YOU ARE FIVE

Dear Spike:
Five years ago, at this very moment, I was in the newborn intensive care unit, waiting to hold you for the first time.
Now you are five. Still tiny. Still tough.
And still loved. Unconditionally. Always.
Love,
dad

A RIVALRY IS

Dear Spike:

I’m a Beaver. Damn proud of that.

But Oregon State University wasn’t my first choice of schools. When the Navy told me, mid-way into my enlistment, that I could choose to attend virtually any school in the United States that has an ROTC program — tuition free — I first sought enrollment close to my parent’s home in the San Francisco Bay Area.

But after I applied for admission at my first choice, the Navy decided that its program at the University of California at Berkeley was too full and asked me to choose another school.

The University of San Diego?

Nope, the ROTC program there was also full.

I was a bit discouraged, and asked what university was actually open. That’s how I ended up at Oregon State.

I’m so glad I did. That’s where I learned to be a journalist. It’s where I grew the intellectual and ethical foundations that led me away from military service. And most importantly, it’s where I fell in love with your mother.

My time at Oregon State also coincided with a historic shift in the school’s football fortunes. After a record-setting 28 straight losing seasons, the team earned its first winning record in 1999 and then, in 2000, finished 1^st place in the league for the first time since 1964. That same year, the Beavers beat Notre Dame in the Fiesta Bowl, 41-9, in a clobbering I was fortunate to witness first-hand.

The Beavers have generally been a middle-of-the-pack team ever since. And that smarts, given the recent fortunes of the rival team to the south — beneficiaries of an enormous inheritance from a shoe-making sugar daddy whose money has secured a dynasty of sporting success for his alma mater.

Ooooh, they make me so mad.

But I was at said school, this week, to receive an award honoring the work I did last year in Ethiopia. While I was there, I visited the newsroom of The Emerald, the university’s storied student newspaper. And that got me thinking about what a rivalry is, and — at its best — what it should be.

Oregon State doesn’t have a journalism program. So when I attended that school, the staff of its student paper, The Daily Barometer, was a motley crew of English, history, political science and other majors who simply had a passion for journalism. We also had a hunger to prove that we were just as good as the students from that other school. That was part of what drove us to work as hard as we did. It’s what drove a big part of my success and the successes of my friends, too. And for that, I suppose, I really must appreciate the great work being done in the Department of Journalism and Communication at that other school.

That’s what good rivalry does. It makes people work harder and get better.

So while I might gripe about the shoemaker and his personal sports kingdom, I also accept that his largesse is likely helping my alma mater get better, too. (He’s actually given rather generously to Oregon State, too.)

Fair enough. Let the competition continue.

But this is not a free market metaphor, because there comes a point in which the decks are stacked so far apart that competition doesn’t work to make competitors better. And you might see this, in time, if the recently divergent fortunes of these rivals continue long into the future.

Ultimately, when that happens, people stop believing in the spirit of competition. They stop believing in the fairness of the situation. They stop being rivals.

I want you to work hard. I want you to be smart and tough and tenacious in everything you do. I want you to be industrious.

Like…

… well …

… a beaver.

And when you are successful — and I know you will be successful — I want you to be proud of your success. But never forget that your success is just as much a product of things outside your control.

Accept that. Be appreciative of that. And consider the obligations it entails to everyone.

Even to your rivals.

Love,

dad

MIND YOUR PARENTS

Dear Spike:

Frankly, I’m glad I missed it — for it was, by your mother’s account, the worst behavior she’s ever seen from you.

A little context before I get into the details: You’re a really good kid. You are polite, courteous, generous and kind. You mind your parents.

At least in part, we like to think, that’s because we try very hard to address misbehavior quickly and sternly. When you do something wrong, we identify it, correct it and, where appropriate, punish you for it. Finally, we ask you to account for what you did and why it was wrong.

As such, we don’t have to punish you very often.

But this week, we had to throw the book at you.

Here’s why: You mother last week invited you to the thrift store and, while there, suggested that you might find a small treasure to take home. But nothing struck your fancy and, despite your mother’s prodding, you failed to find anything that you wanted. And ultimately, you just ran out of time.

But when your mother tried to take you by the hand to lead you from the store, you refused to budge.

Someday, maybe when you’re in high school or college, there may be an issue — racism, sexism, classism or some other “ism” that ills this world —of which you feel significantly passionate that you might choose to stage a sit in.

Not being able to find a second-hand treasure at a thrift store is not one of those issues. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. It’s selfish. It’s greedy. It’s spoiled rotten. And that’s just not you.

You cried. You screamed. You flailed.

In re-telling this story, we’ve found, there are plenty of people who have said, “well, she is four years old, after all.”

It’s true, you are four. And that means that we expect that you will approach certain situations more emotionally (and sometimes irrationally) than you will when you are older. But a public tantrum is wrong at any age. And today you’ve been reminded of that.

The week before the fit, you had been pleading with us to purchase a duck to join the chickens on our growing urban farm, and we had been considering it.

That ain’t happening now.

We took away many of your favorite stuffed friends. We took away your computer and television privileges. We took away sweets.

Frankly, you still live a pretty charmed life. But it was a little less enchanted this week, and that seems to have driven the point home.

Little by little, you’ve earned your privileges back. Today, the slate is wiped clean.

But do it again, little one, and we’ll not only throw the book at you.

We’ll throw the whole damn library.

Love,

Dad

I SHOULD SHARE

Dear Spike,

It’s been a while since I’ve written you — and I’m sorry about that. When you read these letters, someday, you might wonder what happened over the past few months.

Let me start by telling you what hasn’t happened: I haven’t stopped loving you. I haven’t grown disinterested in you. I haven’t grown disinterested in sharing with you the best advice I possibly can give to help you grow into a smart, brave, tough, savvy and kind person.

And no, I haven’t forgotten how to write, either.

I have been blessed with a little girl who, at just four years old, can understand things in ways well beyond her years. You understand subtlety, humor, cause and effect, direct and indirect consequences and even irony — and, quite importantly I think, compassion.

In short, it’s becoming rather rare that I have anything to write to you that I cannot simply tell you. But the details of what’s happening in our family’s life right now are still important. And since you’re still not old enough that you will remember most of these events and experiences, I should share them with you.

Admittedly, I’ve also been busier over the past few months than I have been at any time since you were born. Not even when I was a full-time student, a full-time journalist and your stay-at-home daddy was I as constantly occupied (and often pre-occupied) as I am today.

That’s tough in some ways, but in most ways it has been very good for all of us. The most important thing that you should know is that you and I still spend a lot of time together. During the winter recreation season, which appears to be coming to a close this week, we snowboarded together at least once a week. (More on this, I think, in another letter — but it suffices to say that you shred the pow like no other four-year-old on the mountain.) We still do breakfast together several days a week (including, still quite regularly, at our favorite haunt, The Park Café.) I regularly drop you off at school and pick you up a few hours later. When the weather cooperates, we play an imagination game called “Pick the Fruit.” I am coaching your soccer team and we stay for a few minutes extra, after your teammates have gone home, to continue practicing together. Your mother joins us at every Real Salt Lake home game and, on the weekends, our family regularly makes it a point to visit Liberty Park, the Hogle Zoo, The Tracy Aviary, Red Butte Gardens or the Utah Museum of Natural History. Sometimes we visit the symphony. We also love the library.

And sometimes, I admit, we just curl up together under a good blanket on our comfy couch and watch a movie. Your favorites, as of late, are Winnie the Pooh, The Muppets and The Wizard of Oz. (We’ve set aside the Star Wars movies, for now, after I finally accepted that years of exposure, nostalgia and simple stupidity had left me completely numb to how very violent that series is. (“Here, let me slice off your hand with this laser sword, and oh, by the way, I’m your dad.”) It took your very understandable paranoia around our toy lightsabers (and your mother’s admonition for me to wake up and smell the blue milk) for me to realize that you might not quite be ready for Star Wars yet. Sometimes I can be quite a half-witted nerf-herder.

I’m sorry. Where were we? Oh yes — I’ve been a bit busy.

As it turns out, I’m no less obsessed with being a good teacher as I was with being a good journalist. And as it turns out, it’s been hard to separate myself from my obsession with being a good journalist, so I keep taking on freelance projects. And that little side-job I was doing for the dropout recovery group in Salt Lake City? That’s turned into a nearly full-time gig (and I’m very proud of the work we’re doing, turning dropouts into diploma holders.) And in my spare time, I’ve been trying to run a little community news organization. And in the time that is left, I’ve been trying hard to be a good husband to your mother by taking her on dates and staying up late to watch adult movies…

… wait, no, that’s not what I mean…

… I just mean movies for adults — as opposed to films about stuffed bears, big puppets and fantasy lands located somewhere over the rainbow.

But in truth, it’s your mother who has probably gotten the shortest end of the stick. And she never complains about it. If I’ve got five minutes to spare in my day, she’d prefer I spend those with you or together with our whole family. She’s taken on more work around our home so that I can manage several jobs. Someday I’ll think of someway to repay her for what she does for us. You should too.

You meanwhile, are growing in all sorts of amazing ways. You’ve always been a reflection of your mother and I — and in many ways you always will be. But since beginning school, last fall, you’ve also begun to develop a personality and identity that is an amalgamation of your parents, your teachers, your classmates and your own unique characteristics.

It’s not always pretty. You’ve become a bit whinier. A bit pickier. A bit stingier. You’ve become a bit less brave and a bit more prone to screaming.

Just screaming. Over nothing.

Still, your mother and I marvel at the rarity of the moments that you give us grief. And set against the majority of times in which you simply impress the hell out of us, it’s hardly a trifle. (Nonetheless, it is our job to prevent trifles from becoming more than trifles, so we’re working with you to unlearn some of what you’ve learned.)

And yet, all these other wonderful things that you're learning are just, so...

...

...

... wow.

Perhaps the most exciting recent development in your life is an insatiable desire to read. You’ve always liked books — but mostly for pictures and for us to read to you. We’ve forced you to practice actually reading the words yourself, and it’s always been something of a chore.

Until just a few weeks ago.

Then: An explosion. Suddenly, it seems, everything just clicked. You read and you read and you just won't stop. Pages and pages. Chapters and chapters.

Just for fun, when it all began, I took out a copy of A Tale of Two Cities.

“It was the best of times,” you read. “It was the worst of times.”

Magnificent.

We’ll get to the rest of the words in that book in due time. Meanwhile, there are marvelous stories about Frog and Toad, Stuart Little and James and the Giant Peach.

You can read those stories now. And, in due time, these letters.

Which gets me to thinking…

…

…

… maybe I should write more.

Love,

dad

ME WITH YOU

Dear Spike,

It wasn’t one of my better parenting moments.

You weren’t yet three years old, but you were determined to learn how to snowboard like your daddy. And for weeks ahead of time, that’s all you could talk about.

People who know more about these things than I do say that you’re supposed to start little rippers out on skis. But having never been on two planks before, I wasn’t in any position to teach you — and we couldn’t really afford to pay for lessons —so I figured we’d just find a tiny little board and play it by ear.

We headed up the mountain, I bought a pass (little ones ski free) and we climbed up the stairs to the rental shop.

When we got there, the guys behind the counter looked more than a little disapproving.

“You should really start her on skis, dude.”

“I don’t know how to ski, so…”

“We’ve got lessons.”

“Yeah, we’d just like the gear, but thanks…”

“She’s really not big enough to control a snowboard.”

“But that’s what she wants to do, and I’m going to help her do it.”

I looked down at you. You looked back and nodded. To me, that was enough.

They had a tiny board, and though the boots were a bit big for you, with a few extra pairs of socks we made them a little more snug.

“OK,” I said. “Now all we need is a helmet.”

The guy behind the counter slid over a little black skull-protector.

But when I went to put it on your head, you screamed.

That was, of course, exactly the moment I should have disengaged.

And that was, of course, not what I did.

I begged. I pleaded. I cajoled. I corrected. All the while you were crying. “I’m scared to put it on,” you sobbed. “I’m too scared.”

I could feel the dudes behind the counter looking over at me, shaking their heads in disgust. But screw’em, I thought. They didn’t know how much you’d been looking forward to this. But getting that helmet on your head was no longer about helping you meet that goal – it was about proving them wrong.

And that, of course, was wrong of me.

But try as I might, I couldn’t get you to consent to wearing the helmet.

Still, I’d backed my ego into a corner. I walked out of the rental shop defiantly, holding a screaming two-year-old in my arms, fully aware that I must have looked like the shining example of a bad ski dad.

I took you up to the lodge, bought some hot chocolate and began to negotiate. You wanted to snowboard, but for reasons I still don’t understand, you were scared of the helmet.

I ended up spending the next couple hour pulling you in circles around the lodge. We took a picture. Then we headed back up the stairs to turn in your gear.

“And how did it go?” the rental guy smirked.

“It went great,” I lied. “She was fantastic.”

Truth is that he probably couldn’t have cared less. Whatever. I just wanted to be right.

That was in the spring of 2010. By the time winter had come ‘round again the following year you had recrafted a memory of that day that doesn’t quite match mine. In your version of events, you were “a really, really, really, really good snowboarder.” And when the first snow hit, it seemed that all you could talk about was “going back to the slopes.”

But I’d learned my lesson. And we took things nice and easy. I bought you your very own helmet and we worked together to decorate it with stickers. When it came time to put it on there was no problem.

We probably spent a half-dozen days together at Brighton last year. Most of the time, we did one or two runs on the bunny slopes and called it a day. (It’s good to live close to the mountains!) We bought a harness and a leash so that I could help you stay up without breaking my back.

And now you are four — still, I’m told, too young to snowboard.

Except for one thing.

You shred.

You’ve actually been shredding for a while now — but you get nervous whenever I talk about taking off the harness — so even though I usually just hold the leash with a lot of slack, I do keep holding it.

Then, a few weeks ago, I caught an edge and dumped over. I didn’t want to pull you down, so I let go.

And you just took off.

I caught up a few hundred yards later, grabbed the leash and you were none the wiser.

But it was clear you were ready. When we got to the bottom of the hill, I told you what had happened.

Last week, we tried out a few very short sprints without the harness and leash.

And today, we headed up the Majestic Lift on a glorious “Lilac Day” (that’s what you’ve taken to calling unseasonably warm winter days.)

“OK,” I said. “You’re ready to go the whole way without your leash.”

I expected some pushback. Maybe some tears. Instead you just wiggled your hips toward the slope.

And away you went.

I could hardly keep up.

“I’m doing it!” you screamed. “I’m doing it all by myself.”

And you were. But in every turn you made, in every wobble you pushed through, in every hockey stop you came to, I felt a lot of pride in you – and a little bit of pride in me.

You’re doing it yourself — but you were taking a bit of me with you.

I suppose that’s what parenting is all about. And, of course, that’s the trick — giving more good than bad. And, if we do it right, giving much, much more good than bad. There have been times during our adventures on the slopes where you have probably learned some things from me that you’d be better without.

Ego and stubbornness, for example.

I think, though, that you’ve also learned a bit about the value of patience, of bravery and of pushing yourself to do things even though some people might tell you that those things can’t be done.

Come to think of it, maybe that’s just another way of seeing ego and stubbornness.

I suppose the trick isn’t just learning the good things from your parents — it’s learning how to make good out of the things you learn.

When we got to the bottom of the mountain, I tackled you, butted my helmet against yours and kissed your cheek.

“You did good,” I said. “You did so good.”

Love,

dad

THE GREAT WALL

Dear Spike:

There are many wonders in this world. But the one of which you’ve been most acquainted — ever since you began to study Mandarin — is the Great Wall of China.

It’s in your books. It’s in your movies. It’s in some of the songs that you sing and many of the stories you’ve been told.

And today, it was under your feet.

I circumnavigated the globe for the first time when I was just 19 years old. I’ve visited enormous castles, ancient cities and mountaintop civilizations. I’ve flown alongside fighter pilots and floated through the air in zero gravity. I’ve ridden horseback through a herd of stampeding buffalo. I’ve been to war.

I’m not awestruck by many things.

But this was a special experience for me. When I was a young boy I learned about the Great Wall and marveled at the idea of a barrier that stretched across an entire nation. And the very idea that this incredible edifice was built without the tools and technology we have in the modern world was simply mind-boggling.

It still is.

But today I saw it and touched it. And that alone would have been enough.

But I got to do it with you and your mother. And as I watched you hike those steep, uneven steps — thrilled by where you were and what you were doing — I realized that the adventures I’ve had might likely be eclipsed by the adventures you will have.

And that left me even more awestruck than I was before.

Love,

Dad

P.S. — Your grandfather visited the wall in 1996 when the Major League Soccer team for which he was working made a trek to China to play some exhibition matches. When he returned, he brought your grandmother a blue and white quilt with stitched-on pandas. Your mother loves that quilt — but your grandparents wouldn’t part ways with it. We thought we’d find something similar when we ducked into a few gift shops near the wall, but we were astounded to find — 16 years later — the exact same pattern of quilt. We purchased the last one in the shop (and another, with dragons and other exotic creatures, for you.)