Dear Spike:
We were at the park, this evening, enjoying a Venezuelan string band and marveling as you stumbled from me to your mother and back again in the grass near the Old Chase Home.
And then someone caught your eye.
She smiled at you. You smiled back. And then you took off. Walking, then running, then practically leaping into her arms.
"Um... is it OK if I hold her?" she asked apologetically, as you were already clung like a Koala, round her neck.
We've been meeting more people this way, lately. You've just grown so social. So trusting.
It's a good thing. And a discomforting thing, too. I want you to be friendly with your neighbors — and I've never been one to believe that neighbors are only those people whom you happen to know.
At the same time, I worry. About nothing and everything. About no one and everyone. About you.
This is a double-edged world. Trust will make you a kinder, gentler, more compassionate person. It will also make you more vulnerable.
Not only to those terrifying things we all worry about, like kidnappers and child molesters, but to much subtler things like being disappointed by those you wish to be your friend or having your heart broken by those you wish to love. Trust will make you more susceptible to peer pressure, peer pressure will make you more susceptible to drinking, to smoking, to drugs, to sex, to driving fast, to skipping school, to wearing stupid clothes.
OK, stupid clothes are the least of my concerns.
As you grow, we'll try to teach you proper boundaries. And the world will help you learn those boundaries, too. What is a charming thing for a newly walking baby to do might not be so kindly received when you are four or five or six.
Most parents err on the side of safety. We may err on the side of trust. Not too much, mind you, but enough so that you know that the world is full of good people and that, when you expect people to be good, they generally are.
And yes, sometimes you will be disappointed. And yes, sometimes you will be hurt. And yes, I will occassionally wake up in a cold sweat, terrified that I've not taught you enough about how horrifyingly evil this world can be.
Often, it all seems like such a gamble. But then, I suppose, I am a gambling man.
And I'm gambling on this world being good to you, so that you can be good to it.
Love,
dad
Showing posts with label worry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label worry. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Friday, July 4, 2008
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
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
Friday, May 16, 2008
SNAKES AND GYPSIES
Dear Spike:
At first I thought you might have a spot of diaper rash. (You'll forgive my ignorance as to what, precisely, diaper rash looks like, as you've managed to go nearly 12 months without it). In any case, it took me a few moments to realize what I was actually looking at — a series of small red spots all around your thighs and lower back.
Damn spiders.
You didn't seem too bothered, so I tried no to fret. But by the time your mother came home from work you'd scratched about a bit, and it looked like you were wearing a pair of hamburger pants.
(A note to you Googlers: If you got to this Website by searching for "Hamburger Pants," you need professional help. Really.)
It's bedtime now, and your mom has rubbed some hydrocortisone cream on your legs, along with your usual 8 p.m. regimen of Eucerin and 'roids.
I've searched the nooks and crannies of your room for a spider's nest, to no avail, so I suppose we're just going to have to set you out as bait and see what happens.
Early on, (that is to say, within the first two minutes of your birth,) I realized that I wasn't going to be able to protect you from everything this world was going to throw your way. But over the past year, I think your mother and I haven't done too badly in the attempt.
After all, you haven't been swallowed by a boa constrictor, or mistakenly swapped with a similar-looking baby (as far as I know,) or kidnapped by Gypsies. And while there was that one instance when I dropped you on your head in front of pretty much everyone I work with, your skull seems to have regained its nice, round shape, so "no harm, no foul," right?
Right?
Truth is, I don't expect to protect you from the worst parts of life — only the very worst parts of life. And even those things, I'm afraid, I have limited control over.
When Hobbes said life was "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short" he really wasn't kidding. And while I don't think that's the full extent of life, I can't say I entirely disagree, either.
I also can't say that the bad is all bad. From pain we learn endurance, from struggle we learn tolerance, from loss we learn appreciation and in misery we find plenty of company.
You're not the first kid to get bit by a spider. You won't be the first to break your arm or knock out a tooth. And with the best of my focus on the snakes and Gypsies of the world, I'm just not going to be able to protect you from everything else.
But I'll try.
Lie still tonight, my darling little girl, we'll catch those spiders yet.
Love,
dad
At first I thought you might have a spot of diaper rash. (You'll forgive my ignorance as to what, precisely, diaper rash looks like, as you've managed to go nearly 12 months without it). In any case, it took me a few moments to realize what I was actually looking at — a series of small red spots all around your thighs and lower back.
Damn spiders.
You didn't seem too bothered, so I tried no to fret. But by the time your mother came home from work you'd scratched about a bit, and it looked like you were wearing a pair of hamburger pants.
(A note to you Googlers: If you got to this Website by searching for "Hamburger Pants," you need professional help. Really.)
It's bedtime now, and your mom has rubbed some hydrocortisone cream on your legs, along with your usual 8 p.m. regimen of Eucerin and 'roids.
I've searched the nooks and crannies of your room for a spider's nest, to no avail, so I suppose we're just going to have to set you out as bait and see what happens.
Early on, (that is to say, within the first two minutes of your birth,) I realized that I wasn't going to be able to protect you from everything this world was going to throw your way. But over the past year, I think your mother and I haven't done too badly in the attempt.
After all, you haven't been swallowed by a boa constrictor, or mistakenly swapped with a similar-looking baby (as far as I know,) or kidnapped by Gypsies. And while there was that one instance when I dropped you on your head in front of pretty much everyone I work with, your skull seems to have regained its nice, round shape, so "no harm, no foul," right?
Right?
Truth is, I don't expect to protect you from the worst parts of life — only the very worst parts of life. And even those things, I'm afraid, I have limited control over.
When Hobbes said life was "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short" he really wasn't kidding. And while I don't think that's the full extent of life, I can't say I entirely disagree, either.
I also can't say that the bad is all bad. From pain we learn endurance, from struggle we learn tolerance, from loss we learn appreciation and in misery we find plenty of company.
You're not the first kid to get bit by a spider. You won't be the first to break your arm or knock out a tooth. And with the best of my focus on the snakes and Gypsies of the world, I'm just not going to be able to protect you from everything else.
But I'll try.
Lie still tonight, my darling little girl, we'll catch those spiders yet.
Love,
dad
Monday, April 7, 2008
NEVER LET GO
Dear Spike:
You usually sleep in our bed on Friday nights. Sometimes on Saturdays, too. Your mother and I stay up and watch movies and you nestle right between us as Coltrane looks on from the foot of the bed, flexing his paws and, I’m sure, wondering why the hell is she in my spot?
Tonight is Monday night. You should be in your crib, in your room. And with April 15 just around the corner, your mother and I should be doing our taxes. But as your bedtime neared, this drafty old house just seemed so very cold. And, well, here you are.
You’re wearing your soft, green nightgown, the one with the little dancing bear and the shooting stars. Your hands are cocked behind your head, like a talent agent who just signed a big movie deal for his client and is about to light a fat and moderately expensive cigar to celebrate. Your feet are bare. Such pretty little feet. You’re resting on your mother’s stomach — right over the spot where you spent nine whole months, cooking away like a little pot roast until finally popping out last May, just a tad underdone.
Your mother’s reading “My Sister’s Keeper” by Jodi Picoult, who, accoridng to the photograph on the back of the book, has curly red hair and doesn’t feel the need to smile for the camera.
And I’m sitting here with my computer balanced on my knee. Tap, tap, tapping away.
Avoiding the subject. Avoiding the reason why, perhaps — no, I’m quite sure the reason why, in fact — I wanted you to come sleep with us tonight.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
They buried her today.
She was a sweet little seven year old girl. Just a bitty thing. She liked the color pink and the company of her neighbors. Her family taught her to trust the people in her communty. It takes a village, some have said.
I have said.
Hser Ner Moo wandered away from her home last Monday afternoon. Off to a friend’s home, it was assumed. By Tuesday she was dead. The man who killed her was an aquaintance of her family. The home where she died, she’d visited before. This was her village.
Back when it was merely an academic pursuit, I theorized that the measures Americans go to in order to protect their children from harm were, in fact, of greater collective detriment than the remote possibilities that harm might, in fact, be inflicted. Maybe that's still true. But tonight, all I want to do is plop a helmet on your head and safety pads on your arms and legs and teach you Kung Fu and buy you a loud whistle and get a burglar alarm for your room and tag your ear with a GPS tracking chip like they do to endangered animals.
We live right across the street from the most beautiful urban park you’ll ever see. Right across the street. There are ducks to feed and boats to ride and a carosel and a merry-go-round and the nation’s largest public aviary and tennis courts and fountains and a greenhouse and bike paths and two lovely playgrounds.
I’d always imagined that you would play there — with us nearby at first, of course, but eventually by yourself and with your friends. I imagined I would watch from the porch as your rounded the corner and disappeared. Maybe when you were seven or eight — big enough to be seen by cars and to scream loud enough for someone to hear, if need be.
But small enough to play — to learn to be independent and to handle your own conflicts with other kids. Like we used to, when I was a kid.
“I’m going to play,” I’d call over my shoulder on the way out the door.“Be back before dinner,” my mother would call back as the door slammed behind me. Most of the time, I think, she had a vague idea of where I was headed. And that was enough for her.
I’d like it to be enough for me. For you.
But how can I send you out into this village? How do I ballance my desire to help you learn about community when I don’t feel as though I truly trust our community?
So maybe not seven. Maybe not eight. Maybe not nine or 10.
Of course, tonight is a bad night to be making decisions about these things. I’m sad and hurt and heartbroken for that poor little girl’s family. The world feels like an ugly place.
And all I want to to hold you between your mother and I. Tight and close and safe.
And never let go.
Love,
dad
You usually sleep in our bed on Friday nights. Sometimes on Saturdays, too. Your mother and I stay up and watch movies and you nestle right between us as Coltrane looks on from the foot of the bed, flexing his paws and, I’m sure, wondering why the hell is she in my spot?
Tonight is Monday night. You should be in your crib, in your room. And with April 15 just around the corner, your mother and I should be doing our taxes. But as your bedtime neared, this drafty old house just seemed so very cold. And, well, here you are.
You’re wearing your soft, green nightgown, the one with the little dancing bear and the shooting stars. Your hands are cocked behind your head, like a talent agent who just signed a big movie deal for his client and is about to light a fat and moderately expensive cigar to celebrate. Your feet are bare. Such pretty little feet. You’re resting on your mother’s stomach — right over the spot where you spent nine whole months, cooking away like a little pot roast until finally popping out last May, just a tad underdone.
Your mother’s reading “My Sister’s Keeper” by Jodi Picoult, who, accoridng to the photograph on the back of the book, has curly red hair and doesn’t feel the need to smile for the camera.
And I’m sitting here with my computer balanced on my knee. Tap, tap, tapping away.
Avoiding the subject. Avoiding the reason why, perhaps — no, I’m quite sure the reason why, in fact — I wanted you to come sleep with us tonight.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
They buried her today.
She was a sweet little seven year old girl. Just a bitty thing. She liked the color pink and the company of her neighbors. Her family taught her to trust the people in her communty. It takes a village, some have said.
I have said.
Hser Ner Moo wandered away from her home last Monday afternoon. Off to a friend’s home, it was assumed. By Tuesday she was dead. The man who killed her was an aquaintance of her family. The home where she died, she’d visited before. This was her village.
Back when it was merely an academic pursuit, I theorized that the measures Americans go to in order to protect their children from harm were, in fact, of greater collective detriment than the remote possibilities that harm might, in fact, be inflicted. Maybe that's still true. But tonight, all I want to do is plop a helmet on your head and safety pads on your arms and legs and teach you Kung Fu and buy you a loud whistle and get a burglar alarm for your room and tag your ear with a GPS tracking chip like they do to endangered animals.
We live right across the street from the most beautiful urban park you’ll ever see. Right across the street. There are ducks to feed and boats to ride and a carosel and a merry-go-round and the nation’s largest public aviary and tennis courts and fountains and a greenhouse and bike paths and two lovely playgrounds.
I’d always imagined that you would play there — with us nearby at first, of course, but eventually by yourself and with your friends. I imagined I would watch from the porch as your rounded the corner and disappeared. Maybe when you were seven or eight — big enough to be seen by cars and to scream loud enough for someone to hear, if need be.
But small enough to play — to learn to be independent and to handle your own conflicts with other kids. Like we used to, when I was a kid.
“I’m going to play,” I’d call over my shoulder on the way out the door.“Be back before dinner,” my mother would call back as the door slammed behind me. Most of the time, I think, she had a vague idea of where I was headed. And that was enough for her.
I’d like it to be enough for me. For you.
But how can I send you out into this village? How do I ballance my desire to help you learn about community when I don’t feel as though I truly trust our community?
So maybe not seven. Maybe not eight. Maybe not nine or 10.
Of course, tonight is a bad night to be making decisions about these things. I’m sad and hurt and heartbroken for that poor little girl’s family. The world feels like an ugly place.
And all I want to to hold you between your mother and I. Tight and close and safe.
And never let go.
Love,
dad
Monday, February 11, 2008
A GIANT NOW
Dear Spike:
Every few hours, somewhere in the world, a baby is born weighing 13 pounds or more.
Which means that every few hours, somewhere in the world, there appears yet another brand spankin’ newborn as big as you are now — at eight and a half months old.
Sigh.
I took you in to see Dr. Schriewer today. Ostensibly, we were there for your ear infection, but we spent far more time talking about you weight — or lack thereof, as it were. Last time around, she seemed mildly concerned. This time she was obviously more troubled by your stubborn skinniness.
I just keep trying to remember that you came out so very small and, by comparison, you’re practically a giant now.
I also take comfort in knowing that, in other developmental ways, you seem to be doing just fine. You started mumbling “ma ma ma ma” and “da da da da” a while back, but this week it seems you’ve been doing so with a bit more recognition of the particular parent standing before you. Meanwhile, you’re pulling yourself up to a standing position against the bars on your crib and you usually can manage a few brave shuffle steps before you tumble down. And after a rough week in the potty department (you even peed on our friend, Leslie) you seemed to remember how to do... um... “it” and once again are doing your business in the place where that business belongs.
But, alas, you’re still so very small — just a tiny percentile of a tiny percentile, I’m afraid. That does worry me a bit — and your mother, too.
It’s all well and good that you’re learning to use the toilet, after all, but if you’re never big enough to actually sit on it — without falling in — that’s not really going to do you a heckuva lot of good, will it?
And so, it’s time to eat, my precious tiny child.
It’s time to eat.
Love,
dad
Sunday, February 10, 2008
THE GIANT DIPPER
Dear Spike:
Up to 102. Down to 97. Up again and down once more. If we were to track your fever on a chart, I’ll bet it would look like a schematic for the Giant Dipper roller coaster at the Santa Cruz boardwalk.
Fevers, we’re told, are a pretty common malady for infants — particularly this time of year. And though your little body seemed so hot to the touch, anything less than 102 degrees generally is not considered severe. As such, we weren’t too worried until last night, when you woke every 20 minutes — screaming as though we’d been plucking out your eyebrows, hair by hair by hair.
When your fever dropped again today, your mother and I figured you’d pass out from sheer exhaustion, but you maintained the same tormented pace — 20 minutes of rest, 40 minutes of screaming, 20 minutes of rest — throughout the day.
The on-call doctor at our pediatric clinic thinks you probably have an ear infection, perhaps brought on by last week’s first airplane flight to California. He’s prescribed ibuprofen, olive oil drops, and a visit to Dr. Schriewer first thing tomorrow morning.
Meanwhile, though, we’ve got to make it through tonight.
Without a doubt, these last three days have been the most miserable of your young life. And it’s been quite painful for your mother and I was well, as we’ve been able to do very little to ease your pain or soothe your cries.
I’m relieved to know that you’ll soon have forgotten all about this.
But I doubt we ever will.
I love you, Spike. Get well soon.
Love,
dad
Up to 102. Down to 97. Up again and down once more. If we were to track your fever on a chart, I’ll bet it would look like a schematic for the Giant Dipper roller coaster at the Santa Cruz boardwalk.Fevers, we’re told, are a pretty common malady for infants — particularly this time of year. And though your little body seemed so hot to the touch, anything less than 102 degrees generally is not considered severe. As such, we weren’t too worried until last night, when you woke every 20 minutes — screaming as though we’d been plucking out your eyebrows, hair by hair by hair.
When your fever dropped again today, your mother and I figured you’d pass out from sheer exhaustion, but you maintained the same tormented pace — 20 minutes of rest, 40 minutes of screaming, 20 minutes of rest — throughout the day.
The on-call doctor at our pediatric clinic thinks you probably have an ear infection, perhaps brought on by last week’s first airplane flight to California. He’s prescribed ibuprofen, olive oil drops, and a visit to Dr. Schriewer first thing tomorrow morning.
Meanwhile, though, we’ve got to make it through tonight.
Without a doubt, these last three days have been the most miserable of your young life. And it’s been quite painful for your mother and I was well, as we’ve been able to do very little to ease your pain or soothe your cries.
I’m relieved to know that you’ll soon have forgotten all about this.
But I doubt we ever will.
I love you, Spike. Get well soon.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
LET YOU KNOW
Dear Spike:
Your mother learned today how very sharp your new tooth is. Not surprisingly, this has been a very disconcerting development for her.
One day, when you are 13 or 14 and acting a bit rotten toward her, I am going to sit down with you and describe all the ways in which she has sacrificed of herself on your behalf.
Quite frankly, I wouldn’t put it past her to have this conversation with you herself. After all, this is a woman who has the uncanny ability to remember every time I’ve seriously wronged her, right down to what I was wearing at the time.
Then again, you’ve smitten her in ways I could never match. So just in case, blinded by love, she fails to let you know, I’ve been keeping track.
From the way the doctors tore into her body to pull you out to how she’s woken every night (sometimes two or three or four times) to feed you, your mom has endured extreme pain, utter sleeplessness, immeasurable worry and just plain all-around discomfort all to ensure you are happy, healthy and growing.
She loves you more than anything in the world.
And yes indeed, if you are ever rotten to her, you’re going to get to hear all about it.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
BEING A GIRL
Dear Spike:
You’ve vomited on the back of my neck. You’ve relieved yourself on my shirt. You’ve spit, puked, peed and pooped in colors and consistencies that would make Jackson Pollack envious.
I’ve lost sleep, missed work, ignored friends and forgotten — sometimes for days on end — to shower.
I think I’ve been a pretty good sport. They say no one is ever really ready to be a parent, but I can honestly say that nothing’s come up for which I haven’t felt at least passingly prepared.
Until this evening.
With just a few days to go before you turn six months old, you’ve found your...
...um, your...
...I mean, you’ve discovered...
...oh, Lord Baby Jesus Away in a Manger, help me...
...you now know where to find your...
...err...
...the place where...
...that is, the thing with which...
...oh bother.
I’m not squeamish. And I’m not embarrassed by anatomy — or at least, I didn’t think I was.
If you were a boy, I think I’d be proud
“Damn right, young man,” I’d say. “That’s your penis. Good for peein’ and procreatin’ — just not at the same time. Use it with gusto.”
Heck, I might even have snapped a photo.
But although I know there’s no reason to think about penises any different than...
...va...
...v-v-va...
...OK, here goes...
...vaginas (there I said it — and yes, that was tough!)...
...the truth is that there’s still a lot of baggage that goes with being a girl in this world — a lot of things that, by virtue of having one set of plumbing over another, you’re going to have to put up with that your friends Miles, Conrad, Michael, Jack and Brett just won’t have to.
Maybe that’s why I call you Spike. And why I dress you in skull-and-crossbone onesies. And why, whenever your mother’s not looking, I put your hair up in a Mohawk.
Maybe that’s why I’m so anti-pink.
Except, the thing is, you look really good in pink. And you’ve got a beautiful little girl’s name. And you look absolutely darling in the little dresses that your grandparents got for you.
And while you don’t really have much in the way of hair at the moment, I’m sure you’re going to grow a long, thick mess of it — just like your mom’s — and I’m sure it’s going to look very, very pretty.
Sigh.
And someday, I suppose, you’re going to look pretty for someone other than me. And in ways that I’m simply NOT going to appreciate.
There I go again. All you did was reach down during your bath. And here I am sitting on the porch with my shotgun.
Sigh.
I should be proud. This is simply another step in your development. Like laughing, crawling and eating solid foods.
You’re a little girl. And today you discovered part of what makes you a little girl.
Yes, I should be proud.
OK, so here goes...
“Damn right, young woman. That’s your vagina. Use it with gusto.”
But not until you’re 32.
Love,
dad
You’ve vomited on the back of my neck. You’ve relieved yourself on my shirt. You’ve spit, puked, peed and pooped in colors and consistencies that would make Jackson Pollack envious.
I’ve lost sleep, missed work, ignored friends and forgotten — sometimes for days on end — to shower.
I think I’ve been a pretty good sport. They say no one is ever really ready to be a parent, but I can honestly say that nothing’s come up for which I haven’t felt at least passingly prepared.
Until this evening.
With just a few days to go before you turn six months old, you’ve found your...
...um, your...
...I mean, you’ve discovered...
...oh, Lord Baby Jesus Away in a Manger, help me...
...you now know where to find your...
...err...
...the place where...
...that is, the thing with which...
...oh bother.
I’m not squeamish. And I’m not embarrassed by anatomy — or at least, I didn’t think I was.
If you were a boy, I think I’d be proud
“Damn right, young man,” I’d say. “That’s your penis. Good for peein’ and procreatin’ — just not at the same time. Use it with gusto.”
Heck, I might even have snapped a photo.
But although I know there’s no reason to think about penises any different than...
...va...
...v-v-va...
...OK, here goes...
...vaginas (there I said it — and yes, that was tough!)...
...the truth is that there’s still a lot of baggage that goes with being a girl in this world — a lot of things that, by virtue of having one set of plumbing over another, you’re going to have to put up with that your friends Miles, Conrad, Michael, Jack and Brett just won’t have to.
Maybe that’s why I call you Spike. And why I dress you in skull-and-crossbone onesies. And why, whenever your mother’s not looking, I put your hair up in a Mohawk.
Maybe that’s why I’m so anti-pink.
Except, the thing is, you look really good in pink. And you’ve got a beautiful little girl’s name. And you look absolutely darling in the little dresses that your grandparents got for you.
And while you don’t really have much in the way of hair at the moment, I’m sure you’re going to grow a long, thick mess of it — just like your mom’s — and I’m sure it’s going to look very, very pretty.
Sigh.
And someday, I suppose, you’re going to look pretty for someone other than me. And in ways that I’m simply NOT going to appreciate.
There I go again. All you did was reach down during your bath. And here I am sitting on the porch with my shotgun.
Sigh.
I should be proud. This is simply another step in your development. Like laughing, crawling and eating solid foods.
You’re a little girl. And today you discovered part of what makes you a little girl.
Yes, I should be proud.
OK, so here goes...
“Damn right, young woman. That’s your vagina. Use it with gusto.”
But not until you’re 32.
Love,
dad
Monday, July 16, 2007
DAYS OF SUMMER
Dear Spike:
I knew this was coming. After all, your mother has spent almost every waking moment with you since you were born. It was ineludible that, at some point, she would recognize all summers must end.
She cried at the thought. “Do you think she will miss me?” she asked about the time, a month from now, when she will return to work. “Do you think she’ll be sad that I am not there?”
Of course, I told her, it would be so. I’ve seen the way you sleep, cuddled against her chest as she rocks on the rocking chair. I’ve heard the way you’ve cried for her to lift you from your cradle. And I am not so foolish as to believe my bottle and her breast are the same thing, for you.
I’ve never seen two people happier to be together.
Yes, I’m certain you will miss having your mother at your beck and call. And yes, I know she will miss you, too.
Of course, the reasonable among us would recognize the futility of squandering our happiest moments by fretting over the inevitable. Then again, your mother has never made claim to membership in any gang of reason. Thank God for that, as I’m still here.
By way of trying to make her feel better about things, I reminded her that I was, in fact, not such a bad person to leave in charge of her daughter’s care as she returns to her pre-you duty of saving the world, one kindergartener at a time. I am reasonably responsible, after all. And careful, too (though you’ve taken to sudden squirms and random gyrations as you discover this wonderful thing we call “muscle control,” I’ve not yet so much as stuck you with a diaper pin or dropped you on your head.)
It was, of course, not fear of my parenting that had your mother in tears this evening but fear of how much she would long to care for you herself. And in this matter, there is little I can do to alleviate her angst. For it is simply true that all summers must end.
You’ll learn that, I reckon, at some point between kindergarten and first grade. In the first weeks of August, perhaps, we’ll get to speaking about getting you a new lunch box or purchasing a new back pack and you’ll suddenly recognize the finite nature of the lovely, long and lazy days of summer.
At some point, down the road, you’ll realize that summers not only end but are, in fact, never quite long enough. And at some point not long thereafter, summer will cease to be a vacation at all and simply be — as I am using it at this very moment — a metaphor for other joys of life.
Yes, my child, all summers must end. It is that very quality that makes them so wonderful to begin with.
Love,
dad
Sunday, May 27, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
TO DO GREAT
Dear Spike:
We just got back from our fourth childbirth class. Today’s subject: Pain.
Pain.
And more pain.
Ripping and cutting. Needles and catheters. Forceps and hooks and surgical scalpels and clamps. Oh yeah, did I mention they have videos of all of this stuff in action?
At one point, your mother turned to me and said, “I’ve decided I can’t do this.” She’s said that before, but she always was kidding. This time, I think she was serious.
All the moms walked out of the class looking like they’d come to the same conclusion. I can’t be sure, of course, but I think this woman might be why they’ve banned abortion in the third trimester.
To be fair, we also discussed pain management. But even where that was concerned, it was mostly about the pain you have to endure to get to the pain management.
I sure hope there is some sort of method to this instructor’s madness. At the moment, she’s just making me feel really, really bad about getting your mother into this mess.
A quick sidenote: I just realized that someday I’m going to have to teach you about where babies come from. Oh boy. Won't that be a lovely time.
For the moment, your mom is seriously freaked out. It's almost as bad as that time we watched "The Toxic Avenger," thinking it was going to be like the cartoon, but quickly realizing that, in fact, it was pretty much about crushing people's heads in a way that made their brains squirt out of their ears.
I turned off the movie that night. This time around, there's no power button. No rewind. No TiVo.
After we got home, she filled the bathtub and took a dip. I sat on the edge of the tub and looked down at her adorable belly, sticking up out of the water.
“You know,” I said. “You’re going to do great.”
“At birth or at being a mom?” she asked.
“Both.”
“I don’t really know how to do either of those things.”
“You will. You’re going to do great.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know. But you’re going to do great.”
For some reason, when we’re scared, it’s often good to repeat a single, simple, soothing message. It’s not even the words that really count, I think, but just that we have something true and comforting to think about. I think that’s why people say The Lord’s Prayer when they’re scared — even if they're not religious.
For the next four weeks (or more, or less, it’s really up to you) I’ll be telling your mother this same thing: “You’re going to do great.”
At being a mom. At giving birth. At handling the pain. At ignoring our masochistic childbirth class instructor.
Your mother is sleeping now. Snoring hard. I hope she’s not dreaming about any of those videos.
I wonder if you’re scared, too. By your new world. By all the noises outside your little cocoon. By forceps and hooks and surgical scalpels and clamps.
You know, you’re going to do great, too.
You’re going to do great.
You’re going to do great.
Love,
dad
We just got back from our fourth childbirth class. Today’s subject: Pain.
Pain.
And more pain.
Ripping and cutting. Needles and catheters. Forceps and hooks and surgical scalpels and clamps. Oh yeah, did I mention they have videos of all of this stuff in action?
At one point, your mother turned to me and said, “I’ve decided I can’t do this.” She’s said that before, but she always was kidding. This time, I think she was serious.
All the moms walked out of the class looking like they’d come to the same conclusion. I can’t be sure, of course, but I think this woman might be why they’ve banned abortion in the third trimester.
To be fair, we also discussed pain management. But even where that was concerned, it was mostly about the pain you have to endure to get to the pain management.
I sure hope there is some sort of method to this instructor’s madness. At the moment, she’s just making me feel really, really bad about getting your mother into this mess.
A quick sidenote: I just realized that someday I’m going to have to teach you about where babies come from. Oh boy. Won't that be a lovely time.
For the moment, your mom is seriously freaked out. It's almost as bad as that time we watched "The Toxic Avenger," thinking it was going to be like the cartoon, but quickly realizing that, in fact, it was pretty much about crushing people's heads in a way that made their brains squirt out of their ears.
I turned off the movie that night. This time around, there's no power button. No rewind. No TiVo.
After we got home, she filled the bathtub and took a dip. I sat on the edge of the tub and looked down at her adorable belly, sticking up out of the water.
“You know,” I said. “You’re going to do great.”
“At birth or at being a mom?” she asked.
“Both.”
“I don’t really know how to do either of those things.”
“You will. You’re going to do great.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know. But you’re going to do great.”
For some reason, when we’re scared, it’s often good to repeat a single, simple, soothing message. It’s not even the words that really count, I think, but just that we have something true and comforting to think about. I think that’s why people say The Lord’s Prayer when they’re scared — even if they're not religious.
For the next four weeks (or more, or less, it’s really up to you) I’ll be telling your mother this same thing: “You’re going to do great.”
At being a mom. At giving birth. At handling the pain. At ignoring our masochistic childbirth class instructor.
Your mother is sleeping now. Snoring hard. I hope she’s not dreaming about any of those videos.
I wonder if you’re scared, too. By your new world. By all the noises outside your little cocoon. By forceps and hooks and surgical scalpels and clamps.
You know, you’re going to do great, too.
You’re going to do great.
You’re going to do great.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
GRAB SOME CHANGE
Dear Spike:
With just two months to go until you arrive, your mother this week began to exhibit what is commonly described as “nesting” behavior.
I came home from work, the other day, to find our home more neatly cleaned than it has been for months. Your mom, on the way out the door for her music lessons as I walked in, noted that she’d also “done some stuff in the basement.”
I immediately panicked. Over time, our basement had become a pit of endless piles of camping gear, Christmas decorations, seasonal clothing, school supplies and other miscellaneous items we bring out once a year, if that. Littered with power tools, buckets of paint and bags of concrete, it is no place for a pregnant woman to be nesting.
I was relieved to find she’d left most of the heavy lifting for me — but only until I realized that meant that we were going to be spending a very good part of the weekend “in the pit.” In the end, it turned out to be a pretty good time with endless opportunities for self reflection on materialism (it’s absolutely amazing what you think you’ll need but manage to live without for years but then can’t bring yourself to throw away because you still think you need it.)
While we were in the basement, your mother came across an old Zippo-style cigarette lighter I picked up in Japan, when I was in the Navy a number of years ago. The inscription on the side of the lighter indicated it was carried by a soldier who’d fought in the three-day battle for Loc Ninh, in Vietnam. How it wound up in a Tokyo street market, I don’t know, but I felt I had to have it.
For years after I got out of the military I carried the lighter in my pocket, where I could feel it anytime I reached down to grab some change or to warm my hands — a constant reminder to always appreciate how bad I don’t have it.
At some point, I think around the time I met your mother, I stopped carrying it.
With two months to go before you arrive, I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about whether we’re ready to bring you home. Several nights this week, those thoughts have kept me awake.
Over the next two months, we’ll clean the house and put the car seats in the cars and wash your crib and check the batteries in your baby monitors. We’ll buy your diapers and wash your clothes and power clean the carpets.
We’ll nest in ways that have nothing to do with you: Cleaning the garage or fixing the rain gutters or organizing the refrigerator.
We’ll worry. About you. About us. About money. About life. About this house and this town and this world.
And for me, there are bound to be some more sleepless nights.
So for the time, I think I’ll keep this lighter by my bedside, perhaps next to an ultrasound picture of you — a small midnight reminder to appreciate how bad I don’t have it.
Love,
dad
With just two months to go until you arrive, your mother this week began to exhibit what is commonly described as “nesting” behavior.
I came home from work, the other day, to find our home more neatly cleaned than it has been for months. Your mom, on the way out the door for her music lessons as I walked in, noted that she’d also “done some stuff in the basement.”
I immediately panicked. Over time, our basement had become a pit of endless piles of camping gear, Christmas decorations, seasonal clothing, school supplies and other miscellaneous items we bring out once a year, if that. Littered with power tools, buckets of paint and bags of concrete, it is no place for a pregnant woman to be nesting.
I was relieved to find she’d left most of the heavy lifting for me — but only until I realized that meant that we were going to be spending a very good part of the weekend “in the pit.” In the end, it turned out to be a pretty good time with endless opportunities for self reflection on materialism (it’s absolutely amazing what you think you’ll need but manage to live without for years but then can’t bring yourself to throw away because you still think you need it.)
While we were in the basement, your mother came across an old Zippo-style cigarette lighter I picked up in Japan, when I was in the Navy a number of years ago. The inscription on the side of the lighter indicated it was carried by a soldier who’d fought in the three-day battle for Loc Ninh, in Vietnam. How it wound up in a Tokyo street market, I don’t know, but I felt I had to have it.
For years after I got out of the military I carried the lighter in my pocket, where I could feel it anytime I reached down to grab some change or to warm my hands — a constant reminder to always appreciate how bad I don’t have it.
At some point, I think around the time I met your mother, I stopped carrying it.
With two months to go before you arrive, I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about whether we’re ready to bring you home. Several nights this week, those thoughts have kept me awake.
Over the next two months, we’ll clean the house and put the car seats in the cars and wash your crib and check the batteries in your baby monitors. We’ll buy your diapers and wash your clothes and power clean the carpets.
We’ll nest in ways that have nothing to do with you: Cleaning the garage or fixing the rain gutters or organizing the refrigerator.
We’ll worry. About you. About us. About money. About life. About this house and this town and this world.
And for me, there are bound to be some more sleepless nights.
So for the time, I think I’ll keep this lighter by my bedside, perhaps next to an ultrasound picture of you — a small midnight reminder to appreciate how bad I don’t have it.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
BRING TO BLOOM
Dear Spike:
Your mother and I spent the weekend turning the dirt in our vegetable garden. When the frost breaks for good, next month, we’ll plant the seedlings that are now sprouting in our kitchen window.
With all the worries you’ve delivered to us in the past seven months, it gives me great hope to think about the resilience of life, represented by those seeds. Out of almost nothing they spring up, each year, nurtured by only a little dirt and water.
I marvel especially at the sunflowers. From a tiny kernel — the size of your little baby thumb — they grow into towering giants, turning to meet the sun as it breaks above the house in the morning and bowing to its majesty as it sets beyond the trees in the evening.
There is another side to this magnificence, of course. As brown-thumb gardeners, it’s a side we know all too well.
Nature is also very, very delicate.
Each year, we kill far more plants than we manage to bring to bloom. Each year, we tell ourselves that this is the year we’ll succeed.
It seems reasonable to assume that we would become better and better gardeners, over time. But last year was the worst year yet.
On Thursday we visited with our friends, Scott and Leslie, meeting face-to-face for the first time with their son, Miles, who came into this world just a few weeks ago and who we hope will be one of your very close friends.
Your mother has never looked happier to me than she was as she cradled Miles in her arms. But later, as we drove home, she admitted that holding him made her nervous for what is to come.
“He’s so small and delicate,” she said. “And we’re going to have one of those soon.”
Indeed we will.
And so one day soon, you’ll find yourself rising to face the morning sun, turning and stretching to meet its majesty, bowing as it sets.
With each passing day, I know, I’ll fret at your delicateness and marvel at your resilience.
And pray that I turn out to be a better father than a gardener.
Love,
dad
Your mother and I spent the weekend turning the dirt in our vegetable garden. When the frost breaks for good, next month, we’ll plant the seedlings that are now sprouting in our kitchen window.
With all the worries you’ve delivered to us in the past seven months, it gives me great hope to think about the resilience of life, represented by those seeds. Out of almost nothing they spring up, each year, nurtured by only a little dirt and water.
I marvel especially at the sunflowers. From a tiny kernel — the size of your little baby thumb — they grow into towering giants, turning to meet the sun as it breaks above the house in the morning and bowing to its majesty as it sets beyond the trees in the evening.
There is another side to this magnificence, of course. As brown-thumb gardeners, it’s a side we know all too well.
Nature is also very, very delicate.
Each year, we kill far more plants than we manage to bring to bloom. Each year, we tell ourselves that this is the year we’ll succeed.
It seems reasonable to assume that we would become better and better gardeners, over time. But last year was the worst year yet.
On Thursday we visited with our friends, Scott and Leslie, meeting face-to-face for the first time with their son, Miles, who came into this world just a few weeks ago and who we hope will be one of your very close friends.
Your mother has never looked happier to me than she was as she cradled Miles in her arms. But later, as we drove home, she admitted that holding him made her nervous for what is to come.
“He’s so small and delicate,” she said. “And we’re going to have one of those soon.”
Indeed we will.
And so one day soon, you’ll find yourself rising to face the morning sun, turning and stretching to meet its majesty, bowing as it sets.
With each passing day, I know, I’ll fret at your delicateness and marvel at your resilience.
And pray that I turn out to be a better father than a gardener.
Love,
dad
Thursday, March 29, 2007
YOUR LITTLE TICKER
Dear Spike:
I’m sitting in a rocking chair in a room on the labor and delivery floor at LDS Hospital, listening to your tiny heart fill the room with a sound like a horse galloping through wet sand.
Tra-da-dup---tra-da-dup---tra-da-dup---tra-da-dup.
In front of me, your mother is in the bed with a belt around her belly. The belt is connected to a computer by two wires — one to let us hear your little ticker, the other to let us see an image of its progress. Right now you’re hammering away at about 140 beats per minute — just the right pace — but it has slowed down a few times today and that has the doctors a bit concerned.
They assure us that it is likely nothing to worry about, but we’re going to watch it just to be safe.
Meanwhile, we wait. And as we do, I get to listen to the most beautiful sound in the world.
Tra-da-dup---tra-da-dup---tra-da-dup---tra-da-dup.
Love,
dad
I’m sitting in a rocking chair in a room on the labor and delivery floor at LDS Hospital, listening to your tiny heart fill the room with a sound like a horse galloping through wet sand.
Tra-da-dup---tra-da-dup---tra-da-dup---tra-da-dup.
In front of me, your mother is in the bed with a belt around her belly. The belt is connected to a computer by two wires — one to let us hear your little ticker, the other to let us see an image of its progress. Right now you’re hammering away at about 140 beats per minute — just the right pace — but it has slowed down a few times today and that has the doctors a bit concerned.
They assure us that it is likely nothing to worry about, but we’re going to watch it just to be safe.
Meanwhile, we wait. And as we do, I get to listen to the most beautiful sound in the world.
Tra-da-dup---tra-da-dup---tra-da-dup---tra-da-dup.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
DEAR SPIKE, LOVE MOM
Baby of mine,
I heard a baby cry today. I’ve heard babies cry many times. Today was different. I didn’t recoil at the sound of the small catlike cry. I was jealous. I was jealous of the mother sitting there with her perfect child and wondering if I too will be so lucky in May or June.
The last few days have been very difficult for me and for your dad. But unlike your dad I can’t bury myself in my work to keep my mind off of what is happening. No matter where I go you go with me. And with us goes the unease of probability.
I’ve never truly loved math. I used to spend hours sitting with my father — and stacks of green engineering graph paper — trying to twist my brain around the ins and outs of math concepts.
But I can’t say that I received many (or any) Bs or Cs in math classes in high school or college, either. Math was never easy for me, but I am too stubborn a person to let a little glitch like difficulty hold me back from an A — so much that the occasional minus sign that would appear on a test would eat away at me as I tried to find mistakes in a professor’s calculations to obtain a solid A,
Usually, any problems on the tests were the result of my transposing a number.
Without ever really trying to accumulate math credits, I graduated with my undergraduate degree just three classes shy of a math minor.
And even after that, try as I might, I just couldn’t to escape math.
Math followed me into my profession. Today I began to teach my students about probability. We worked with terms like “certain” and “impossible”. As my students tried to figure out if it was impossible to draw a red marble from the jar I too considered probabilities.
I began to make a mental list...
• It is certain I am pregnant.
• It is impossible I will give birth to a cat.
• It is certain I have felt you move.
As the lesson progressed, I introduced new terms. My list continued...
• It is possible something is wrong with you.
• It is improbable the blood used for the test was switched with someone else’s.
• It is probable that I will be broken hearted if Wednesday’s ultrasound is not sound.
If this was a normal pregnancy the probability of you having Trisomy 18 would be 1 in 4,000 — a small outlier on a scatter plot.
I’m sorry to say, baby of mine, that our probability is 1 in 55. Your father equated the chances of you having this problem are like drawing the ace of spades from a deck of cards.
So here I am with my deck, but unlike him, I’m not drawing any cards. I’m just shuffling them back and forth and wishing away any possibility that I would “win” and draw the right card.
I’ve never loved anything more in my life than I love you. I love you more than your father, more than our fat and fluffy cat Cole. I love you more than I love getting A grades on papers and more than pajamas in the middle of the day.
I would do anything for you. I would vomit daily. I would eat sauerkraut. And I would never again so much as flinch when pricked with a needle if it would make everything all right.
But if Wednesday comes and we draw the right card from the deck and “win” it would not change my love for you. I will still love you more than your father, our fat and fluffy cat Cole, As on papers and pajamas in the middle of the day.
I am truly blessed to have you. Now and for the rest of your life – no matter how long it may be.
Love,
mom
I heard a baby cry today. I’ve heard babies cry many times. Today was different. I didn’t recoil at the sound of the small catlike cry. I was jealous. I was jealous of the mother sitting there with her perfect child and wondering if I too will be so lucky in May or June.
The last few days have been very difficult for me and for your dad. But unlike your dad I can’t bury myself in my work to keep my mind off of what is happening. No matter where I go you go with me. And with us goes the unease of probability.
I’ve never truly loved math. I used to spend hours sitting with my father — and stacks of green engineering graph paper — trying to twist my brain around the ins and outs of math concepts.
But I can’t say that I received many (or any) Bs or Cs in math classes in high school or college, either. Math was never easy for me, but I am too stubborn a person to let a little glitch like difficulty hold me back from an A — so much that the occasional minus sign that would appear on a test would eat away at me as I tried to find mistakes in a professor’s calculations to obtain a solid A,
Usually, any problems on the tests were the result of my transposing a number.
Without ever really trying to accumulate math credits, I graduated with my undergraduate degree just three classes shy of a math minor.
And even after that, try as I might, I just couldn’t to escape math.
Math followed me into my profession. Today I began to teach my students about probability. We worked with terms like “certain” and “impossible”. As my students tried to figure out if it was impossible to draw a red marble from the jar I too considered probabilities.
I began to make a mental list...
• It is certain I am pregnant.
• It is impossible I will give birth to a cat.
• It is certain I have felt you move.
As the lesson progressed, I introduced new terms. My list continued...
• It is possible something is wrong with you.
• It is improbable the blood used for the test was switched with someone else’s.
• It is probable that I will be broken hearted if Wednesday’s ultrasound is not sound.
If this was a normal pregnancy the probability of you having Trisomy 18 would be 1 in 4,000 — a small outlier on a scatter plot.
I’m sorry to say, baby of mine, that our probability is 1 in 55. Your father equated the chances of you having this problem are like drawing the ace of spades from a deck of cards.
So here I am with my deck, but unlike him, I’m not drawing any cards. I’m just shuffling them back and forth and wishing away any possibility that I would “win” and draw the right card.
I’ve never loved anything more in my life than I love you. I love you more than your father, more than our fat and fluffy cat Cole. I love you more than I love getting A grades on papers and more than pajamas in the middle of the day.
I would do anything for you. I would vomit daily. I would eat sauerkraut. And I would never again so much as flinch when pricked with a needle if it would make everything all right.
But if Wednesday comes and we draw the right card from the deck and “win” it would not change my love for you. I will still love you more than your father, our fat and fluffy cat Cole, As on papers and pajamas in the middle of the day.
I am truly blessed to have you. Now and for the rest of your life – no matter how long it may be.
Love,
mom
Monday, January 8, 2007
THE SAKE OF WANT
Dear Spike:
I’m not worried.
I keep telling your mother that. I wonder if she believes me. I wonder if I believe me.
We went out to the movies last night. I kept looking over to see if she was paying much attention to the show. She kept looking over to see if I was. And so it goes. And so it will until Wednesday, when we get your pictures.
Everyone keeps telling us not to be nervous. “I had a friend who had a screen test like this,” they say. “It happens a lot,” they say.
I keep thinking about the odds. Like drawing the Ace of Spaces from a deck of cards, I tell myself.
I’ve got a deck here in the drawer of my desk. I shuffled through it three times. Queen of hearts. Eight of clubs. Seven of diamonds.
Everything will be OK. The odds are on our side.
I do realize that someone has to draw the Ace. And I feel guilty hoping it isn’t us, because that means I’m hoping for someone else’s pain. But so it goes.
For the most part, I’m being honest when I tell your mother I’m not worried. I do think about it, but I don’t brood. And other than the fact that I kept looking over at your mom last night, I was watching the show.
I am confident that things will turn out fine for us. And so more than anything, I’d simply like to get this chapter of our pregnancy behind us.
Turns out, though, that times runs no faster or slower for the sake of want. You’ll learn that when someone you love is leaving and you want your final days together to go on forever. You’ll learn that when you have to be away from your family for work, and you want the days to move more swiftly. And so it goes.
Two more days. Two more nights. Then we’ll know you’re fine. And then we’ll move onto another worry.
Four of diamonds. Eight of spades. Three of spades.
So it goes.
Love,
dad
I’m not worried.
I keep telling your mother that. I wonder if she believes me. I wonder if I believe me.
We went out to the movies last night. I kept looking over to see if she was paying much attention to the show. She kept looking over to see if I was. And so it goes. And so it will until Wednesday, when we get your pictures.
Everyone keeps telling us not to be nervous. “I had a friend who had a screen test like this,” they say. “It happens a lot,” they say.
I keep thinking about the odds. Like drawing the Ace of Spaces from a deck of cards, I tell myself.
I’ve got a deck here in the drawer of my desk. I shuffled through it three times. Queen of hearts. Eight of clubs. Seven of diamonds.
Everything will be OK. The odds are on our side.
I do realize that someone has to draw the Ace. And I feel guilty hoping it isn’t us, because that means I’m hoping for someone else’s pain. But so it goes.
For the most part, I’m being honest when I tell your mother I’m not worried. I do think about it, but I don’t brood. And other than the fact that I kept looking over at your mom last night, I was watching the show.
I am confident that things will turn out fine for us. And so more than anything, I’d simply like to get this chapter of our pregnancy behind us.
Turns out, though, that times runs no faster or slower for the sake of want. You’ll learn that when someone you love is leaving and you want your final days together to go on forever. You’ll learn that when you have to be away from your family for work, and you want the days to move more swiftly. And so it goes.
Two more days. Two more nights. Then we’ll know you’re fine. And then we’ll move onto another worry.
Four of diamonds. Eight of spades. Three of spades.
So it goes.
Love,
dad
Thursday, January 4, 2007
TIME, PANIC AND PRAYER
Dear Spike:
Your mother called me this afternoon at work. The conversation was routine for our 4 p.m. chats — “how’s your day” and whatnot — but she didn’t sound well.
“Is everything OK?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Can you come home early? I got a call from Dr. Stewart today.”
Through sobs, she told me that a blood test she took last week had come back positive, potentially indicating you have a condition known as Trisomy 18 — a severe kind of Down Syndrome.
“Most babies with it don’t live,” she cried. “I’m so afraid. I don’t want to lose Spike.”
On the way home, I got a call from my mother-in-law, your grandmother. "I just talked to Heidi," she said. "You know, this is how her sister lost a child."
The knot in my stomach tightened.
I made it home just a few minutes before your mom. The house was a mess. We’ve been painting your rocking chair to match the rest of the furniture in your room, so the kitchen had a giant plastic drop sheet taped to the floor. There were paint buckets and cans and washed out brushes littered about. That’s not to mention the dishes that have been piling up on the counter over the past few days.
She came in through the back door, right into the kitchen, right into the mess, right into my arms. She was trembling. I’ve never seen her so scared. Between gasps for breath she read from the notes she’d taken as she spoke to Dr. Stewart.
“The doctor said it’s more likely than not that things are fine,” she said.
Over the next few hours I got the rest of the details. The more I heard the better I felt, though the knot never really went away.
Later in the evening, after a bit of research, we learned that about 1 in 20 women has an abnormal result on her blood screening test, like your mother. The test can indeed indicate problems in fetal development, but only about 2 percent of the time — about the same rate at which you would randomly draw an Ace of Spades from a shuffled deck of cards.
Most often, there is another explanation.
Oftentimes, a positive test result simply indicates that the baby is a different gestational age that previously thought. That’s a likely scenario, we figure, since there’s been a bit of confusion at the doctor’s office about when to place your due date (currently, you’re expected to make your debut May 30, but at various times the doctor has also said June 6 and June 13.)
The test can also indicate twins or triplets (unlikely, in our case, since we only saw one of you when we had our emergency ultrasound last month.) And there’s also the possibility that the severe bleeding your mother had last month (which led to the ultrasound) has something to do with the result of the test.
Then, in some cases, there simply is no good explanation. In those cases, I figure, it’s best to just make one up.
“Maybe you ate some bad Chinese food that day,” I told your mom. “Or maybe you wore a hat that was too tight.”
Of course, I wish I’d known more about all of this when your mother first called this afternoon. Maybe I could have more quickly assuaged her fears.
And I probably could have saved my mother — your other grandmother — a lot of time, panic and prayer.
It probably didn’t hurt to get her involved, though. She’s got a pretty good line to God, not to mention a bunch of friends who also like to spend their time with their heads bowed. By sundown, you probably had dozens of people praying for you.
We’re unlikely to learn whether you are a boy or a girl, as we’d expected to, at tomorrow's appointment with Dr. Stewart. Instead, the doctor told your mom, we’ll spend some time talking about the test and what it all means.
We’ll do the ultrasound and an amniocentesis procedure on Wednesday. Hopefully then we’ll get to assign you a pronoun.
More importantly we’ll get to know you’re still happy, healthy and developing as you should be.
And maybe then the knot in my stomach will go away.
Love,
dad
P.S. A few of the questions we'll be asking Dr. Stewart tomorrow:
• What will you be looking for on the ultrasound?
• Is our baby at risk for other problems, in addition to Trisomy 18, based upon this result?
• How likely is it that this means our baby has superhuman stregth or X-ray vision?
Your mother called me this afternoon at work. The conversation was routine for our 4 p.m. chats — “how’s your day” and whatnot — but she didn’t sound well.
“Is everything OK?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Can you come home early? I got a call from Dr. Stewart today.”
Through sobs, she told me that a blood test she took last week had come back positive, potentially indicating you have a condition known as Trisomy 18 — a severe kind of Down Syndrome.
“Most babies with it don’t live,” she cried. “I’m so afraid. I don’t want to lose Spike.”
On the way home, I got a call from my mother-in-law, your grandmother. "I just talked to Heidi," she said. "You know, this is how her sister lost a child."
The knot in my stomach tightened.
I made it home just a few minutes before your mom. The house was a mess. We’ve been painting your rocking chair to match the rest of the furniture in your room, so the kitchen had a giant plastic drop sheet taped to the floor. There were paint buckets and cans and washed out brushes littered about. That’s not to mention the dishes that have been piling up on the counter over the past few days.
She came in through the back door, right into the kitchen, right into the mess, right into my arms. She was trembling. I’ve never seen her so scared. Between gasps for breath she read from the notes she’d taken as she spoke to Dr. Stewart.
“The doctor said it’s more likely than not that things are fine,” she said.
Over the next few hours I got the rest of the details. The more I heard the better I felt, though the knot never really went away.
Later in the evening, after a bit of research, we learned that about 1 in 20 women has an abnormal result on her blood screening test, like your mother. The test can indeed indicate problems in fetal development, but only about 2 percent of the time — about the same rate at which you would randomly draw an Ace of Spades from a shuffled deck of cards.
Most often, there is another explanation.
Oftentimes, a positive test result simply indicates that the baby is a different gestational age that previously thought. That’s a likely scenario, we figure, since there’s been a bit of confusion at the doctor’s office about when to place your due date (currently, you’re expected to make your debut May 30, but at various times the doctor has also said June 6 and June 13.)
The test can also indicate twins or triplets (unlikely, in our case, since we only saw one of you when we had our emergency ultrasound last month.) And there’s also the possibility that the severe bleeding your mother had last month (which led to the ultrasound) has something to do with the result of the test.
Then, in some cases, there simply is no good explanation. In those cases, I figure, it’s best to just make one up.
“Maybe you ate some bad Chinese food that day,” I told your mom. “Or maybe you wore a hat that was too tight.”
Of course, I wish I’d known more about all of this when your mother first called this afternoon. Maybe I could have more quickly assuaged her fears.
And I probably could have saved my mother — your other grandmother — a lot of time, panic and prayer.
It probably didn’t hurt to get her involved, though. She’s got a pretty good line to God, not to mention a bunch of friends who also like to spend their time with their heads bowed. By sundown, you probably had dozens of people praying for you.
We’re unlikely to learn whether you are a boy or a girl, as we’d expected to, at tomorrow's appointment with Dr. Stewart. Instead, the doctor told your mom, we’ll spend some time talking about the test and what it all means.
We’ll do the ultrasound and an amniocentesis procedure on Wednesday. Hopefully then we’ll get to assign you a pronoun.
More importantly we’ll get to know you’re still happy, healthy and developing as you should be.
And maybe then the knot in my stomach will go away.
Love,
dad
P.S. A few of the questions we'll be asking Dr. Stewart tomorrow:
• What will you be looking for on the ultrasound?
• Is our baby at risk for other problems, in addition to Trisomy 18, based upon this result?
• How likely is it that this means our baby has superhuman stregth or X-ray vision?
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