that you and I will get to share this little arrangement, as next year you'll be off to preschool for several days of the week.

I want to make the most of this.

So here we go. One more great run. You and me, kid.

You and me.

Love,
dad

CHASING YOU NOW

Dear Spike:

I don't know how it happened or when it happened.

But I know why it happened: The sun rises and sets and rises again. The moon comes and goes, waxes and wanes. The Big Dipper — that simple, stalwart sign under which I fell in love with your mother — spins round and round and round again.

Time passes. Children grow.

You're no longer a baby. You're a genuine little girl.

The pigtails may have had something to do with it — not with your transformation from infant to toddler but with my late-in-coming recognition of that change. Your mother fretted over the haircut we gave you until she found that she could gather up your remaining locks into splendid tufts on either side of your perfect little skull. The effect is rather devilish. Naughty. And I dare say it suits you, kiddo. But, alas, it's the hairdo of a little girl.

You talk like a paid-by-the-case public defender who has borrowed just a taste of her client's meth. A thousand words a minute. Ten thousand. A whole dictionary of animals, colors, shapes, names.

Nouns. Lots and lots and lots of nouns.

Our last stroll around the park sounded something like this:

"Tree. Car. People. Running. Doggy. Doggy! Doggy!! Please doggy! Ah, Doggy. Pet? Pet. Doggy. Bye bye. Tree. Sky. Cold. Cold. Daddy! Cold! Daddy! Thank you. Tree. Running. Bike. People. People. People! Doggy. Doggy? Doggy! Doggy!!!!!!!!!"

And you understand. You really understand. Enough to follow directions. And enough to be maddeningly obstinate. You know "no." Oh no, how you know "no."

You play games. You sing songs. You know our daily routine. Even still, you cry when you mother leaves for work in the morning — not, as I once believed, because you fear she'll disappear forever, but rather because you know very well that she'll be back and you know how much you'll miss her while she's gone.

You ask questions. You make statements. You tell jokes. All in one- and two-word bursts.

You run. Ready. Set. Go. You run. Sometimes you hold my fingers and let me run along.

I'm chasing you now, little one. When did it happen that I started chasing you? When did any of this happen? It's all such a beautiful blur.

Sometimes I wonder how on God's Green Earth it all came to this, but mostly I just laugh and smile and marvel at how damn fun it all is.

I do not lament the days behind us. You and I and your mother are making the best of what we've been given. And when every minute is better than the last, why would I stop to fret over the passing of time?

Time passes. Children grow.

You're no longer a baby. You're a genuine little girl.

And I couldn't be a happier father.

Love,
dad

THE BEAVER CALL

Dear Spike:

We come together one...

We come together all...

And when we come together...

We do the Beaver Call! 

You attended your first Oregon State football game this evening. It didn't end as we'd hoped (if you're going to be a Beaver Believer, that's something you might just have to get used to.) Still, you definitely had a good time.

You cheered. You shook an orange and black pompom. You ate ice cream. And when it was all said and done, you walked out of the stadium with your head held high...

... and then promptly fell asleep on your mother's shoulder. 

Love,

dad  

THE RELAXING PART

Dear Spike:

Ah, the weekend.

It's supposed to be the relaxing part of the week, but we chock it full of visits to the farmer's market, and hikes up the canyon, and visits to the zoo, and trips up to farm country, and visits to the supermarket, and parties with our friends, and house cleaning, and errand-running and everything else that we just can't manage to do during the workweek.

Then, before you know it, it's Monday. And we're not relaxed at all.

I'm making matters worse: working a bit this morning and then most of the day tomorrow. That wasn't really my choice — its just how the cards fell this week — and I'll get a day off sometime next week that we can totally devote to each other.

And so, here's my vow: We're going to do just that.

We might take a hike. Or we might go to the zoo. Or we might hit up the market. But we're not going to do all of that. We're going to move at a slow and leisurely pace — baby steps, if you will — and enjoy each step as it comes. We're not going to think about what we're doing an hour later, or even a minute later.

We're just going to be. You and me.

Love,
dad

FEW MORE DAYS

Dear Spike:

Your mother sent her students off for their summer break today. A few more days of meetings and her summer will begin, too.

She's excited to spend her days with you. And I'm excited for her.

But a bit sad, for me.

Love,
dad

WRAPPED OURSELVES UP

Dear Spike:

The summer's first thunderstorm came this morning. You and I curled up together in the big, comfy papasan chair, wrapped ourselves up in the soft feather comforter, and watched "The Empire Strikes Back" on your mother's nifty new computer.

Soon you were asleep. And not long after that, I was too.

I can't remember a better morning. Ever.

Love,
dad

STAR WARS FEST

Dear Spike:

I should be sleeping right now. It's late, it has been a busy weekend, and it is gonna be a long week.

But I can't sleep, because "The Empire Strikes Back" is playing and Luke Skywalker hasn't yet learned that Darth Vader is his father.

I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but you're a smart girl and probably will figure it out on your own anyway: If you're ever simply not in the mood to go to bed — and need a way to convince your father that you should be permitted to stay up way, way, way past your bed-time — just invite me to have an all-night Star Wars fest.

You bring the popcorn. I'll get the ice cream.

Love,
dad

A LOVELY WEEKEND

Dear Spike:

We dropped your mother off at the hair salon this afternoon and then you and I made our way about town — two bookshops (we got you two new “board” books,) two gift shops (your mother’s birthday is coming up next week), a coffee shop (you had a bit of cheesecake and we read a New York Times piece about Barack Obama) and then to the market (we danced together near the citrus and picked up some bread for dinner.)

Afterward, we went back to the salon to pick up your mother — who was sporting a cute, short cut complete with purple streaks in the front and back. Usually, your mom leaves the salon in a dour mood, but today she was quite chipper about her new style (and she should be, as it is very adorable, funky and fun.)

Your ear infection seems to have been resolved over these past few days and you’ve returned to your usual jovial self again — save one thing...

... sleep!

Whether because you’re catching up from the zombish last week (which you spent awake all night, all day, every day) or because we’ve been stuffing you full of butter, yogurt, cheesecake and other fine and fatty foods in response to Dr. Shriewer’s concern for your weight, you’ve gotten more sleep over the past few days than I knew you were capable of. And that’s allowed your mother and I to get the house clean (it was beginning to look as though we we living in squalor,) have a bit of adult time together (discussing fine literature, doing taxes, that sort of thing) and get some sleep ourselves (I still don’t think we’ll ever catch up with what’s been lost over the past eight months.)

In short, it’s been a lovely weekend. And since your mother and I both have tomorrow off for President’s Day, we’ll all get to spend one more (hopefully happy) day together before getting back to the daily grind.

Thank God for small blessings. They all add up to big ones.

Love,
dad

A GOOD FATHER

Dear Spike:

Sometimes I worry whether I’m going to be a good father to you.

Then I go to the market, or the park, or to the movies, and I watch how some other fathers act around their children.

And after that, usually I am not so worried anymore.

Love,
dad

AN INSIDE STRAIGHT

Spike's friends are very thankful for Thomas Edison and his amazing light bulb. Thanks for voting. Spike's latest poll is to the right. As they say at the Diebold headquarters in North Canton, Ohio: "Never mind that this election is rigged. It looks like democracy, and that's good enough."



Dear Spike:

It’s anecdotal at best, but you appear to enjoy poker — and specifically seven-card stud. You and I played a bit online today while waiting for a friend at the coffee shop, and while we took a small loss on an ugly beat (we had trip Aces going into the river, when our opponent caught an inside straight) it was fascinating to watch you watching the cards as they fell into place on our virtual table.

I can’t say for certain that you understood everything that was going on. You are only six months old, after all. I don’t expect you to know the odds of pocket pairs versus suited connector overcards until you’re at least eight or nine months old. (It’s pretty much a coin flip, by the way.) Still, I find it highly auspicious that we already seem to share some interests (I mean other than your mother’s breasts.)

When I was a teenager and my father and I agreed on very little, we could still often be found plopped on the couch, late at night, laughing at M*A*S*H reruns. Maybe it wasn’t exactly quality time, but it was something we could share — when anything was something.

You’re not always going to like me. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee that, at some point, I’m going to be the person you dislike more than anyone in the world.

But maybe, when that time comes, you’ll still be able to find us both listening to old Beatles tunes, or making anagrams with the alphabet magnets on the kitchen fridge, or sitting across the felt from one another at the poker table.

So long as you don’t take all my money, we’ll be fine.

Love,
dad

SORT OF MADNESS

Dear Spike:

It’s cliché — my God, it’s cliché — but you’ve really changed my life.

There was a time when I defined myself by my work. But today your mother and I spent a considerable amount of time contemplating whether we could afford for me not to work.

Ultimately we decided we can’t quite cut it. Your mom’s salary might cover our mortgage, insurance, student loans and car payment, but we do like to eat and heat our home in the winter. So at least for the time being, we’ll remain a two-income family.

But in a big way, that’s beside the point. We had a discussion about me quitting my job. And I wasn’t completely sickened by the thought. In fact, I was sort of excited by it.

Maybe that’s the exhaustion talking. I’ve always felt like I was rather adept at multitasking, but you’ve challenged that skill to new heights. Today I gave a lecture while holding you on my hip (in addition to being cute, you made a nice prop when the discussion turned to the subject of teen pregnancy.) I’ve gotten rather good at balancing you between my arms while I type (sometimes with just one hand when I’m feeding you.) And I’ve become pretty good at diapering you with one hand, too (thank God for Bummis.)

But it’s never easy to serve two masters. And at the end of the day I don’t feel like showering or cleaning the kitchen or even reading a book. All I want to do is sleep.

I know your mother is tired, too. She spends all day with her kindergartners (someday ask me to show you the scene in the movie “Gremlins” where the monsters take over the movie theater — that’s what it is like.) Then she comes home and (if she’s lucky) she gets three minutes to decompress before I throw you into her arms.

And maybe this sort of madness might not sound like fun to some people. But in our rare, quiet and calm moments I look down at you and wonder aloud how I ever believed I was happy working without you. And on the days when I have to drop you off at the babysitter’s house for a few hours, all I want to do is get back as soon as possible to pick you up. And while the increasingly rare hours when you nap are my best opportunities to get any substantial work done, sometimes when you sleep I miss you and I feel like waking you up so we can play.

Obviously, I can’t take you to Iraq or Afghanistan with me. And next time I jump out of a helicopter or get Tasered by police officers, you won’t be invited along.

But you know what? Those things aren’t quite as compelling to me as they once were. And while I still feel committed to the profession I’ve chosen, it’s become less of who I am and more of what I do.

I do still like what I do. And that’s a good thing, I suppose, because it doesn’t appear than I’m going to be a full-time house husband any time soon.

But you know, I can dream.

Love,
dad

MISS THESE MOMENTS

Dear Spike:

People used to marvel when I’d tell them that you regularly slept through the night. Six, seven, eight hours. “Yeah,” I’d beam, “my baby rocks the party.”

But lately, I suppose because you’ve been growing so fast, you’ve been waking up to eat at least once a night — and sometimes two or three times. And since every bottle I feed you is another bottle that your mother will have to fill at some other point during the day, she’s been pretty insistent that she be the one to feed you at night.

I suppose that’s nice, because I get to sleep. Or have the opportunity to do so, at least.

Except here we are, it’s 3:06 a.m. You’re asleep. Your mother’s asleep. And, really, the vast majority of the United States is asleep. . .

And I’m awake. Up like the Red Sox in Game Three.

OK, Star Wars is partly to blame. At the moment, Luke and Han are searching the Endor Forest for Leia. In a few minutes, the Ewoks are going to open a can of yub nub on the evil Imperial Forces — and who would want to sleep through that?

But also — and more so — I simply enjoy lying here and watching you sleep.

These opportunities seem to be growing more infrequent. You’ve been spending fewer and fewer hours napping during the day. You still take a few 20-minute catnaps. And whenever we’re in the car for longer than 10 minutes, you’re out like the Rockies in Game Four.

But during the daytime, every moment you slumber is an opportunity for me to get a little bit of uninterrupted work done. And so I often miss these moments.

Thankfully, Friday night has become “slumber party night” in our home — the night when you get to escape your cradle and come sleep on the big bed between your mother and me.

And while we say it’s a treat for you, it’s really for us.

And particularly for me.

I love watching your tiny tummy move up and down and my heart melts at the way your sweet little lips curl into a smile while you dream.

I love watching as you curve your back up and stretch your arms out in a way that allows you to take up as much room on the bed as either of your parents — even though you're only five months old and you only weight 11 or 12 pounds.

I love listening to your soft sleepy snorts and your dreamy little squeals.

And I love it when you curl your skinny fingers around my pinky and we sleep together, hand in hand, though the night.

Yeah, my baby rocks the party.

Love,
dad

HELLO 21st CENTURY

Dear Spike:

The weather began to shift, this week. Now, I have to wear a sweatshirt when I walk you in the park in the mornings. It won't be long before I have to ditch my shorts for pants and my sandals for shoes. And it won't be long, after that, that I'll have to ditch my sweatshirt for a jacket.

The seasons change quickly in Salt Lake City. Spring and fall are but fleeting thoughts — quick and colorful pauses between summer and winter.

By Halloween, it will be snowing again. And it won't stop until next May.

I don't mourn the passing of our blistering summers. I do, in fact, enjoy them more than our arctic winters but I'm usually ready for a change by this time of year. But lately, I have grown particularly sad at the thought that our visits to the park will have to be more limited once the winter comes. No longer will I be able to walk you around the pond until you sleep, then relax on a bench, writing and checking email on the free wireless internet connection as you slumber.

At some point, it's just going to get too cold for that. And I'm not sure your mother would understand if she came home from work to a hypothermic daughter.

"Matt, why is Spike blue?"

Yeah, that would be bad.

But still, it was with a bit of regret, today, that I strapped you into your car seat and drove downtown to our local Internet service provider. I know I could have done it over the phone, but I really prefer to do business face to face. I guess I'm just old fashioned in that way.

Maybe I'm old fashioned in other ways, too. We don't have a home phone. We don't have a cable TV, or even an antenna for that matter (So I'm often lacking for anything to say when folks gather 'round the water cooler at work.) And we've never had the 'net at home (there was a period, a few months back, when we were able to jump onto our neighbor's wireless signal, but I suppose they wised up to our thievery.)

I tell people we're not "wired" because we like to keep our home life simple — but really it's because I'm cheap. And because your mother is tolerant of my cheapness, bless her heart.

But with the end of my month of full-time daddydom looming and the prospect of working from home seeming ever more complicated, I've finally and lamentably entered the 21st Century.

Hello, 21st Century. Thanks for waiting up.

Next week, I'm told, our phone line will get hooked up and a wireless modem will arrive in the mail. A few dozen swearwords later, I suspect, we'll be wired. I suppose there are a few better ways to spend $44.95 a month, but probably none more practical.

I suspect we'll be raising you to value a buck. And I know we'll want you to seek as many opportunities as possible to get out of the house and enjoy your community and your world. And to the extent that it is possible, I'll encourage you to combine those two things.

But when it's warm enough — and probably when it isn't — I'm certain you'll be able to find us at the park, you in your stroller, slumbering away in a snowsuit, me at my keyboard, tapping away in my mittens.

Love,
dad

MEET THIS WORLD

Dear Spike:

Three months have passed since the day you arrived. It’s amazing to me how life can seem to move so fast and so slow at once. It’s hard to remember what life was like without you. I feel like I’ve lived a lifetime in your short lifetime. And at the same time, I feel like it’s gone by so quickly.

You’re still so very small — people mistake you for a newborn — but to me you seem so big. You are, after all, twice the size you were when you were born, with beautiful chubby cheeks and ever-fattening legs. You’ve long since grown out of your premie clothes. And with every passing day, it seems, we find another outfit no longer fits you.

Your first act, every morning, is a smile. And lately, you’ve been finishing the day with an hour-long screamfest that your mother and I have come to call the “9 o’clock freak out.” It’s OK, though, we love you still.

You no longer need us to support your head. And I can’t help but think you’re practicing to meet this world with your head held high. You look so confident, I feel like I could send you off to college tomorrow.

And, at the same time, I worry that I’ll be sending you off to college tomorrow. Everyone tells us: “It goes so fast — enjoy it while you can.”

So this month, at least, you and I are going to slow things down. Today was my first day of paternity leave, and we celebrated with a morning stroll through the aviary. As usual, you perked up when you heard the peacocks, the cuckaburra and the cranes call out. And I think I saw you following one particular scarlet ibis as it dashed back and forth about its cage.

Tomorrow, maybe, we’ll go too the zoo. Or perhaps we’ll just sit in the backyard, in the hammock, and swing and swing and swing.

I’ll read you a book. Maybe we’ll take a nap together. Maybe I’ll bring out my guitar and play you a song or two or three. And maybe I’ll write you a new one.

And we’ll live another lifetime together.

Love,
dad

FEW BETTER STORIES

Dear Spike:

We’re in a KOA campground in Vernal — “Utah’s Dinosaurland” the sign read on the way into town — getting ready to toast some s’mores and then turn in for the night.

We were going to meet some old friends here tonight and visit Dinosaur National Monument tomorrow, but as I was checking in at the main office, the woman behind the desk stopped to answer the phone.

“It’s for you,” she told me.

Our friends’ car had broken down in Colorado. They wouldn’t be making it into Utah after all.

“So just one site, then?” asked the woman behind the desk, who’d been listening in.

“I guess so,” I said.

I’ve never been to a KOA before, but it’s quite the experience — not so much camping as parking and pitching a tent, really. There’s a line of RVs across the way from us, and behind that another line of mobile homes that look anything but mobile.

Kids with way-too-deep -to-be-healthy suntans are peddling about the park on low-riding bikecars. An older man in black socks, sandals and a pair of tight cut-off shorts is wandering around with a beer in one hand and a propane tank in another. And a group of large women in tiny bathing suits are congregated near the camp bathrooms, smoking.

“It’s like we’ve been let inside the petting zoo!” your mother exclaimed as we took in our surroundings.

On our left, not more than 20 feet away, is a family of pudgy Alabamans who told us they’re on their way “Yellarstone.” On our right is shaggy bearded biker daddy and his long haired hippy mama, on the last leg of a ride that began three months ago and has taken them from their home in Tigard, Ore. down the California coastline, across to Arizona and New Mexico and back up through these parts en route back to the Beaver State.

A soccer game of migrant workers, who have pitched their tents here as they wait word on jobs further inland, just broke up. They played in jeans and chunky black workboots — some of them managing to dribble the ball downfield while simultaneously gabbing away on mobile phones with their families in Jalisco — and laughed an infectiously communal laugh as they knocked each other around the makeshift pitch.

Now as the camp has begun to settle down for the night I can barely make out a soft symphony of crickets chirping — just below the roar of nearby Highway 191.

So as it turns out, your first camping experience hasn’t at all gone the way I’d imagined — but I’ve got a philosophy that I’m hoping you’ll adopt: Things that go as planned rarely make for good storytelling later on.

A couple of years ago, your mother and I found ourselves curled up together in a sleeping bag in a courtyard next to a church cemetery on the seedy side of Victoria, B.C. We hadn’t even planned on being in Victoria that day, but that’s where the roads and rivers led us. Sure, I’ve had better nights of sleep — but I have few better stories.

And so tonight find us at a KOA in Vernal. And tomorrow will find us on the road to find our friends in Colorado.

And the next day? Who knows?

That’s just one life’s great joys.

Love,
dad

HARD TO REMEMBER

Dear Spike:

It got to the point that I was afraid to take you in my arms.

I don’t know what it was with you and I this evening, but we just didn’t seem to be getting along.

Your mother would take you, rock you, soothe you and put you to sleep. Then she’d place your tiny body in my arms.

And you’d cry.

And cry.

And scream. And flail. And cough and gag and spit up and cry some more until I gave in and handed you back to your mom.

It happened first when I got home from work. Then again an hour later. And again and again.

But she finally fell asleep, about an hour ago, and as she closed her eyes, you opened yours. You took one look at me and screamed like Janet Leigh.

More crying. And flailing. And coughing and gagging and spitting up. Until finally, blessedly finally, you passed out in my arms.

You’re now curled up — legs tucked under your body like a funny little frog, arms wrapped around my chest, head tucked into my shoulder — sleeping so quietly that I keep checking to make sure you’re breathing.

And it’s getting hard to remember why I didn’t want to hold you.

Love,
dad

THE WORLD SLEPT

Dear Spike:

You finally went down last night at about 11 p.m. It’s now nearly 7 a.m., and you’re still fast asleep in your cradle.

You are nearly two months old. And so it has been nearly two months since your mother and I have managed a regular night’s slumber. Lately, though, you have been sleeping for longer and longer stretches — five hours was your lengthiest rest, until now — and so I have been excitedly anticipating the moment when we could say you had slept through the night.
But the moments we most anticipate in life do not often play out in the way we expect. And this moment is no exception.

I was certain that I would meet this blessed, rested moment like a man who’d finally reached an oasis at the end of a long and thirty desert journey.

And yet at this hour, I feel a longing for the desert.

As exhausting as our all-night parties sometimes have been for me, I have really come to enjoy the hours we have shared as the rest of the world slept.

Oh, I’m certain there will be plenty of wide-eyed nights to come. I do not expect that you have suddenly grown disinterested in midnight meals and 2 a.m. tantrums.

But I also know the time is nearing when you will move out of our bedroom and into your own. And I know I will miss your presence here, so close by as I sleep and closer still when I feed you and rock with you and sing you songs and tell you stories, late into the night and early into the morning.

In the end — when the moments we anticipate have become the moments we remember — the best we can hope for are good memories.

These nights have been special times for me. I will remember them fondly. I will remember them forever.

Love,
dad

TIMES WE SHARED

Dear Spike:

This is fast becoming my favorite time of the day. I’m in the rocker. You’re on my lap. Your mother’s in bed, next to us, fast asleep.

Every few minutes, I nod down to kiss your head and whisper that I love you. Every hour, you wake up to cry.

I rock you and sing to you. If that doesn’t work I change you. If that doesn’t work I fix you a bottle.

We get to hang out this way until 3:30 or 4 a.m. — maybe two feedings and two changings — and then your mom will get up and I’ll go to sleep.

I know our relationship will change as you grow.

Sooner or later you won’t need me to feed you. Sooner or later (please, God, let it be sooner) you won’t need me to change you.

One day you’ll no longer need me to rock you to sleep. And one day, I know, I won’t be able to rock you at all.

I imagine you’ll let me sing to you for a few years to come. But someday you’ll find someone else to sing to you. That’s just how it goes.

But maybe, from time to time, you’ll let me kiss your head. Maybe you’ll let me whisper that I love you.

Maybe you’ll let me remember these times we shared, late at night, rocking the nights away.

Love,
dad

LITTLE NOCTURNAL ONE

Dear Spike:

You slept for hours in my arms today. These days, that’s a mixed blessing. For all the joy I get from watching you rest, I know that every minute you spend sleeping during the day is a minute you likely won’t sleep tonight.

And when you don’t sleep, we don’t sleep.

Alas, there are far worse fates than staying up late watching Star Wars with your daughter. Maybe a little popcorn. Maybe a little pizza. Chocolate milk for me. Mommy’s milk for you. A little Internet surfing. A little song singing. Maybe a stroll around the house together, then back to the rocking chair.

Come to think of it, I’m not sure there is anything in the world I enjoy more.

Now, admittedly, our slumber parties haven't done wonders for my game at work. But I’ve got the rest of my life to work — we’ve only a very short time to share these nights together.

And so, my little nocturnal one, sleep all day if you wish.

Our nights await.

Love,
dad