FOR YOUR DREAMS

Dear Spike:

You've had bad dreams before, of course. We know this because you sometimes wake up screaming or crying. Sometimes you sprint into our room and leap into our arms, you tiny body shaking in our embrace. Other times you just simply sob softly in your sleep.

But you've never been able to explain your nightmares to us before. Not until this morning, that is. That's when you came, sobbing uncontrollably, to your mother and explained that you had dreamed that she made food for me and none for you.

I can't explain this dream. And I can't even explain to you why we have bad dreams at all — although psychologist Antti Revonsuo has an interesting theory: He suggests that nightmares serve the evolutionary purpose of allowing our species to "rehearse" for facing various threats and in so doing prepare us to better face those threats in real life.

I suppose I can see some logic to that hypothesis inherent in the terribly sad dream you had this morning. We don't fret as much as we once did about your weight, but everytime you find a friend on the playground who is your same age I am reminded of just how very small you still are. Food is important for everyone, but it is especially important for you. I promise that we would never forget to feed you — let alone purposefully ignore your needs, as you dreamed this morning — but I guess I can see how preparing for this threat subconsciously would be worthwhile in a Darwin-meets-Maslow-meets-Freud sort of way.

But fear defined is no less frightening, so even if that explains the reason for your dreams, it certainly won't make it any easier to wake up in a cold sweat with your heart pounding and your fists clenched as tight as clamps.

I understand. I have bad dreams, too. Every night, when I close my eyes, I see death and sadness and evil and emptiness. And so I don't get a lot of sleep.

There are, of course, just two things you can do when confronted by fear: You can run from it, or you can face it.

And when you can muster the courage to do so, face it.

Face it because, when you do, you'll likely learn something about yourself you didn't know before.

Face it because, when you do, you'll likely find that many of your fears are not so frightening as you once dreamed.

Face it because, if you don't, you'll just have to keep running.

And, if for no other reason, face it because I so often have chosen not to. And I know that I am no better for all the running I've done in my life — just more tired.

I'm sorry you had such a bad dream this morning. I hope you won't have the same dream again.

But if you do, when you wake up, your mother and I will be here to hold you. And then we'll make you the biggest breakfast ever, just so that you understand: Dreams are just dreams. And every bad night deserves a beautiful morning.

Love,
dad

BACK UP AGAIN

Dear Spike:

It's 3:02 in the morning. You've been in and out of sleep all night.

And that's the story of your life.

I wish I knew what to do to help you sleep more, but the truth is that I've been stumped. We've tried feeding you at bed time and not feeding you at bed time. We've tried giving you milk and not giving you milk. We've tried black noise and total silence. We've tried nightlights and no lights. We've tried ignoring you and being with you.

I supposed that this is just one of those things about parenting, and maybe about life. Sometimes you just don't have the answers.

Sometimes you don't have a clue.

It's 3:07 a.m. now, and you're back up again.

Love,
dad

NOT A HURT

Dear Spike:

"Mommy, my leg hurts."

"Your leg hurts? Where does it hurt?"

"Right here."

"Um..."

"Right here!"

"Honey, that's not a hurt. That's blueberry from your cheesecake."

"It hurts."

"Want me to lick it off?"

"Yes Please."

"What do you say?"

"Thank you."

Love,
dad

AND THANK YOU

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

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

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

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

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

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

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