THROUGH THIS STORM

Dear Spike,

The sky is falling in great wet sheets. Above the clouds, an angry voice screams. The night pulses with electricity.

But you are asleep in your bed. And you do not stir. Not as the lightning strikes. Not as the thunder booms.

On the eve of your second week of preschool, I think you are still exhausted by the first.

You made us proud. You didn't cry or protest when we dropped you off that first day — truth be known, there was little we could do to hold you back when that door swung open.

On the second day, a little boy said mean things to you. You resisted any temptation to respond in kind. So proud.

Yes, you are learning things there that we could not teach you here at home. Still, it comes at a cost. The days are long. And you haven't yet figured out how to use nap time for its intended purpose. You're so very tired.

I'm glad you're sleeping through this storm. You need your rest. Another week of school begins in just a few hours.

You're doing great.

Love,

dad

IT IS TIME

Dear Spike,

It is time.

Not just because you are now four and this is what four-year-olds do. You are. And it is. But you do not do things just because others do them. If you did, you would not be you.

But it is time.

Not just because I have taken a new job and, as such, will be unable to stay home with you. Indeed, my life is changing. And indeed, that will change yours. That is not the reason for this change.

But yes, it it time.

Not just because you have decided it is time. You have, of course, done just that. But you are, of course, only four. And four-year-olds — for all that they do — do not get to make decisions like this.

But yes, my dear and beautiful and brilliant daughter... my tiny little friend... my most important thing... it is time for you to go to school.

And why is it time? If not because you are four? If not because our lives have changed? If not because you really want to?

It is time, my child, because it is time. Because you are ready.

You are ready to learn things that your mother and I cannot teach you: How to make yourself heard above the din of a crowd. How to be yourself, even as you are surrounded by others who want and expect you to be like them. How to follow and how to lead.

These are not always easy lessons to learn. There will be some who do not like you, do not treat you well, do not value the things that you value. There will be some that you will follow, wrongly, into trouble — and you will be held accountable as though you did it all yourself. There will be some that will say and do things that make you angry — and you will be expected to show them kindness and compassion.

Yes, I expect much of you. Yes, I recognize that you are only four.

But you are the best parts of your mother and the best parts of me. And I don't mind saying that we're not half bad people, as people go.

In any case, the privileges you have in this world make you royalty. Much has been given to you; much is thus expected from you. No matter that some have more and do less. You are not those people.

You are you. And your mother and I have done everything we can do, to this point, to make you the best you possible.

Now, increasingly, it is up to you. And, of course, the rest of the world — for we do not learn and change and grow in a void.

I do not fear that influence. Yes, the world can be a very terrible place. But even before you arrived, we knew that we would love you more than anything in the world, and we would not have brought you into this world if we didn't believe that, in the great balance, there is always more good than bad.

There is always more hope than fear.

There is always more faith than doubt.

And there is always more love than hate.

For four years, we have been the ones who have led you to these lessons. Now, increasingly, the world will take your hand.

We are proud of you. We are excited for you. And we will always be here for you.

It is time.

Love,

dad

OF YOUR CHOICE

Dear Spike:

Look, it's true: We named you — your real name, that is — after a professional soccer player. And yes, it's true: You were at your first professional soccer game before you even tipped the six-pound mark on the scales. And yes, it's true: I've got a soccer cleat tattooed on my right arm.

So it was much to my great joy that you slipped on your very first soccer jersey last week. You wanted number 4 — the same number as your father wore on nearly every team on which I played as a kid (although I think you simply wanted it because you are four years old.) The team roster had you assigned to number 3, but somehow you wound up with the digit of your choice. Score.

Skill wise, you've got this game down. But alas, pre-school soccer isn't much of a skill game. And bunch ball upsets you — as well it should.

But every time I see you on the field, looking hesitantly — and from afar — at the crush of boys and girls around the ball, I feel a bit panicked. What if, on the basis of this experience, you decide that soccer's not your thing?

Today I asked you what your favorite sport was. You said it was basketball. You've never played basketball. You've never watched basketball.

But there it was.

"How about soccer?" I asked you later on.

"Yes," you said. "Soccer is fun."

I guess that's good enough for now. As for the future, I suppose we'll see.

And if you do decide that it is not for you, I will not love you any less.

But no, you cannot change your name.

Love,
dad

IN THOSE SHOES

Dear Spike:

I last saw Tim DeCristopher at the Salt Lake Hilton, where the Utah Democrats were holding their annual convention and he had just given a nominating speech for Bill McDonnell, a candidate for the vacant seat of the House district where our family lives.

Afterward, I pulled him aside.

"I guess Bill didn't mind the idea of being nominated by a convicted felon, eh?"

Tim looked down at his shoes. And I worried that my joke might have been ill-timed and insensitive.

"Nah," he said finally with a smile. "Funny thing is I've been asked to give two speeches today."

When we were done chatting, I shook his hand and — as I sometimes do — reached over with my free hand to squeeze his arm. I was surprised to feel his bicep bulging underneath his shirt and then, upon quick reflection, realized that it made perfect sense.

Tim has long said that he's prepared to go to prison for what he's done. He's also made it clear that he'd rather not. I'd be trying to bulk up, too, if I were in his shoes.

Of course, I'm not in his shoes. Couldn't fill them if I tried. I'd like to think that I'm a brave person, but I'm not that brave.

In recent weeks, some people have compared Tim to the Rosa Parks of the environmental movement. I don't know if that's true or not. If it is, it's safe to say that you'll one day understand the context for all of this. If not, a little background:

It was back in December of 2008 that this all began. George W. Bush's eight-year presidency was coming to an end, and some environmentalists believed his administration was rushing to sell off oil and gas leases before the next president could order a more thorough legal and environmental review. It was in the midst of this that Tim walked into a U.S. Bureau of Land Management auction in Salt Lake City and began to bid for a few plots in an attempt to keep energy developers off the land for a few precious weeks.

He won one. Then another. And before suspicious BLM officials suspended the auction, Tim had the rights to 14 leases in eastern Utah — and no way to pay for the $1.8 million he'd bid to get them.

Our government was not amused. And although his supporters quickly raised the money to pay for the leases, Tim was charged with disrupting the federal auction. The case went to trial earlier this year. The judge wouldn't permit Tim to argue that his actions were a necessary step in the battle to prevent climate change. He was convicted on all counts, but permitted to remain free on bail until his sentencing.

That happened today. Tim was sentenced to spend the next two years in prison.

We're a nation of laws. And I've only known a few people in my life who would dispute that those laws aren't a vital part of what hold us together as a society.

That doesn't mean that every law is just — or that the law is always justly applied.

They aren't and it isn't.

But Tim knew that when he walked into that auction. And while he understood the consequences, he believed the stakes were much, much higher.

In a non-violent way, he raged against something he believed to be unjust.

I stand in awe.

Now, I should make something clear: I've always felt that as entrenched and corrupt as our system can be, there are still ways to effect change meaningfully within the system. That is, after all, what eventually brought the oil leases to a halt — a lawsuit was filed against the government, a judge issued a restraining order and President Obama's administration ultimately suspended the leases.

But Tim could not have know any of that was going to transpire. Seeing what he thought was his last, best opportunity to disrupt the sale, he acted.

Illegally? Yes.

And bravely, too.

Our actions often have consequences. And when you accept those consequences as a cost of doing what you believe is right, you're walking in the footsteps of some very amazing people.

My God, I'd hate to see you in those shoes. But I'd be very proud, too.

Love,
dad

GOING TO CHINA

Dear Spike:

We're going to China.

Love,
baba

SECONDS TO GO

Dear Spike:

You're four. That makes you a little bit squirmy. And even though you love soccer, 90 minutes is a long time to sit, to watch, to wait, to wonder. The beautiful game gives us an opportunity to practice our patience. And sometimes it tests our patience.

It did today. The U.S. national team was up 1-0 over Brazil with 25 minutes to play in the quarterfinals of the Women's World Cup when Marta — the most dominant player I've ever seen in any team sport — darted into the box, beating two U.S. defenders before Rachel Buehler caught up to her. Marta took a handful of Buehler's jersey. Buehler had a handful of Marta's. The referee called the American for the foul and gave Buehler a red card, to boot.

Penalty kick. Brilliant save. Jubilation. The Americans were down a player, but they were still up a goal. But the referee ruled that goalkeeper Hope Solo had left her line before the kick and ordered the shot retaken. The replays show otherwise, but what does it matter? Marta converts. One-one. Back down to earth we came.

Overtime. Marta again. Brilliant finish. Damn.

Your countrywomen spent the next 30 minutes knocking on Brazil's door. Were they still down a player? I couldn't tell. They were determined. They were ferocious.

And then, with seconds to go, it happened: Megan Rapinoe sends a cross to the six. Someday I'm going to teach you about this spot — the perfect spot — that forces a keeper to commit forward and pulls her dangerously off her line. The cross sails over Brazil's defenders. It sails past the outstretched fingers of the keeper. And it sails perfectly into the path of Abby Wambach, who heads it firmly into the back of the net.

Seconds to go. Seconds to go. I've been watching the replay for the past two hours and I'm still getting shivers. Seconds to go.

Kicks from the spot are a horrible way to resolve a soccer contest, but at least there is resolution to be had. I called you over to me and held you before the television screen.

"Watch this," I said. "This is history."

The U.S. converts its first shot. Brazil too.

You squirmed a bit. You're four, after all, and you'd never seen this strange game-after-a-game before.

The U.S. converts again. Brazil too.

You ran off for a moment and I called you back, pulling you onto my lap and whispering into you ear.

"Trust me," I said. "You don't want to miss this. You really don't."

The U.S. converts another.

And then ...

...

...

...

... Hope Solo.

The shot came in hard and left. Solo, arms outstretched like Superwoman, punched it away.

We leaped together in joy. You chanted with the crowd, half a globe away: "USA! USA! USA!"

After that, you squirmed no more.

The U.S. converted its next shot. Brazil too.

Up 4 goals to 3 in the shoot out, it all came down to Ali Krieger, who put her shot in the lower corner to give the U.S. women a victory.

We screamed and hugged and jumped up and down. You watched the women celebrate on the television and — for a moment, I think — you pretended to celebrate alongside them.

We watch a lot of soccer in this home. I don't think you'll remember this moment above any other. But I've got a sneaking suspicion that it'll stick with you in other ways.

For a moment you were able to clearly and concretely see the way that patience can pay off. And that is one of the most beautiful parts of the beautiful game — because it's one of the most beautiful parts of life.

Love,
dad

AT WARP SPEED

Dear Spike:

I start teaching full-time in August. Between now and then, I've been working for a school dedicated to helping high school dropouts re-enroll and re-engage — a job that I hope to keep, part time, after my professorship starts. Meanwhile, I've got a half-dozen freelance projects up in the air and have been doing some copy writing for a friend's business.

Oh yeah, and today I helped start a newspaper.

OK, well, it's not really a newspaper. It's more what you'd call a "hyper-local" website. Our good friend Alex and I began working on it a few months ago hoping for an excuse to be curious now that neither of us is getting paid, any longer, to stick our noses in other people's business. It's not much, yet, but we've got high hopes.

I suppose all of that makes me a bit of a busy guy, but I assure you that I wouldn't have it any other way. Sometimes I feel like one of those sharks — the kind that have to keep moving to keep oxygen running through their gills.

Yeah, that's me.

I do try to slow down, though, to enjoy the things in life that can't be savored at warp speed. Today you and I took a bike ride through the park and stopped at our favorite cafe for breakfast. Tomorrow I was thinking we might make some pancakes and smother them with fruit.

It's good to keep busy, but it's wise to take breaks, too. I hope you'll learn how to effectively do both. And when you can find the things that make you feel like you're doing both at the same time, you've hit the jackpot.

Love,
dad

JUST SO HOT

Dear Spike:

It broke 90 today. Maybe hit 95 in some parts of the city. Whatever, it was hot. And summer only just started.

Seems like just yesterday that everyone was complaining about the cold, wet spring we'd been having. Heck, it practically was yesterday — well, it was last week, in any case.

Last week!

"Oh my heck," they were saying. "I just don't know why summer isn't here yet."

And then, this week: "Oh goodness gravy, it's just so hot!"

Here's the thing about Salt Lake City: We're sitting at about 4,300 feet altitude, so winters are pretty damn cold. We're also sort of in the middle of the desert, so summers are pretty damn hot.

And there's really not that much in between. A bit of a wet fall, a wetter spring — neither lasts too long.

None of it's intolerable. The cold stuff comes along with an awesome snowpack in the Wasatch Mountains — almost 800 inches this year, in the canyons. I went snowboarding on Memorial Day in a foot of powder. The warm stuff opens up those very same canyons for hiking an biking and camping and bird watching. It's all minutes from our front door.

Don't complain. It's silly. It doesn't change anything. And it disrespects the very forces of Mother Nature that hold us here.

It's supposed to drop back into the 80s for the rest of the week. Nice stuff.

Don't get used to it.

Love,
dad

EVERY DAMN TIME

Dear Spike:

Your fourth birthday fell on a Saturday. We celebrated on that day with your grandparents and then, the following Saturday, with your friends. You and the gang painted flower pots, costumed up for an impromptu street parade, and devoured a (pralines-and-cream) ice cream cake. It was a dandy time.

My 33rd birthday came the following Wednesday. It wasn't such a dandy time.

We were planning to go out for a fancy family dinner that night at my favorite restaurant (the delightful and delectable Mazza — which also happen to be your favorite restaurant) but you had a bit of a melt down while trying to decide which bow you would wear in your hair.

And so you went to "time out." And while you were sitting there in the corner, whimpering like a wounded Yorkshire Terrier, your mother and I changed out of our swanky clothes and resigned ourselves to an uneventful, un-birthdarific evening.

I'm not telling you this to make you feel guilty. That's not my style and, besides, my birthday has never been all that important to me.

I tell you this because I want you to understand what happened after we canceled dinner:

You screamed. You flailed. You sobbed. You gasped. You begged. And you cried, off and on, for the rest of the night.

And even though you're a well-behaved kid, (the best kid I know, in fact,) we knew this was going to happen, because there ain't nothing you like more than puttin' on the Ritz.

Truth is, it would have been a lot easier to just let you get over the small hissyfit you were having about that damned bow, then clean you up and march ever-forward to Mazza. That certainly would have been easier for your mother and I, but would have been wrong for you — because it would have deviated from our standard parenting procedure.

That is to say: When you commit the crime, you serve the time — every time.

Every. Damn. Time.

So sure, this was supposed to be a special night — but any other time, your little melt down would have resulted in the cancellation of whatever fun thing we had planned for that day. And while folks can (and probably do) criticize our parenting on a variety of levels, I don't think anyone would ever accuse us of being inconsistent with you when it comes to discipline.

And I really believe that is the reason why nights like the one we experienced on my birthday are so rare with you. You understand our expectations. You understand what happens when those expectations are not met. You make decisions accordingly.

That's not to say that you don't occasionally make the wrong decision (as evidenced by Wednesday night's tantrum, you most certainly do make the wrong decision sometimes.) But you never have to guess — and so you have very little incentive to test our limits.

Someday you'll probably have your own kids. And I'm certainly not the type of guy who will be standing over your shoulder to tell you how to raise'm right. Everybody parents differently, after all, and it's not my place to criticize — so I'll just offer this observation: The most convenient decisions for parents are not often the best decisions for their children.

And come to think of it, that's not just a good rule for parenting. It's a good rule for life: The most convenient decisions are not always the best decisions for anyone.

That doesn't mean you always have to do things the hard way. It just means you should always at least consider the hard way, along with its costs and its benefits.

Earlier this evening, we made another run at going out for a fancy birthday dinner. Afterward, we went next door for some gelato.

And you were an absolute angel.

It was the best birthday present ever.

Love,
dad

OUR BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION

Dear Spike:

Today is your fourth birthday — and we certainly made the most of it.

We started the day with a tradition that I hope you will continue to uphold as your grow older: We gave your mother a present — a emerald bracelet — to thank her for everything she did to bring you into this world.

And then it was your turn. You made out like a bandit, but your favorite presents, by far, were the two costumes that your grandmother hand-stitched for you: A Cinderella dress and a cowgirl outfit. Both are lovely, but my inner feminist prefers the latter — and indeed, that's the get-up you wore as we took our birthday celebration to Liberty Park.

We started the day at the Tracy Aviary — one of your favorite places (and, conveniently, just a short walk from our home) where we took in a bird show (your mother and grandmother both were chosen to participate) and fed a flock of Sun Conures. You bravely let the curious little birds jump onto your arm and eat an apple slice from your fingertips. And your smile was as bright as their rainbow-colored feathers.

Next to the aviary is a small amusement park, and your grandfather and grandmother treated you to turns on the Ferris wheel, carousel and other rides. We ate over-priced hot dogs and sweet potatoes fries from the park's concessionaire, and then we headed home to set up your new tent in the backyard.

In the evening, we shared a meal of your choosing (soup, salad and bread) a cake that you made with your mother (homemade chocolate with green butter frosting and candied pansies).

In the end, today will likely melt into all the other birthdays of your young life. You might not remember it all that clearly — if you remember it at all.

But I assure you, we all had a blast.

Love,
dad