THE BEAUTIFUL GAME

Dear Spike:

I would like to allow you to choose your own path.

So if you love to dance, please dance.

And if you love math, by all means, solve the Goldbach Conjecture.

And if want to do Kung-Fu, go ahead and kick butt.

Likewise, if you don't like spinach, I'll only make you try it — I won't shove it down your throat.

And if you don't like baseball, I won't make you swing for the fences.

And if you don't like the snow, I won't make you ski.

And if you don't like soccer...

... I think we're going to have some issues.

I love the beautiful game. I love to play it. I love to watch it. I love to talk about it.

And, since the moment we learned you were coming, I've loved to dream about watching you play it.

Today, that dream came true. You had your very first soccer practice. And, if I do say so myself, you played like a champ.

With seven days to go before World Cup 2010 begins in South Africa, I'm afraid it might be a bit too late to make the U.S. team.

But with four years until the next cup, in Brazil, I think there's plenty of time.

No pressure.

Love,
dad

FOR THREE YEARS

Dear Spike:

Three years ago this evening, your mother and I were cuddled together on the couch, watching Chevy Chase, Steve Martin and Martin Short in The Three Amigos in a desperate, yet ultimately futile, attempt not to think about what was ahead.

Nine months of pregnancy had come and gone. Her contractions were getting stronger and stronger.

You were on the way.

Here's what I wrote to you as we awaited the point in which your mother's contractions were close enough to warrant driving to the hospital:

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 turbulence. 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.

A few hours later, you were born — all four pounds, nine ounces of you. And I waited for all of those feelings to go away.

And I waited.

And I waited.

It's been three years, now, and I still feel the same way I did on that day. Every time I look at you. Every time I think of you.

I've had my share of adventures. More than most, I'd be willing to bet. I've been shot at by insurgents, Tasered by police officers and threatened by murderers. I've stood toe-to-toe with presidents, generals, astronauts and elephants. I've climbed mountains, jumped out of airplanes, landed on aircraft carriers and rode horseback ahead of madly charging buffalo.

But nothing compares to the adventure that began three years ago this evening. Nothing compares to you.

For three years you have enlightened me, entertained me and challenge me. For three years you've exceeded every lofty expectation I've ever had of you. For three years, you've demanded that I exceed the meager expectations I have of myself.

Some people ask: Where does the time go? But I don't feel that way. The past three years have been the best of my life — and I've known it. Every passing moment, I've known that I'm experiencing the best moments of my life. And when you know something like that, you savor it. You chew on it. You ponder it.

This evening, before you went to bed, you hugged me for the last time that you'll hug me as a two year old. And I swear that hug lasted forever.

No, there's no feeling like this in the world.

Happy birthday.

I love you.

More than anything.

love,
dad

KNACK IN PROGRESS

Dear Spike:

There's a chess game, afoot, on the table in our breakfast nook. One of the rooks is a wine cork. A chopstick directs the play: pointed left, it's my turn; pointed right it's your Uncle Mikey's turn.

We move once or twice a day. Seldom more than that. A single game can take weeks to complete.

Nine months into this experiment in cohabitation, we've all fallen into a fairly comfortable, if sometimes awkward, routine.

The game is a good metaphor for that: The pieces move about the board — sometimes coming into conflict, sometimes just moving from here to there in service to some grander, yet unseen objective.

Your uncle spends his days sleeping in his room — except for when I send you upstairs to wake him for a turn at child care. Then, he slumps down the narrow stairs in his pajamas, often wrapped in a blanket. He reads and plays games with you. Sometimes he takes you to the park. And then, when I return, he climbs back up the stairs and falls asleep again. In the afternoons he teaches guitar and in the evenings he performs at the theater or the restaurant where he plays guitar and sings. It's not unusual for him to return home from work at 4 a.m., which is why he burns so much daylight sleeping.

Your uncle is a special guy. Different, to say the least. He's a brilliant musician and a gifted actor, but, alas, life is not a stage. He can be a challenge to communicate with. He's emotional. Maybe a bit bipolar. When he is happy, it is infectious. When he is depressed, the whole house seems to have a cloud over it. He seems to have a knack for teaching, but it's a knack in progress. Maybe it's in his cards. We'll see. I hope he finds his way.

Your mother mostly avoids or ignores the man living in our attic. It's not that they don't get along — just that they don't seem to have a lot in common, other than their love for you and their tolerance for me. She certainly appreciates what he brings to our family, though: There was a moment last night at dinner, for instance, when you were acting out and your mother and I were just too exhausted to correct behaviors for which you would generally receive a scolding. Your uncle swept in to assume the disciplinary role, correcting you for your dinner table antics and giving us a rest from our rather strict parenting regimen.

I straddle the ground between your mother and your uncle. I try to make sure we share a non-confrontational conversation at least once a day. Maybe about you. Maybe about chess. We're brothers, but there's not a whole lot else we share in common, either. I also try to communicate the things that, as adults sharing a home, we can all do to help smooth this sometimes difficult coexistence. Sometimes it feels as though I've inherited another child. At this point, though, it has become pretty clear to me that your uncle didn't come here seeking direction — and certainly not direction from me.

No, he came here for you. And that means a lot to all of us.

In the next few days, your uncle is going to decide whether he is staying with us next year. It seemed, earlier this month, that he was leaning toward sticking around. But after your great grandfather's death, it seems as though he's been pining to return home to California. I wouldn't brave a guess as to which way he'll fall, but either way we'll support his decision. We'd love to have him stay with us for another turn of the calendar. But if he leaves, we won't mind getting back some of the privacy we've sacrificed by inviting another adult to live in our home. On balance, I suppose, I hope he stays. He's good for you. And maybe for all of us.

There's something you should know: Even though Uncle Mikey came here for you, if he decides to leave us, it won't be because of you. I've known your uncle for 28 years, but that doesn't mean I know him very well. I do know, however, that he cares deeply for you. If he goes, it will be because he has decided that his pawns need to move this way, his knights need to move that way.

But you, my dear, will always be his queen.

Love,
dad

MAXIUM LEROY LAPLANTE 1932-2010

Dear Spike:

Your great grandfather died last Thursday. I’ve sat down every night since then to write you this letter and have not gotten further than a few words.

But maybe tonight is the night.

•••

When I was nine years old, my grandfather took me to the Major League Baseball All Star Game at the Oakland Coliseum. We sat on the first base line, just behind the dugout, one row up from where Hall of Famer Leo Durocher was sitting.

Papa recognized him right away.

“Hey,” he told me. “See that guy right there? They call him ‘Leo The Lip.’”

He exchanged a few kind words with the salty old manager, who shook my hand and gave me an autograph.

That’s about all I remember from the game, which went 12 scoreless innings before Tim Raines hit a two-run triple for the National League in the top of the 13^th inning to end the marathon.

At least, that’s what I read in the newspaper the next day. We left after the 11^th inning, perhaps because Papa caught me nodding off in my chair.

We took the train home, unwittingly got off at the wrong stop, and spent the next hour wandering around the parking lot looking for our car.

All in all, it was a rather unspectacular night, but Papa never got tired of retelling the tale. And over time I’ve come to think of that day as one of the best days of my life, because I’ve come to understand, as your grandfather always did, that it’s not what you do, but who you do it with, that is most important in life.

•••

When you were just a few months old, your great grandparents drove out from California for a visit. As was his habit, Papa had made sure he knew exactly where the nearest Catholic church was — and had the route mapped out so that he could make sure not to be late for Sunday mass.

As luck would have it, the nearest Catholic church to our home is the Cathedral of the Madeline, a 100-year-old Gothic and Romanesque marvel so awe-inspiring that it sometimes makes me wish I was Catholic — which, of course, is the point.

We arrived early and took a place in the back pew. After a few moments, a priest approached and made some small talk with your great papa, who was holding you in his arms.

“Are you Catholic?” he asked.

He needed someone to carry the sacraments to the alter, and he asked your papa to do it.

I’ve never seen a man so proud as he was when he walked, along with you and your mother, down the center aisle of that beautiful church. It was the best gift you could have possibly given to him, and you didn’t even know you were doing it.

•••

Your Great Papa was a good man. He was smart and he was brave. He was funny and he was tough.

He loved a good story. And in lieu of a good story, he’d just tell whatever story came to mind.

He was a kind and decent man.

And he loved you very, very much.

Love,

dad

VERY FIRST LIE

Dear Spike:

Abe Lincoln, you ain't.

Granted, you're a good kid. Better than most, I reckon. And maybe that's why it was so heart-breaking, this week, when I bore witness to your very first lie.

As is our usual morning routine, you started the day with breakfast, and then a Mandarin video. When the show was over, I flipped off the TV and moved you into your play room.When I went to grab a snack for you from the kitchen, I heard the TV buzz back to life.

I came back and gave you my best "not happy with you" stare down.

"It was an accident," you immediately protested.

OK, so you're not a very good liar. And because I want to make sure you don't ever become a good liar, I cracked the whip pretty hard yesterday.

I wasn't mad at you, just disappointed — and a little bit sad. As much as I'd love to think otherwise, I know there will be plenty of other times that you will feel that it is easier to lie to me than to tell me the truth.

And I know you're not going to believe this — I know it might even seem like a lie — but you can always tell me the truth.

Always.

I won't always be happy (you were going to be punished for turning the TV on without permission no matter if you lied or not) and sometimes I might even feel a bit mad — but I will never, ever stop loving you.

And that's the truth.

Love,
dad

NOTHING LIKE THIS

Dear Spike:

I'm sitting by your bedside, hovering over your tiny sleeping body, overwhelmed by your beauty — and terrified by the prospect of waking you up.

You finally passed out, an hour or so ago, after a fit of mad writhing and screaming.

"Milk!" you cried. "Please, please, please give me my milk!!!"

"Nooooooooooo!" you protested when I gave you a sippy cup of milk. "I don't want it! I don't wan't it!"

You tossed the cup halfway across the room.

"Nooooooooooo!" you screamed as it bounced across the floor. "I need my milk."

It went on this way for a good 20 minutes.

You wanted me to kiss your head. And then you screamed and twisted and contorted your body away when I leaned in to do so.

You wanted me to leave the room. And then you wailed and writhed and bonked your head against the wall when I opened to the door to go.

You wanted your stuffed animals. And then you didn't.

You wanted me to tell you a story. And then you didn't.

You wanted me to hold you — and then you punched me in the mouth when I did.

To say the very least, this was unusual behavior for you. Alas, you've thrown an occasional temper tantrum in the past. But nothing like this.

This was something new.

This was something frightening.

It is with great frequency and no small amount of pride that I tell those who ask about "the terrible twos" that you have given us no context with which we might understand that term.

And it is with great frequency — and no small amount of smugness, I think — that these people respond, "ah yes — it really should be called 'the terrible threes.'"

I smile politely and nod. But I don't believe it...

Or, at least, I didn't...

Not until this afternoon. Could this be the dreaded "threes?"

You're beginning to stir, now.

And I'm fighting a rather powerful urge to run for my life.

Love,
dad

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