Dear Spike, Love Dad

AND THANK YOU

2009-11-08T02:03:00.008-07:00

Dear Spike's Friends:

It's been a while since I last wrote to you, and I've been pretty lousy about checking the comments on Spike's blog, so I just wanted to take this opportunity to thank you all for your kind words, your sage advice and your wonderful support.

Some of you have been reading Spike's letters for more than three years, now. You've laughed with us and cried with us and cheered Spike on, every step of the way, even though many of us have never met.

I can't begin to tell you how fortunate I feel knowing that Spike has developed such a wonderful "cyber family." You're the best, and we love you.

I'm not writing to deliver any big announcement. I promise to keep on putting Spike's letters online so long as you keep coming around to visit.

As you've probably noticed, I've slowed down the pace of my letter-writing over the past year — owing both to my crazy-busy schedule and to the fact that I can now actually have conversations with my beautiful and intelligent daughter. But I plan to keep writing Spike up until she runs off to college — and maybe even after that.

Thanks for reading. And thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for all of your support.

best wishes,
matthew
(spike's dad)

TO OUR LOVE

2009-11-04T01:06:00.003-07:00

Dear Spike:

Your mother and I have been married for more than seven years now and although things aren't always perfect, I've never regretted my decision to commit myself to her. She is my hero and my best friend. And I cannot fathom what my life would be like without her.

So it might be strange for you to hear me say that, every now and again, I regret that we got married.

Let me explain.

Today, voters in Maine shot down a law that would have allowed gay couples to marry. In doing so, Maine became the 31st state where voters have decided that the right to marry should be limited to those who look like your mother and I do.

By the time you are old enough to be president, today's vote will be yet another sad footnote in our nation's history. Older Americans, who oppose gay marriage in great numbers, are taking their interpretations of Old Testament scripture to the grave. Younger Americans, those who will be voting for decades to come, simply do not care to mix religion and politics, particularly when it comes to depriving fellow citizens of their rights.

Like segregation and anti-suffrage, this too shall pass.

But today I am sickened. Heartbroken. Angry.

And I am left wondering: What good is marriage?

What good is marriage if it does not represent love?

What good is marriage if it does not represent commitment?

What good is marriage, if it does not represent the will of two people to stand by one another, for richer and for poorer, for better or for worse, forever and ever?

Of course, for most of us — heterosexual and homosexual alike — marriage represents all of those things. Marriage is love and commitment and the will to stand together, through all of life's challenges, because life is too damn hard to stand alone.

But the marriage certificate that your mother and I signed seven years ago? That little slip of paper filed away in a box somewhere in the basement of the Benton County Courthouse in Corvallis, Ore.? That legal testament to our love?

It is meaningless to me. Worthless to me. And perhaps it is fortunate that today we live so far away from the town where we were married, because I feel a burning compulsion to march into that courthouse, demand that piece of paper and tear it up, shred by tiny shred.

Yes, today I regret that we got married. I regret that we felt compelled to ask for a rubber stamp from a government that does not offer that same easy endorsement to anyone who loves the way your mother and I love. I regret that we felt the need to ask permission to love one another from this nation of the people, by the people and for all the jealous, greedy, judgmental people.

I do not regret the way I love your mother. Not one bit.

I do not regret the day I stood, holding her hands and looking into her eyes, and promised to love her, to cherish her, to honor her and to be there for her forever.

I do not regret the dance we danced or the cake we cut or the toasts we made.

Not one bit.

But I'd burn that marriage certificate. By God, I would.

Love,
dad

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ

2009-11-01T10:35:00.001-07:00

Dear Spike:

For weeks, you've been telling anyone who would listen:

"I'm going to be a bumble bee for Halloween!"

And so you were. You visited some of our neighbors with a "trick-or-treat, buzz buzz buzz" and claimed enough candy to last you through Christmas.

This morning, when you woke up, you asked if you could go trick-or-treating again. And you didn't seem to understand why Halloween doesn't come around more often.

But we know. The world just can't take this much cuteness more than once a year.

Love,
dad

SMART LITTLE GIRL

2009-10-20T00:36:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

We went to the teacher's supply store this morning to pick up a box of magnetic letters for the refrigerator door. (Many of the letters we had mysteriously began disappearing as you began using them to spell. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?) After we found a tub of 108 letters — "that's more than four alphabets," I told you — we wandered around the store a bit to see if there was anything else we couldn't live without.

In one corner, there was a rack of small flags from all over the world, and I picked you out a tiny Chinese banner for your room. And so long as we were at it, we asked one of the store attendants if she had a map of China.

"I'm pretty sure we do," she said, leading us to the back of the room, where hundreds of tightly-scrolled maps were waiting in plastic bins. "May I ask why you're interested in China?"

"I'm going to live in China when I grow up," you told her confidently.

The lady took a step back to size you up. "Well, you're going to need a map then," she finally said, handing you the 18-inch roll of paper in a plastic bag.

"Thank you," you said.

"In Chinese," I corrected.

"Xie xie," you said.

"You're teaching her Chinese?" the lady asked.

"Nah, she's teaching us," I replied, explaining about how we'd come to decide to have you learn a language that your mother and I don't know ourselves.

"What else does she know?" the woman asked.

We went over a few of the basics. You told her what colors she was wearing and shared the names of some of your favorite animals.

As we headed up to the front counter, the lady called over some of her co-workers. "Can you tell us some more?" she said.

You obliged.

"She's a pretty smart little girl," another woman, who was ringing us up at the cash register said.

She picked up the box of alphabet letters and read the label. "108 foam letters," she said.

"That's more than four alphabets," you told her.

The woman looked around the room as though she were trying to spot the hidden camera.

"How does she know that?" she asked.

I just kept my mouth shut and shrugged. If people want to think my daughter is the smartest two-year-old in the world, who am I to argue?

Because, for all I know, they could be right.

Love,
dad

WAITED AND WAITED

2009-10-17T01:44:00.003-06:00

I'll never forget the day I met disaster.

It was Oct. 17, 1989. The San Francisco Giants and the Oakland Athletics were just about to take the field in Game 3 of the World Series. Your Uncle Mikey and I were in our family's garage, shooting pool, playing darts and listening to the pre-game show on KNBR-AM on my little red-and-black boom box.

And then the world moved. It moved as though God had picked up the planet and was shaking it in anger. It moved as though it were about to break apart into outer space. It moved as I had never felt before and have never felt sense.

The tools hanging on the garage walls shook. A rake fell from its post. Mikey and I dashed out the back door, into the backyard. We wrapped our arms around each other and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

They say it was 15 seconds. It felt like the entire afternoon went by as we waited for the world to stop shaking.

By the time it stopped, I knew: That quake was a killer.

Indeed, 63 people died that day. Thousands more were injured. And I lost the ability to believe that God was always good.

The photos poured over the television. Stomach-churning images of cars crushed between fallen slabs of freeway and people crushed under the fallen facade of an old San Francisco building. Fires raged all night long.

And in the midst of it all, a small miracle: The cities hardest hit by the Earthquake were being represented in one of the biggest contests in all the sporting world. So millions of people who might otherwise have been on the freeways, on the bridges or walking along old city streets, were instead in their homes or packed into bars to watch the game.

So maybe God is good. Or maybe God just has a sick sense of humor.

This was the disaster that stole my innocence. But, of course, it wasn't the last. Or even the worst. Not even close.

A few years later, Los Angeles shook. Seventy four people died. The next year, the bombing of the Oklahoma City Federal Building took 168 lives, including that of one-year-old Baylee Almon, whose lifeless body, cradled in a firefighter's arms, became the iconic image of terror in the heartland.

A year after that, TWA Flight 800 crashed into the Atlantic Ocean. Two hundred and thirty perished.

And then Columbine. And then September 11. And then Columbia. And then Ivan and Katrina and Rita.

15. 2,992. 7. 124. 1,836. 120.

How do I explain this to you? How do I tell you that, even though this world is a very beautiful place, sometimes it shakes? How do I tell you that sometimes it kills? How do I tell you that God is only sometimes good?

On the day I met disaster, your grandfather was at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, getting ready to cover the baseball game. Instead, he spent the evening covering the aftermath of the quake, then drove the long way back to our home across the Bay.

He never told us why it had happened. He just gave us all a big hug and told us that he loved us.

I guess that's all I'll have to offer you on the day you meet disaster. And you will.

Because even though this world is a very beautiful place, sometimes it shakes.

And when it does, I will not waiver. I will not tremble. I will be here to hug you, to hold you, to wipe away your tears.

I will be here. I will wait with you for the world to stop shaking.

And when it does, we will listen for the birds. And we will watch the wind rustle through the leaves of the trees. And we will know that the world is still a beautiful place.

Love,
dad

SAY IT AGAIN

2009-10-11T23:05:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

You've yet to perfect the pronunciation of the letter 'f,' so when your mother and I asked you where you wanted to go for a hike today, we were having some trouble understanding your answer.

"In the sorest," you said.

"The what?"

"The sorest."

"Um... the source?"

"No, the sorest."

"Can you say it again?"

Finally you grew frustrated and took a long contemplative pause.

"The woods," you finally said. "In the woods."

Even after you perfect your phonemes, there are going to be times in which intellectual, linguistic, social, cultural or technological barriers are going to prevent successful communication with those around you.

There's little in life more important that good communication skills. But faced with the inability to get their point across on the first try, many people just give up.

You, apparently, are not one of those people. And as a result, you're going to have access to a world that few others will.

You're going to see the sorest — and the trees.

Love,
dad

AT THE CENTER

2009-10-05T22:12:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

Far more people have argued about the Mojave Desert Cross than have actually seen it.

I'm pretty sure I passed it, once, just about 10 years ago, while taking a shortcut from the Marine Corps base at 29 Palms to Las Vegas. But if I noticed the simple, white structure, jutting from the top of a 30-foot rock outcropping, I certainly don't remember it now.

So I would never again have thought of that lonely drive had I not heard, this week, that the U.S. Supreme Court was going to hear arguments about whether the 75-year-old war monument should be torn down in adherence to the principle of separation of church and state.

Turns out folks have been fighting over this for years. Hiring lawyers and filing petitions. Building coalitions and organizing legislation. Fighting and writing and wrything in despair over two pieces of steel pipe, affixed at the center, painted white and planted in the middle of nowhere.

Here's the irony of it all: The people on both sides of this issue are good Christians. The man who filed the original suit asking for the cross to be taken down is a devout Catholic who says he is opposed to the government's exploitation of the most sacred symbol of Jesus Christ's sacrifice. Those who want the cross to remain where it is say they're defending that same sacred symbol against anti-religious zealots who want to destroy all vestiges of God in government.

I wonder if either side has given much thought to the resources that have been squandered in this years-long legal battle. What else could those thousands of hours have done? What else could those millions of dollars have bought? Whose lives could have been bettered — or saved?

How is it possible that neither side has decided to turn the other cheek, as Christ commanded? To give to Caesar what is Caesar's, as Christ commanded? To use what limited resources we have in this world to help those who need it most, as Christ commanded?

There are things in this world worth fighting for. Choose your battles wisely. I often fail in this regard. And so I am in no position to cast any stones — only to offer some advice.

Fight the fights that are worth fightin' — and leave the rest to God.

love,
dad

ON A DATE

2009-09-25T22:51:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

It was an evening I'll never forget.

I was just finishing up my work for the day when you walked into the room with a suggestion.

"Daddy, you want to go to a movie with me?"

"Watch a movie? Sure, tonight we can do that."

"No," you said resolutely. "Not watch a movie. Go to a movie with me."

I don't know where you got that idea, but I liked it. I liked it a lot. I hopped online to see what was playing — and was pleased to see that Hayao Miyazaki's latest film, "Ponyo," was playing at the small theater just down the street from our home.

An idea began to take shape.

"Would you like to go on a date with me?" I asked.

"Yes please!" you replied.

And our adventure began.

First, we decided, we needed to dress up.

You chose your brown velvet dress, silver beaded necklace and cranberry shoes.

"You look fancy," I said.

"Thank you," you relied.

I put on a suit, my panda bear tie and a fedora.

"You look dapper," you told me.

"Thank you," I replied.

And with that, we set out on our date.

Our first stop was the candy store. You chose a pineapple chocolate and I picked out a mint. As usual, the lady behind the counter let you choose a sucker from the box.

"Yellow!" you decided.

Then we went to the coffee shop for a pre-movie drink. You got a banana-chocolate mlk with whipped cream.

And then we headed next door, bought our tickets, and walked into the nearly empty theater to watch our show.

You loved it. I was just confused. And by the end, we were both hungry — so we walked across the street to get some Lebanese food.

We ordered a sampler platter and a orange blossom limeaid and chatted about the film. After you had explained it to me, I wasn't so confused anymore.

When we were done, you asked for the bill.

"Check please!" you said when the waitress came near.

She brought it to you and then stood there waiting to see what you'd do with it.

"Here you go, daddy," you finally said, handing me the bill.

I'd been hoping to go Dutch, but I really didn't mind paying for such great company. I signed the bill and lifted you from your seat. And when we walked out, I took note of all the other tables and was proud to recognize that I had the prettiest date of anyone in the room.

We walked home together, hand-in-hand.

And I was the happiest guy in the world.

Love,
dad

ARE YOU CRYING?

2009-09-17T22:01:00.001-06:00

Dear Spike:

Me: Why are you crying?

You: Because I'm sad.

Me: Why are you sad?

You: Because I'm unhappy.

Me: Um, OK. Why are you unhappy?

You: Because I'm sad.

Love,
dad

DO NOT WHINE

2009-09-17T02:07:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

It was a bit of a rough day today — well, OK, it was a really rough day. You couldn't seem to stop whining — even when there was nothing in particular to whine about.

We have a no whining rule in our home — and you know it — so you spent a lot of time in the time-out corner. That, of course, just seemed to make you whine more.

You wanted to watch movies, to play in our bed, to have a tea party. All of these things are treats, though, for little girls on their best behavior — so I had to say no. And that, of course, just seemed to make you whine more.

Some folks might find our way of parenting a bit absurd. We don't spend a lot of time telling you what not to do. And unless you look like you're going to be badly injured — say, by running out in the middle of traffic — I don't stand in the way of your bumps and bruises.

Most of the time, when you do something wrong, nature punishes you.

When She's busy, I'm here. And I don't give you a whole lot of second chances. When you do something wrong, I address it and punish it immediately. That way there's no doubt about what I expect of you.

But today was tough. There was obviously something wrong - something I couldn't identify. But rules are rules. So if you're not hurt or sick, you're not aloud to whine.

"Dogs whine," I've told you, again and a again. "Little girls do not whine."

Sometimes it's tough to stick to your guns. Not only because it's simply no fun to punish the person you love more than anything in the world, but because it's just plain hard work. And sometimes — like today — it doesn't seem to work.

But rules are rules.

Let's hope tomorrow is a better day.

For the both of us.

Love,
dad

SOME MORE BREAD

2009-09-15T20:15:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

You: "May I have some more bread?"

Your mom: "Hey, you took my bread!"

You: "Thank you, mommy, you are very helpful."

Love,
dad

A DIFFERENT PLEA

2009-09-13T21:28:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

Your mother and I took turns corralling you back into bed tonight.

Each time, you reemerged at the door of your bedroom in your two-sizes-too-big piggy pajamas and carrying a different combination of blankets, pillows and stuffed animals in your arms.

And each time, when we'd scoop you up and put you back into your bed, you'd try a different plea, pitch or protest.

My personal favorite of the night: "No, daddy. I don't want to be independent!"

Love,
dad

THE SIDE EFFECTS

2009-09-11T21:55:00.001-06:00

Dear Spike:

One of the side effects of being tired is feeling crabby.

One of the side effects of being a toddler is the inability to say certain words.

Which is why you've been trotting around the house, all day, saying, "I'm crappy. I'm crappy! I'm crappy!!!"

Love,
dad

OUT OF BED

2009-09-08T22:53:00.002-06:00

I understand 10 o'clock.

Eleven, sure.

Even midnight.

Sometimes you just have trouble falling asleep. I get that. I have the same problem.

But 4:30 in the blessed a.m.?! Are you kidding me?

I'm at a total loss here. I know we've taken some wrong turns when it comes to your sleeping routine. Summer came and we got soft on your schedule. We caved (blissfully, no less) to requests to rock you to sleep every night. Sometimes we let you sleep in our bed with us following a family movie night.

But last night, you broke all records. You were in an out of bed until just before dawn. And I was there by your bedside (and sometimes, at your request, even nestled into your tiny green bed with you.) I sang to you. I told you stories. I even tried ignoring you altogether.

But no sand.

Now, less than one bleary-eyed day later, it's 11:30 p.m. and I'm afraid that I'm losing another battle. You insist that "I'm not sleepy" when I put you down in your bed, but promptly pass out when I hold you, rock you and pet your little head. And then, when I try to put you down, it's "I'm not sleepy," all over again.

I'm not completely against using duct tape at this point to keep you in bed. Or chloral hydrate.

It's time to sleep, sweet one. It's time for all of us to sleep.

Love,
dad

A BALL GOWN

2009-09-05T22:43:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

You: "What's this, mama?"

Your mother: "That's a ball gown."

You: "A ball gown?"

Your mother: "That's right. Where do you think you might wear a ball gown?"

You: "To the ball game!"

Love,
dad

OF HOME IMPROVEMENT

2009-09-03T22:33:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike:

This week we'll start work on your Uncle Mikey's apartment. The plan is to remove an upstairs window and about a foot and a half of bricks underneath it to make way for a new door. We'll also be building a small balcony and staircase so that he has a private entrance. After that we'll blow out his closet and run some pipes for a bathroom. And finally we'll knock down some walls to make more space in the room for some bookshelves and a new closet.

"Wow daddy," you say, "I didn't know your many, many, many, many, many talents extended into the world of home improvement."

OK. Well... truthfully... that's probably not the case. And while I'm proud of some of the very minor projects we've done around the house, we've never attempted anything like this before. But we're not rich enough to hire someone else to do it — and even if we were, I think I'd still like the challenge.

If you ask me, one of the best parts of life comes when you get out of your comfort zone — when you ask yourself to do something knowing that you might not be the best at it.

To paint when you're not a painter.

To dance when you're not a dancer.

To build when you're not a builder.

Sometimes you're going to fail — and there are plenty of lessons to be learned from failure, too. In fact, there's so much to learn from failure that you can never really completely fail.

And sometimes, you're going to succeed. Not only will you exceed your expectations, you'll exceed all hopes as well. You'll paint like Rembrandt. You'll dance like Fred Astair. You build like... um... like Bob, I guess.

You never know unless you try. Sometimes that means picking up a paintbrush. Sometimes that means picking up a set of tap shoes.

And for us, this week, it means picking up a sledgehammer.

Keep you head down, little one, this might get a little bit dusty.

Love,
dad

A Perfect Day

2009-09-01T11:03:00.000-06:00

OF A MIRACLE

2009-08-31T02:32:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike:

Your mother's new students arrive today — and the spectacle that is Title 1 Kindergarten starts anew.

Most will show up unable to spell their names or recite their ABCs. Some of them can't count to 10. Quite a few can't speak any English.

By June, they'll all be reading. They'll be able to count to 100 — by ones and twos and fives and tens. And the ones that couldn't speak any English at the beginning of the year will be translating for their parents at the end of the year.

What your mother does, in nine short months each year, is little short of a miracle, particularly considering the fact that, at the school she teaches, many of the children are homeless, or in the country illegally, or have fled to this nation from their war torn native lands, or are being abused at home, or have parents in prison. And some of them have all of those problems.

But she welcomes them into her classroom and gives them a seat at their very own desk. She tells them that they are special but also reminds them that they are no more special than anyone else. She teaches them how it feels to put their noses to the grindstone.

For most, her expectations are higher than anything that's ever been expected of them. For many, her classroom rules are more structure than they've ever had in their lives. For some, her class is the only place they have to feel loved.

And under her watchful eyes they bloom.

She doesn't always notice the miracles she creates. The changes are magnificent over time, but usually quite subtle from day to day to day. And when her students succeed, she's more likely to praise their efforts than to take any credit for herself.

That's just the way your mother is.

But you and I know the truth.

She makes miracles.

Love,
dad

OFF TO BEIJING

2009-08-29T01:37:00.002-06:00

Dear Spike:

Today we met your new Mandarin tutor, Xinling. Already you seem to have become fast friends.

She was impressed with your vocabulary — both English and Chinese — but was rather unimpressed with the way your mother and I have been beating up her native language. You, on the other hand, seem to have weathered our linguistic incompetence. Xinling told us there's nothing wrong with your accent that a little shutting up on our part won't fix.

You'll start your lessons together on Wednesday.

I figure you should be ready to jet off to Beijing by Friday or so.

I'm proud of you, my little panda.

Love,
dad

SING, PLAY, DANCE

2009-08-28T00:19:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike:

Your Uncle Mikey arrived this week, carrying an enormous keyboard under one arm and two guitar cases in the other.

That's good news for you, because while your mother and father have a diverse array of talents, music isn't our strong suit. So when Mike takes care of you during the days when I'm called away to work, I've asked him to play music for you — and with you.

We're not the only species on this planet that makes music, but there's no other animal that has figured out how to do it with such diversity. We make music with our mouths and with our hands, with simple percussion tools and elaborate wind instruments, with wood and brass and plastic, with electricity and with digital ones and zeroes.

I once visited an Alzheimer's home where music was being used as a conduit to people whose minds had otherwise been lost to the present world. Music is good for your brain.

I once heard a muezzin call the faithful to prayer in Iraq's volatile west desert. In the city of Ramadi, where everything stopped at sunset for fear of death, his song continued on. Music is good for your soul.

And today, every time I hear you sing — your sweet little voice rising and falling, mostly in tune — I fall in love with you all over again. Music is good for your heart.

Sing, play, dance and humm. Whistle, tap, snap and clap.

Moan and chant. Scream if you must.

Make music. And don't ever stop.

Love,
dad

ON IDIOT FATHERS

2009-08-23T23:47:00.003-06:00

Dear Spike:

I was waiting for a set of fishing licenses at the sporting good's counter at K-Mart. You were admiring a display case full of BB guns. Your mom was elsewhere in the store.

"You like those?" I asked you while the kid behind the counter punched my info into his computer. "I think you should tell your mother when she gets back that you want a BB gun."

"I want a BB gun?" you asked.

"Yeah," I said. "Say it just like that."

"I want a BB gun," you repeated.

"Perfect. Say that and watch: Your mother's face will turn red and smoke will come out of her ears!"

You thought about this for half-a-second and decided you didn't like that idea whatsoever. Your chin began to tremble. And then you began to cry. And then you began to scream.

"Nooooooooooo!" you wailed. "No smoke out of mama's ears!!!!!"

I have wonderful, bright and extremely sensitive daughter — who takes everything I say litterally. And even though I know this, I still managed to implant in your head an image that could scarcely be more terrifying.

Attention K-Mart Shoppers: We've got a sale on idiot fathers in sporting goods.

Your mom was on scene in seconds. I stuttered out an explanation. But I'm sure something got lost in the translation.

"Nooooooooooo!" you continued to scream and she swept you up into her arms and carried you out of the store as I continued to wait for our fishing tags. "Nooooooooooo!"

The kid behind the counter tried to rush through the rest of the process so that I could go out and face the music, but in his haste he kept hitting the wrong buttons, freezing the computer and forcing him to start all over again.

You were still sobbing when I got back to the car, 10 minutes later. You begged for me to hold you.

"She's terrified of me," you mom said, graciously not adding the words "thanks a lot, moron."

"She keeps telling me that she's sorry and that she doesn't want a BB gun," she said.

"Nooooooooooo!" you screamed. "No BB gun. No BB gun!"

I tried to console you. I rocked you in my arms and patted you on the back and apologized profusely for my use of cartoonish metaphors. All to no avail. Your shrill screams echoed off the building's cinderblock walls.

Meanwhile, a parade of shoppers did their best to pretend not to stare at us as they came and went from the parking lot. There is nothing worse that getting tut-tutted by K-Mart customers.

Finally, blessedly, you passed out in the car. And I drove toward the lake in complete silence for the next 15 minutes.

Your mother sat the the back of the car and — continuing her graciousness when we finally did begin to talk again — didn't bring up the fact that her husband was a complete moron.

Things were a bit better when you woke from your nap. We had a nice boat ride on the lake and I did my best to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the afternoon.

Sometimes I think I should just have the damn thing sewn up so I can't speak at all. But I know better, now, than to tell you something like that.

Love,
dad

UNTIL IT GOES

2009-08-20T00:22:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike:

You don't really know what you're going to miss until it goes away.

That's how it was when we stopped rocking you to sleep at night. We'd pushed hard to help you learn to go to sleep in your own bed. We even invented a "happy night-night" routine to help you get in the mood for slumber.

And, I'll admit, the first few nights that you fell asleep on your own were grand. You mother and I hardly knew what to do with ourselves in our newly found adults only time. (We figured it out eventually.)

But after a while, I really got to missing the nights when I'd wrap you up in a blanket, give you a bottle of milk and watch as you fell asleep on my lap. And it made me sad to think that I'd never get to do that again.

You don't really know what you're going to miss until it goes away. And you never really understand how to appreciate something until it goes away — and come back.

Recently, you started asking us to rock you to sleep at night once again. And even though we know it would probably be better if you were falling asleep on your own, your mother and I have been more than happy to oblige.

I know that you'll grow out of this soon enough. And one day it will be true that I will have rocked you to sleep for the very last time.

And since I understand that, now, I'm savoring every precious moment. Rock-a-bye, baby. Rock-a-bye.

Love,
dad

YOU COULD BE

2009-08-16T23:26:00.003-06:00

From Spike's Uncle Scott, who was in Colorado today covering President Obama's visit...

Dear Spike:

If you don't want to be president, I guess that's OK.

But you could be. Just saying.

Love,
dad

WHAT YOU SAID

2009-08-06T13:38:00.001-06:00

Dear Spike:

"No door! Don't steal my butt!"

That's what you said.

No more LSD in your milk.

Love,
dad

YOUR UNCLE MIKEY

2009-08-03T00:16:00.004-06:00

Dear Spike:

Our household is about to get a bit bigger — though not in the way you might expect.

In a few weeks, your Uncle Mikey is going to come to stay with us.

It all seemed to work out quite nicely. Our lovely babysitter, Amanda, is pregnant and won't be available to watch you a the drop of a hat, as she did last year. Mikey, meanwhile, is about to finish the musical in which he's starring in Berkeley and has been having trouble finding a day job that suits him in California.

And so it is that, starting at the end of this month, Mikey will take on his toughest role yet: A sort-of Kato-Kaelin-meets-Mary-Poppins character who will sleep in our home and eat our food while occasionally watching over you when I have to chase a story.

There are plenty of details yet to be worked out in this arrangement (including how, exactly, to keep your father and your uncle — who have never exactly gotten along — from ripping each other's heads off) but one thing is already clear: You're a fortunate little girl. Among other talents, Mikey is an extremely gifted musician and he'll be here to help you develop your musical gifts, too.

Most importantly, though, is that he absolutely adores you. And that gives your mother and I faith that everything else will ultimately fall into place.

This certainly isn't how we expected to arrange for your child care this year, but we're feeling fortunate to have Mikey playing a bigger role in your life.

Love,

dad