SINGING THIS SONG

Dear Spike:

The song, by Beyoncé, is called "Single Ladies." And it goes something like this:

All the single ladies,
All the single ladies,
All the single ladies,
Now put your hands up,
Oh Oh Oh, Oh Oh Oh Oh!

In what I initially thought was pretty damning evidence that I had failed you as a father, you have been dancing around the house, singing this song, all week long.

Thankfully, your mother has spoken to you at length about what this song really means. Now, if someone asks you what a single lady is, you respond:

"A single lady is a woman who is unencumbered by a man."

Love,
dad

BEING MISS MANNERS

Dear Spike:

You manners are absolutely charming — "a breath of fresh air," we've been told by no small number of people — and it makes me very proud to see what I polite young lady we've raised.

But this morning, while were at the park, I came to the rather unsettling realization that we may have turned you into a bit of a oddity among your peers.

The first little girl you approached today had her brown hair in pigtails, just like yours. And she looked to be about your age, or perhaps just a few months older. You walked up to her, stretched out your hand and introduced yourself. "Pleased to meet you," you said. "What's your name?"

The little girl's eyes widened and she shot a glance around the playground for her mother.

"Pleased to meet you," you repeated, taking a step closer. "What's your name?"

Without a word, the little girl pushed you away and ran off to find her mom.

Strike One.

The next little girl was a blond-haired kid. She was also just about your age, I think.

"Pleased to meet you," you said, extending your hand. "What's your name?"

When the little girl didn't lift her hand to shake yours, you reached down to show her how. But she yanked her arm away and began backing away.

Undeterred, you followed her. "Would you like to play together?" you asked.

And then she ran.

Strike Two.

I'm sure I could have stepped in to make the recreational arrangements with either girl's parent, but I try my best to mind my own business when we're in your world. I figure that it's my job to get you ready to make friends — and your job to actually make things happen.

You didn't seem particularly bothered by what had happened, but I was a bit heartbroken — particularly as I watched you play alone for the next few minutes. Every now and then I saw you looking up at where the two girls were playing — together — on the other side of the playground. They'd connected, I recognized, when the blond girl gruffly ordered the brunette to follow her up the stairs to the slide.

I guess that's how it's done.

The next girl was a redhead, with curly lockes like Little Orphan Annie. Absolutely darling. She was easily a head taller than you, but I'm guessing she was about a year your junior.

"Pleased to meet you," you said, extending a hand once again. "What's your name?"

She didn't reach out to shake your hand. And she didn't share her name. But she didn't run away, either, and the two of you followed one another around for the next five minutes, or so, until she decided to run off to play with some other kids, leaving you to play alone once again.

It wasn't strike three, but it wasn't a home run either. And, I suppose, most things in life are that way.

I'm not sure what benefit you'll derive from being Miss Manners — on the playground or in life — but just the same, I'm glad you're such a polite young lady.

Being proper, respectful and kind might make you a bit odd, but the people who really matter won't mind. I promise.

Love,
dad

WEAR YOUR HELMET

Dear Spike:

I'm guessing I was doing 30 or 35 miles an hour down a steep, well-packed run when my snowboard caught an edge and flipped me onto the back of my head.

Why do I insist that you wear a helmet?

That's why.

Love,
dad

NEED TO LEARN

Dear Spike:

We were watching "The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe," this evening with your grandparents. During the scene in which the forces of Aslan confront the force of the White Witch, you turn to me with a look of confusion.

"What are they doing?" you asked.

"They are preparing for battle," I explained.

"They're going to fight?"

"Yes."

"But that's not good," you said. "They need to learn to use their words."

Somewhere, C.S. Lewis is smiling.

And so am I.


Love,
dad

ON THE MOUNTAIN

Dear Spike:

You were excited. And that excited me.

After all, I’ve been longing to share this pastime with you for as long as you’ve been around. But until recently, I was under the impression that your snowboarding career would have to wait a few years.

Earlier this winter, however, I shared a lift with a man who had recently taken his three-year-old daughter on her first ski outing. “She did great,” he told me. “You can’t push them at that age, of course, but if you offer it to them and they want to do it, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”

I made a calendar in my head and drew a little circle around Dec. 21, 2010 — the first day of next winter. That, I thought, would be the day you met the slopes.

But then, on what I thought would be my last day on the mountain for this season, I ran into a kid who was trying to unload a couple of passes. I scored two for $25 — the deal of the century.

But between work and school and everything else that life’s been throwing my way, lately, I only had time to use one before Spring arrived. And although you often can ski through June at some of Utah’s resorts, it’s not particularly good skiing.

So when winter took a few parting shots at us, this week, I felt compelled to use up my last pass. But at the same time, having just returned from a business trip, I wanted to spend some quality time with you.

And thus a plan was born. Why wait to turn three? Why not just get started now?

“Spike,” I said, “would you like to go snowboarding with daddy?”

“Yeah!” you answered, and you jumped to your feet. “Let’s go!”

Such enthusiasm. That’s daddy’s girl. We threw on our snow clothes, wiggled into the car and headed up Big Cottonwood Canyon.

Less than an hour later, you were set up with boots, bindings and an adorable little purple snowboard. And we were ready to hit the bunny slopes.

But first things first: Safety.

“OK, let’s just slide on this helmet,” I said.

“Noooooo!” you screamed. “No helmet! No helmet!”

I’m not sure what it was about the helmet I offered you, but something had freaked you out pretty good. You cried and sobbed and begged me not to make you wear the helmet. And even when I showed you that other kids were wearing their helmets, you wouldn’t budge. “When I am older I can wear a helmet,” you said. “But not right now.”

I didn’t understand your logic. But it didn’t really matter. I couldn’t get you into that helmet, and I sure as heck wasn’t going to hop on the chairlift without making sure you’re precious little brain was protected.

Finally, I explained to you that we would have to go if you didn’t wear your protective equipment. And you agreed that was a very good idea.

As we headed back to the ski shop, I asked if you would like to try out your snowboard, sans helmet, just on the flat areas near the lodge. You accepted.

I was hoping that, after sliding around for a bit, you’d be willing to put the helmet so that you could keep going.

No such luck. You were fine with the idea of sliding down the hills. You just wanted to make sure your head was free while you were doing it.

And so it was that, for several hours, I carried you up a very small hill near the parking lot and then ran alongside of you, holding your hands, as you slid back down.

Up and down. And up and down. And up and down we went. You were having the time of your life. And I was gasping for breath.

To be certain, this is not the way I had envisioned your first snowboarding outing would go. But the truth is, when you’re parenting, nothing ever goes according to plan. When you try to push your children to hard, too fast, sometimes they push back. And when they do, it’s not always in ways that you might expect.

And so you've got to stay flexible.

I’m still not sure what your problem is with wearing a helmet. But, by God, when we do hit the slopes next year, you’re not going to win this battle. You will wear a helmet, or you’ll be confined to the hill next to the parking lot.

But nonetheless, I’m proud of you. You looked good on that board. And I’ll bet you’ll look even better next year — or whenever you’re ready.

love,

dad

YOUR OWN SKIN

Dear Spike:

You've got the rest of your life to wear clothes. And your penchant for spur-of-the-moment stripping has (mostly) been confined to our home. So I'm not too concerned about your recent turn as a nudist.

But you'll have to enjoy your freedom while it while it lasts, because eventually you're going to have to don some duds.

I suppose that, in an ideal world, none of us would wear clothes, save for warmth or style. If you buy the Biblical account of Adam and Eve, that's how it was supposed to be — up until the whole forbidden fruit incident, that is. And if you're more inclined toward an evolutionary view of things, you're likely to note that we're the only animal on the planet that feels compelled to wear the skins of other animals. (OK, I suppose there's an argument to be made about hermit crabs and chihuahuas, but humans are still a relative oddity in Animalia.)

But this is nothing like an ideal world. This is a world that has been hyper-sexualized. This is a world that is exploitative. And increasingly, this is a world in which nothing you do stays private for long.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that we don't always get to choose whether something is innocent or not. And so modesty is as much a public virtue as it is a personal one.

I reckon this might cause some tension between us someday. And although it's probably easier here in Utah (where weather and culture encourage modest dress) I have no doubt in my mind that there will come a day when we're not going to see eye-to-eye on your preferred skin-to-fabric ratio.

And, such is life, I'm equally certain that there will be plenty of times is which you might feel compelled — whether by love, friendship, trust, drunkenness or momentary insanity — to... um... "run free," as it were.

Be careful. Be considerate of your future. And for goodness sake, consider your father, too.

I pray that you will never feel uncomfortable in your own skin. Our bodies are a beautiful gift — a gift to be shared with the right people at the right time and in the right place.

Until then, like any gift, it's nice to keep things under wraps.

Love,
dad

SOMETHING WE DO

Doris "Granny D" Haddock
1910-2010

Dear Spike:

Doris Haddock knew what she had to do.

When a fellow Democrat absconded from the race to be the next U.S. senator from New Hampshire in 2004, Haddock seized the moment. With four months to go before the election, the activist known as "Granny D" announced her candidacy — entering into the dog-eat-dog world of national politics at the age of 94.

But inspired as that decision may have been, on the eve of the debate with her incumbent opponent, Granny D was feeling tired, overwhelmed and scared.

"Please God," she prayed, kneeling at her bedside in a flannel nightgown. "Don't let me make a fool of myself."

Maybe the Almighty called down a favor. Or maybe Haddock simply rose to the occasion. Whatever happened, on that following day, Granny D kicked her opponent's ass.

Seventy-five percent of those watching the debate said she'd won the war of words.

But this isn't a story about miracles. In a nation where political debates are low-ratings events and politics is a big-money game, the enormously outspent great-grandmother didn't have a chance. She lost the election 66 to 34 percent.

It doesn't matter. Even if Granny D had succeeded in her Quixotic quest, she would have found herself one voice in a hundred-person choir of corruption. And although she allowed herself to believe that she had a chance to win the race, Haddock knew her fight was about something even more important than winning.

"Democracy is not something we have," she said. "It's something we do."

Granny D Haddock walked the talk. We should all be so brave.

Love,
dad

AFRAID AT NIGHT

Dear Spike:

It used to be, when it was bedtime but you just weren't ready for sleep, you'd hide under you covers, kick up your feet to make a little tent, and sing songs to an audience of stuffed animals until you were finally tired enough to slumber.

But lately you've been having trouble entertaining yourself in your room in the dark, and so you end up at our bedroom door — a blanket in one arm and a stuffed bear in the other — and plead to sleep in our bed.

"I'm scared," you say.

"What are you scared of?" I ask.

You pick something. The animals perched on your shelf. The elephants painted on your wall. The drapes hanging over your window.

"That's nothing to be scared of," I say.

"But I'm scared," you say.

And who am I to argue with that?

I tuck you into bed, kiss you on the head, and go back to my room.

Five minutes go by and the process starts all over again, this time with your mother.

I'm not sure why it is that children are so often afraid at night. Perhaps fear of the dark is an evolutionary trait that kept little homo erectus young ones from running off into the jungle after the sunset. Or perhaps it's just another random, unexplainable eccentricity of our species, like ice curling or the Osmond family.

But I do understand. I remember being afraid of the dark, too. And sometimes when I'm locking up the house at night or heading to the kitchen for a midnight snack, I get that frighteningly familiar chill on the back of my neck — and I am briefly reconnected with the way it felt to be very little in a very big, very dark place.

So even though I'll most often send you back to bed and remind you that it is your job to stay there, I'll never be angry at you for this.

Sometimes we feel scared. That's just part of who we are.

Love,
dad

FOR VALENTINE'S DAY

Dear Spike:

Every year on Valentine's Day, I count myself among the luckiest schmucks in the world.

Take today, for instance: While other people were running around buying candy, picking up flowers, making dinner reservations and selecting risqué gifts for their significant other, I was spending the day snowboarding.

You see, your mother spent several years working at a Hallmark gift shop. After that, she's sort of lost her taste for Valentine's Day. So I help her celebrate, each year, by doing the least romantic things possible. For instance, today I took our only car and left her to care for you all by herself a while I sought to feed my adrenaline addiction in Big Cottonwood Canyon.

Wasn't that sweet of me?

Truth is, though, that I'm not an unromantic guy. I just choose to perform gratuitous acts of affection on days in which I have not been told to perform gratuitous acts of affection. After all, flowers aren't really all that romantic if it takes the annual celebration of the death of a mythical martyr to remind you to buy them. Follow me?

So I say to you, my child: Do not settle for false romance. When it comes time for you to fall in love, make sure you respect that love with kindness, selflessness and generosity on every day of the year.

And if you have to let your outward affection lapse for just one day, Feb. 14 ain't a bad date on the calendar to do just that.

Love,
dad

BRAVER AND STRONGER

Dear Spike:

You could have screamed, cried, hit, kicked, bitten or thrown a tantrum.

Any of those responses would have been a common way for a two-year-old girl to react when a friend takes away the toy with which she was playing.

But none of those responses would have been appropriate. Not even for a two year old.

And somehow you knew this.

Thus, you turned to your friend and said, quite simply:

"It made me sad when you took away the toy I was playing with."

You make me so proud.

Someday you're going to learn that most people would much rather scream, cry, hit, kick, bite or throw a tantrum than discuss a dispute with the sort of grace you showed today. And someday you're going to learn that not everyone will respond as well to this level of maturity as your friend Savannah, who briefly considered your words and promptly returned the toy.

No, they'll respond as a two year old might.

They'll shush you. Insult you. Humiliate you. They'll tell you you're not worthy to speak — not even on your own behalf.

You may consider this alongside all the other pieces of do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do advice I have offered to you, for I have not always responded well to such affronts. Not at all.

But you can. For you are smarter, braver and stronger than I ever was or could ever hope to be.

So hold your head high and wear a thick skin. Meet ignorance with intelligence. Meet anger with grace.

And when you are presented the opportunity to take the high road, seek an even higher road.

It will be the road less traveled, to be certain. It will be steep, narrow and in all other ways difficult to traverse. But if you convince yourself that it is the only road worth taking, it will be.

And the view will be beautiful.

Love,
dad