AS SHE IS

Dear Spike:

Today is Mother's Day. And as it happens your mother is working overtime on your behalf today.

Sometimes, the things in life that could most certainly go without saying are the most important things to say. And in this spirit, let me say something about your mom:

She's amazing. And she loves you like nothing else in the world.

You're a lot like your mother — more and more every day — and I figure that's a wonderful thing, because there is no better person on this planet for you to be like. If you are kind as she is, and if you are passionate as she is, and if you are capable as she is, then you will grow up to be a very amazing person.

As she is.

It's been a very long couple of days for me here (and you both, there, I know) — and the days ahead are almost certain to prove to be even more challenging for all of us. But I am strengthened by the absolute knowledge that you are in the absolutely best hands in the world.

Be good to your mom. Today and always.

Love,
dad

MAKE US HUMAN

Dear Spike:

You cried off and on all morning long. But when it came time to say goodbye, you were very brave.

“I’ll miss you,” you said as we knelt together on the drop-off curb near Terminal 2. “But you will be home soon.”

“Yes,” I said. “I will be home soon.”

A bird flew past my luggage, landing on a bench nearby. “Can I chase it?” you asked.

“Not today,” I said. And with that your mother lifted you off the ground and hefted you into your car seat.

One more hug and a kiss — awkward as I leaned into the doorframe with my heavy rucksack on my back — and then I lumbered away. Heartsick.

I love and hate these trips.

The hate part is easy to explain. I hate leaving you.

The love part is tougher to put into words. This is not, by any stretch of the imagination, going to be a comfortable trip. It will take me six days of hard traveling to get to my destination in southern Ethiopia. Once there, we will camp outside of a tribal village and, over the next week, work to build trust with local villagers enough to get them to share with us a dark and disturbing secret. I don’t love the mosquitoes, the parasites, the burning hot African sun. I don’t love the prospect of dealing with layers upon layers of government officials who do not want me to share their shame with the world. I don’t hate those things, per se, but I don’t love them, either.

But I do love the prospect — however slight it might be — that my work might matter. It might change some lives. And, in this case, it might just save a few, too. That’s why I love this. That’s why I leave you.

It’s easy to love something. A person. A work of art. A job. A place.

And it’s easy to hate, too. (Far too easy, I’d say.)

But those things that make us feel both emotions at the same time — those things are what make us human, I think.

And I am feeling very human today. I’m anxious, excited, giddy and sad. I’m wary and tired and curious and proud.

I’m ready. And I’m not.

I will miss you, dear little one. And I will think about you every minute that I am away.

Love,
dad

P.S. — Dear Spike's friends: To learn more about out project, and what you can do to support it, visit mingistoryproject.blogspot.com

FROM THAT SPARK

Dear Spike:

I'm not sure how it escaped me — and I'm not sure how I finally remembered, either — but this evening as I was sitting with your mother, it suddenly occurred to me...

... we have been together for 10 years.

I first met your mom in the kitchen of an apartment I shared with two roommates, Adam and Joel, in Corvallis.

I don't have the best memory in the world, but I remember that moment vividly.

She was wearing a pink sweater and black pants. He shoulder-length brown hair was pulled into a single ponytail. And she had the most striking eyes — one significantly more green, the other significantly more blue — I'd ever seen.

Just one problem: She was dating Adam.

Over the next few weeks we got to know each other, usually while waiting for Adam to get ready for their dates. He always seemed to take a really long time. And I didn't mind that one bit.

While she waited, we chatted. And while we chatted, we might have even flirted a bit.

And why not? She was funny and sassy and confident and intelligent. Absolutely beautiful. And while it seemed that she and Adam were having a good time together, it never seemed that their relationship was destined to be more than a college romance.

I learned that she was a local girl – she lived in north town with her parents. She learned that I was a bit of a cad — after a long relationship had gone sour, I was... um... exploring my new-found freedom.

I was getting close to graduation. She was in her freshman year. We both needed to take an astronomy class — and we agreed to take it together. At least, we reasoned, we'd have something to talk about when she was waiting for Adam.

Then, one day, Adam came home and told me that they'd broken up. No big deal, he said. They just weren't meant for each other.

And I started counting the days until our astronomy class began.

It didn't take long for me to convince her to ditch class...

... first for lunch at the New Morning Bakery, where we sat next to one another and she glibly mocked my vegetarian diet ...

... next for a picnic at Avery Park, where we shared strawberries and a bottle of wine and watched the Marys River trickle by.

I liked her. She liked me. But I was, I admit, a little standoffish. She knew I'd recently been seeing several women — and I didn't want her to think that she was just another one of the bunch.

Then, one evening, we took a stroll through her neighborhood and wound up facing one another on a sliding platform in the playground at her old elementary school.

I leaned forward. She did too.

I've shared a lot of great kisses with your mother, but none so soft and tender as that one. Ten years it has been, and I can still feel the wetness of her lips. I can still hear her stuttering breath as I touched the back of her neck. I can still see her coy smile as we parted.

It was only a matter of weeks later that we were living together. And just a matter of months before we were engaged. We were married in your grandparent's backyard on a stunning August night.

Ten years, we've been together. And while things are not always perfect — nothing in life is perfect, you see — I wouldn't change a thing.

Because out of that first meeting, there was a spark.

And from that spark, there was a kiss.

And from that kiss, there grew love.

And in that love, a family began.

No, nothing in life is perfect. But I couldn't imagine how it could be any better, either.

Ten years it's been. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Love,
dad

MY LITTLE PARTNER

Dear Spike:

Your mother called today with the good news: "She got into Highland," she said.

Yes.

Fist pump.

I might as well have learned you'd gotten into Harvard.

There weren't many openings at the preschool we'd chosen for you, but just the same we really weren't looking anywhere else. This school — mostly for the children of Salt Lake School District employees — seemed to have the right combination of location, curriculum and price.

We sat you down in the hallway to tell you the news.

You jumped for joy. I beamed with pride.

And then I went into my room and cried.

For nearly four years you've been my little partner at home. It hasn't always been easy, but we've played games and taken walks. You've gone with me on assignments and waited patiently for me as I've hurried through my writing chores. We've read books, watched movies, made cake. We've spent entire days at the park, in the mountains, at the pool.

Now I'm off to a new job and you're off to a new school.

Well, not for a few months more, at least.

So here it is: The last hurrah. You and me, kiddo. And, oh my, how we're going to make the best of it.

Carpe vicis.

Love,
dad

FRIENDS WITH CARS

Dear Spike:

He's got long blond hair and a devilish smile. And the other day he came rolling up in a PowerWheels Jeep.

"I just got a new car," he yelled out from across the street. "Want to go for a ride?"

Suddenly, your mother says, the future flashed before her eyes. Someday, she realized, some good looking young person is going to pull up to our home in a real car, rev the engine a few times for good measure, and invite you for a ride.

But the way I see it, you've got two choices in life: You can accept the future or you can't. And either way, the future is coming — or it's not, which is really not a very good outcome. So I've come to terms with the future, and much of what it entails...

... I think.

So yes, someday you will have friends with cars. And yes, someday you too will drive.

There will be parties. And concerts. And dates.

And inevitably you'll want to wear something that I don't want you to wear.

And inevitably you'll want to do something that I don't want you to do.

I get that.

I also know that you'll not always make the decisions that I would wish for you. About all your mother and I can do about that is try our damnedest to give you the confidence, morals and support it takes to make good choices in hard situations.

And I know you will. Mostly.

As for all those other times...

... well...

... please wear your seat belt.

Love,
dad

BIT O' GREEN

Dear Spike:

Today is St. Patrick's Day. And although your ancestors came from all over this big, green earth, the biggest piece of 'em came from one big, green island.

You're Irish, kid. So today is your day.

Or something like that. Truth is that St. Paddy's is for everyone. That's what I really love about it. Each year on March 17, it doesn't matter if you're black, brown, white or whatever — so long as you're wearing a bit o' green.

Still, your heritage gives you the right to be particularly proud on this day. I think that's OK. It's good to be proud of who you are and where you came from — just so long as you share it equally with everyone.

Love,
dad

THOSE ROUGH WATERS

Dear Spike:

I always said I'd go down with the ship. But the ship is sailing on. And, it would appear, it is doing so without me.

After a decade of chasing scoops and beating deadlines, I'm leaving my job as a newspaper reporter.

The reasons are myriad, but not all that complicated. I love what I do and would be very pleased to know that I could do it for the rest of my life. But the future of the newspaper industry is murky, at best. More than 30,000 newspaper employees in this country have lost their jobs in the past three years. Hundreds of papers have stopped the presses.

I was perfectly aware that this could happen when I got into this business. I'll never forget the day that my father came home, arms wrapped around a cardboard box, after the newspaper at which he worked closed its doors in 1993. I'll never forget the look on his face.

So yes, I knew the waters would be rough.

But damn the torpedoes, I said. Full steam ahead, I said.

That was before you came. I've always been willing to go down with the ship, but I'm not willing to bring you down, too.

And thankfully, I knew something:

The year after his paper closed, your grandfather helped bring the World Cup of soccer to the United States. Two years later, he helped found Major League Soccer (we benefited from his hard work just the other night when we watched Real Salt Lake defeat the Columbus Crew 4-1.) When he'd seen enough of the ugly side of the beautiful game, your papa bounced back into the newspaper industry for a few years before finally landing in the New Haven Unified School District, where he helps keep students, parents, teachers and administrators connected to their schools and to one another.

At every step along the way, he found purpose and satisfaction and joy.

And so I knew that I could too — no matter the ship on which I sailed.

Since shortly after you were born, I've been working toward making a transition from journalism to teaching. And today all that work came to fruition. I have accepted an offer to become an assistant professor at Utah State University.

The job comes with a lot of great benefits — not the least of which is the time and freedom to continue to commit acts of journalism. Yes, I'll be keeping my toe in those rough waters.

But the new job also comes with some sacrifices.

For the past three years, I have been blessed with the ability to work at home, with you by my side. It wasn't always easy to juggle my duties as a father with my duties as a journalist, but you helped me make it work. I would not trade the time we spent together for anything in the world.

Next year, you'll go off to school — and I'll be commuting to a job that is 90 miles away from our home. The department chair has pledged to help me arrange my schedule in such a way that is conducive to being both a good teacher and a good father and husband. I'm so grateful for his support, but it's still safe to say that there will be days that you and I won't see much of each other, if we see each other at all. That's going to be hard for me.

The trade-offs are weekends without the prospect of breaking news. School holidays. Summertime.

And, yes, a little bit of security.

That's not to say that these waters couldn't get rough, too. They very well might. But, at least for now, we sail on smoother seas.

Love,
dad

AND JOYFUL NOISE

Dear Spike:

You laugh like a maniac. Like a mad viking sailing over the the end of the world. Like a mathematician who has woken up from a strange and colorful dream — only to find pi solved on a crumpled up napkin by her bedside.

It's frightening. And oh so beautiful.

Never stop laughing like that, OK? Whatever it is that you see in this world. Whatever it is that inspires that cackle, that guffaw, that whoop, that hoot. Whatever you feel, deep down inside when you're suddenly overwhelmed by that great and joyful noise.

Don't ever lose that.

I'm just guessing here — being long of this world, I suppose it's just hard for me to understand — but I think what I'm seeing is the hysterical manifestation of epiphany. You're at this beautiful point in your life in which you've begun to recognize things for what they are and for what you imagine them to be. All at once. You see and smell and taste and touch and develop ideas that belong to no one but yourself. You're creating irony and paradox all of your own making – and only of your own understanding.

Or maybe you're just laughing. What the hell do I know?

No, no — here's what I know: Something is happening in that tiny head of yours. Something miraculous. Something sweet. Something that I'm unlikely to ever understand. Something that, alas, you're unlikely to remember when you are as old as me.

But try. When you're alone, if you must (for yes, it's true, some people will not understand.) Try to laugh as you once did.

Like a frog who has found a princess' kiss. Like a mosquito zipping headlong into a flame. Like a wild beast in defiance of the brightest hunter's moon.

Laugh like a maniac. Laugh.

Love,
dad

OUR FAVORITE CHINESE

Dear Spike:

We've long since lost track of how many words you know in Mandarin. You're far from fluent, but you can identify all the most important people, places and things out there; you can answer simple questions and you can ask — politely — for the things you want.

Your mother is picking things up quickly also. She's gonna have a pretty gnarly English accent, of course, but she's got a lot of words under her belt.

And then there is me. I've always been a little bit tone-deaf, and Mandarin is a tonal language. I'm lousy but I'm trying.

So it was a real confidence booster today when you and I went to our favorite Chinese restaurant and — working together — successfully completed our order in Mandarin. (I think Mandy, who was waiting the tables this afternoon, was being quite forgiving, but I'm still tacking this one up in the wins column.)

Feeling rather good about ourselves, we decided to do lunch in Mandarin.

We had soup. Hē tāng.

And drank water. Hē shuǐ.

And had vegetables. Chī shūcài.

With rice! Fàn!

While we ate, you schooled me on all the animals on our Chinese Zodiac place mats, and Mandy came by every few minutes to fill our water, praise your Mandarin and correct my pronunciations.

Toward the end of our lunch — just like every meal we eat, no matter the language — I noticed that you really hadn't eaten much off your plate.

"Chī Fàn!" I pleaded. "Chī Fàn! Eat Rice!"

Finally stuffed, you turned to me and said:

"Daddy, I'm eating so much rice, I'm going to get Chī funny."

Really? Chinglish puns?

Zhēn bàng!

Love,
dad

OF THE TIME

Dear Spike:

Your mother and I moved your bed into our room earlier this week when you were running a fever. For two nights you sweated it out, right next to us, moaning and crying through the night, ripping the covers off, then burying yourself underneath the blankets, then ripping them away again.

We finally beat back the mercury, but three days later your bed remains in our room. You don't seem to want to go.

Tomorrow we'll force the issue, but tonight we relented. We rationalized that you still have a cough that has been keeping you up through the night, but the truth is that we just like to hear you snore.

When you were a baby, I would bolt upright in the middle of the night and rush over to your cradle just to make sure you were still breathing. I hear that's not an uncommon thing for parents to do, but I always felt a little bit silly afterward. Still, I liked to run my fingers through your thin wisps of hair, to kiss you gently on your forehead, to pull your soft blanket up to your chin.

I still do.

I won't be able to do that forever, of course, and I think I've made peace with that fact. Like everything else in life, you have to enjoy the moments that you're given today because, by definition, those moments won't be around tomorrow.

I want to let you know that I've been trying really hard to remember that these days.

As I try to figure out how best to juggle three jobs — each without a definitive time schedule to guide my work — sometimes I worry that you might end up feeling like you're just one more ball being tossed into the air.

I'm working not to let that happen. Last night you and I went out to pizza and then to a movie, where we chowed down on a $7 bag of popcorn, sipped on a $4 cup of fruit punch and nibbled on some cupcakes that we had sneaked into the theater. Next week, assuming you're feeling better, we'll head up the mountain to spend a morning on the bunny slopes. And next month we're going to Disneyland.

But I'll tell you something: None of that means anything. You can't quantify good fatherhood based on hours devoted, calories consumed, money spent or activities completed. In fact, I don't think you can quantify good fatherhood at all.

If you could, though, I suppose that part of the equation would have something to do with discipline. Not just for you — although that's certainly very important — but for me. You see, I would love nothing more than to spend our time together watching movies and eating sugary foods and racing down the slopes on our snowboards and spinning round and round at the Mad Hatter's Tea Party. That would be a lot of fun for me. And it would be fun for you — but it wouldn't be good for you.

Those are sometimes treats. The rest of the time, it's important for us to do things that will help you grow big, strong, smart and kind. We'll practice your reading. We'll clean up your playroom. We'll eat healthy foods. And we'll make good decisions.

Which brings me back to your bed. Tomorrow night, it's going back in your room. That's part of being a big girl.

It was, I'll admit, nice while it lasted. And yes, I might sneak into your room to run my fingers through your hair and listen to you snore. But if you start to wake up, I'll sneak back out again.

That's part of being a dad.

Love,
dad