The Playpen

I expected the tantrums. I expected the whining, the sleepless nights, the fatigue and the frustration. I expected that there would be a great many things about my life which I loved entirely, even by which I defined myself, that I would be forced to give up and only watch other younger, more fortunate men enjoy while I begrudgingly lugged a stroller and diaper bag up and down the sidelines. I expected resentment.

But I did not expect you.

I did not expect that tiny little bundle of wrinkled skin, tubes and wires to grow up into a beautiful young girl. I did not expect you to become the pain that only a father who has failed his daughter in some way––an overzealous scolding, a disappointing Christmas, a missed ballet recital-–bears well after you have all but forgotten the failure. I did not expect that, after long, hard days in the office, I would race home past younger, less fortunate men simply enthralled in the privilege of seeing your smiling face and the warmth in my soul when you jump into my arms.

And I most certainly did not expect that, without even trying, you would manage to take a world that I thought was perfect and show me how much more sublime it could be while in orbit around you.

Happy Birthday, Frankie. You will always be my special girl.

-Matt

I watched three people die today. Rather, I watched them get killed. My wife and I, heads hung low, had traveled to Newport Beach to meet a friend for coffee to discuss our financial future. While business has been encouraging, the past year of scrimping and scraping has most certainly taken its toll. The car ride was silent; each of us wrapped in our own thoughts of uncertainty and doubt. We were both positive that we had reached the very bottom, and were convinced that things simply could not get worse.

As I sipped away at the last few drops of my unsweetened iced coffee, I heard it. A crash that made my heart jump into my throat and shook my body to the core. I whirled to look under 100 feet down the street at the corner just in time to see a gold Lexus SUV, sailing 15 feet through the air and twisting onto its back. I watched in horror, my eyes glancing to the motorcyclist and pickup truck sitting at the red light directly in its path then back to the airborne vehicle, and instinctively tensed and raised my hands to my eyes to cover my face. I had barely gotten them above shoulder level before the SUV landed on them both in an explosion of twisted metal, smoke and death. For three seconds, no one on the busy street crowded with sidewalk bistros and cafes moved. Then it erupted.

The driver of the SUV, a girl of about 24 was killed instantly. The driver of the pickup truck, who had been innocently sitting at the stop light next to his wife seconds before, was also killed. His wife had just enough time to realize she was crumbled on her side next to what used to be the man she loved before she lost the fight and passed as well. The motorcyclist lay on the ground, motionless. To this day I have never seen so much blood.

I stood there silently on the sidewalk for a long time, watching, similar to a time lapse shot in almost any motion picture where a complete day goes by while the subject of the shot stands motionless in the center. I scanned the wreckage for my friend, who also happens to be a CHP officer. He had confidently run off into the heart of the accident the very second it occurred while I had stood there, mouth hanging open. After a few more minutes of looking for him, I slowly returned to our sidewalk table with the big green umbrella to find him sitting there, reclined casually, finishing his black coffee. He looked at my pale white face and said one sentence.

“There’s nothing you can do, dude.”

I didn’t want to hear that. Not at that very moment. But I knew he was right. The on-duty officers, who were already on the scene, were working in organized chaos with the fire department to save who they could, the streets had been blocked off, other victims were receiving CPR. He was right. There was nothing I could do.

The drive home was silent as well, but in a different way. What had seemed so important on the previous trek – income, 401Ks, health insurance, mortgage payments….was, this time, eclipsed by thoughts of those people in that accident. Their families, mothers, wives, husbands and, oh god, their children. In a few moments, if they hadn’t already, their loved ones would be getting a short, to-the-point phone call that would change their lives for the worse. Forever. And in that few moments any one of those people would more than likely give their lives to change places with me and my so-called problems. Even for only a day.

Sometimes its easy to get tunnel vision in life. To become wrapped up in ones own challenges and worries, and to lose sight of what makes life LIFE. I have so much, so many things that I love, so many wonderful people around me. The fact that times are hard right now and that sometimes, late I night, I wake up in a panic next to my wife with a nightmare of financial instability fresh in my mind, is truly only a minor inconvenience when compared with the “what if”.

I want to hang on to that accident. I want to remember it and refer to it as long as I possibly can. I can be realistic about it, and know that this new sense of clarity will eventually fade. However, when it does, I will try to think of the families of those I saw pass so quickly in front of me and remember that, for them, there is nothing temporary about their situation at all.

I will appreciate and cherish what I have around me. I will try with all my might to make the most of each and every day. I will think about those that I have wronged or spoken harshly to for no reason other than what mood I happened to be in at the time, those who could have been snatched away from this earth in an event just like this one, and attempt to mend bridges. And I will most certainly stop sulking, pick myself up and dig my family out of whatever hole we may still be in with my head held high, smiling. Because, at the very least, I owe it to those people to get out of life what they sacrificed to provide me with some perspective.

Even when you think that nothing could be farther from the truth, things can always get worse.

-Matt

My son, Dominick, is almost 18 months old. For whatever reason, it’s hard for me to remember where I was mentally when my daughter was his age. Regardless of how hard I try, I simply cannot keep all the events of her life at ready recall, and it sometimes saddens me a bit that they fade the way they do.

I’m nothing if not honest when I write. Granted I have a penchant for exaggeration, especially when a laugh is the desired result. But when it comes to raising children, I feel that being completely forthcoming is the best policy, and that most parents will identify with it in some way.

That is why it doesn’t trouble me too much to admit that I am over babies. I was after my daughter hit her terrible twos. It’s not that I don’t think they are cute and cuddly and its not that I don’t love them when they’re mine. It’s just that I am over them. They require a lot of maintenance, make annoying sounds and don’t really give much back in terms of conversation. For that reason I feel that, perhaps, I have been phoning it in a bit as the father of my son.

I take care of him when needed. Change diapers, hold him, play with him and put him to bed. But in keeping in line with the honesty theme here, I have treated it as more of an obligation than an opportunity. I don’t think he considers me a bad father by any stretch, but I also don’t think I have given him the same attention and love that I gave my daughter at his age.

The other day, however, something happened. He has taken a liking to cars and trucks, especially Matchbox ones. I was sitting on the kitchen floor with him, watching him turn a car over and over in his hands, examining it. We had played the “roll the car along the floor game” many times, but I decided it was time that we pushed the envelope a bit. I placed the car on the floor, my son studying my every move intently, pushed my thumb down onto the top of the car as hard as I could, then flicked my wrist forward, forcing the car to rocket across the floor, down the hallway and into the guest bathroom at lightning speed, finally slamming into the far wall by the shower.

My son watched the car for a moment, spinning on its back in the bathroom, then looked at me wide eyed…staring for a few moments before an enormous smile spread across his face as he broke out into a large, jovial belly laugh. He then took off down the hallway into the bathroom, stooped awkwardly to pick the car up, and ran back towards me, laughing all the way before finally jumping into my harms, prying my hand open and forcing the tiny car back into it. He then broke the hug, stood next to me, pointed down the hallway and waited.

It was at that moment that I realized two things. The first was that he was no longer a baby that gave nothing back in return. He had become a little boy that desperately wanted the attention of his father. The second thing came over me like a whirlwind. This was my son, and I had just taught him how to force a matchbox car to go much faster and much farther. We have played that game quite a bit since and he will likely not forget it. What else had I been teaching him? I try to instill good values into my daughter and raise her to be a courteous, well-adjusted human being, but with my son it is different. I am a man, and he is a boy. He was made in my image.

Immediately all of my flaws and negative personality traits washed over me and I saw an empty canvas in front of me, wearing miniature cargo pants and clutching a metal car. He is my shot, my chance, to get it right. I can teach him to be better than me, to be the type of man that people adore. I can teach him patience, respect for women and the basic concept of putting others’ needs before your own. He is a blank page upon which I can write the most epic tale of adventure, romance and happiness, full of mystery and intrigue, bravery and cunning. As his father I can author the happiest of endings in his life and weave a common thread of goodness and understanding through the various tragic plot twists of life. He is my son, and he is an opportunity to write a best-selling sequel.

Things are different now, and will be from here on out. He is watching me every minute of every day, learning and absorbing. From me and me alone, he is learning how to be a man and, while that bestows upon me an enormous responsibility that I had not fully realized was mine, I am more than up to the challenge.

I love you, buddy. Go get ‘em.

-Matt
There’s a holiday sale coming up at RedSparks. That’s all I have to say about that.

We all, at some point, experience “The Photo”. It comes out of the blue, late at night after an exhausting day of camping or hiking or playing. The interesting thing about “The Photo” is that, when it is being taken, it looks no different than any of the other 8000 photos we take in a year.

No, “The Photo” becomes “The Photo” late at night, hunched over a laptop after the kids are in bed and the digital camera import is complete. It different for everyone, and not all of one’s friends or family will even understand why it is “The Photo.” It happens when, with tired eyes, you scroll through the day’s activities and suddenly stop on a picture of your child with her friend. You freeze on that picture, innocent in its subject matter and composition, but so full of meaning that it brings a lump to your throat. As you gaze at your daughter’s face, your mind rewinds through her life at lightning speed; the 3.6 lb tangle of wires and monitors in the hospital, the first step, the first kiss, and the first “I love you, daddy”. The Photo makes your stomach twist into knots of pride and heartache, and provides digital documentation in full color that your life, and more importantly, hers, is moving so fast that you have’t even noticed what she has grown into.

The Photo makes your eyes tear up slightly, and forces you to tiptoe to her room, quietly open the door, and gaze at her not-so-tiny sleeping frame in her not-so-tiny bed, pausing to watch her breathe for a few minutes before gently kissing her cheek and pulling up her covers, with a gentle brush of her hair and a whispered “I love you, baby.”

Everyone has The Photo somewhere and they all different, yet all the same in message and meaning. The Photo is a reminder to enjoy every single minute of your daughter’s life together, because before you know it she will be someone else’s.

Slow down, baby girl, I don’t want you to grow up on me yet.

-Matt
RedSparks.com

This blog, in many ways, is a synonym for my life. If it remains void of any activity or progress then one might assume that my personal experiences have been mirroring those same characteristics.

A while ago, I might have agreed. If I am correct in my thinking, then I can safely assume that I am not the only individual who has felt this way for the last 12 months or so. Its as if life in general has entered a great holding pattern; everyone working, struggling and waiting for optimism and positivity to once again nudge motivation back into their souls. It has been a difficult time and I, someone who prides himself on maintaining a positive outlook on life, have been struggling to find an appropriate outlet for creativity.

There have been victories. A new and exciting job, milestones in my children’s lives and a reconnection between my wife and myself spurred by the elimination of distraction that can only be brought about by the removal of the potential for too many extracurricular activities. But there have also been failures and hardship as well. I have struggled to continue to see the glass as half full and, at times, have even wondered what the purpose of the glass is at all.

This life-plateau, however, has been necessary, and I have finally begun to decipher its meaning and have reached a point where I am ready to began acting upon my discoveries.

You see, when you remove the elements for which you have no real right; those elements that, should you be lucky enough to enjoy them for a time, are capable of being taken away at any given moment, you are left with only what you can depend on. Those basic human traits that, no matter what occurs, will always live within all of us. Love, compassion, laughter, excitement, empathy, generousity and caring. These are the principles which, I now believe, a life should be built upon. We all have wants and desires, and we all feel a certain amount of disappointment when they are not realized. But those basic emotions will continue to smolder within us, regardless of outside influence, forever. I have come to realize that these are what life is all about.

My children navigate their lives with only these things in mind. They are not influenced by status, social standing, success or failure. They are driven by the basic need to get as much enjoyment out of their lives as possible, and they seek this out in very basic ways. A smile from their father, a touch from their mother. A horsey ride around the living room, or an airplane spin in the back yard. The simplest things can cause laughter to bubble in their hearts, and I wonder at what point do we begin to lose touch with that concept. They do not wait for “this” to happen or “that” to take place before they allow themselves to be happy. Rather, they live completely in the moment and, undoubtedly, have been enjoying their experiences much more than I have as of late.

There is no sane way to run from one’s responsibilities as an adult, nor should it be suggested that that is the desirable thing to do. I do believe, however, that during the past year or so, my children have taught me more than I have taught them. If nothing else, the past has provided me a clearer picture as to what the future can hold, and should. For a time I was bitter and angry. I felt that economic downturn coupled with other factors in my personal life were unfair and unjust. I spent a great deal of time pining over what could have been, while my children have just gone on living, happily.

I am tentative about summarizing my thoughts in this post; fearful, at the very least, that this entry will come off as so many others that I have read countless times before. I am simply trying to convey that this very moment in time represents a choice. I must choose between continuing to look back, or turning around, lifting my head, gazing down the many paths that stretch out before me, selecting one and walking.

I choose to walk, because what I once viewed as a setback I now see as a lesson. I have been given gifts that live alongside me each and every day. They love me, respect me, laugh at my jokes and, most importantly, share this whirlwind of uncertainty called life with me each and every day, regardless of the outcome. That is the meaning of it all, and that is what allows me to choose with confidence, for, with them by my side, there can be no wrong path.

Happy Travels,

-Matt

Have you ever tried bungee jumping? I get that question a lot, and my answer is always the same. While my personal preference for repeatedly putting my life in danger was skydiving in my younger years due to what I refer to as “spirituality gained only when your life is out of your control,” there was one particular aspect of the experience that I found intriguing. My mental process. You see, when exiting an aircraft at 12,000 ft, one experiences sensory overload. The prop blast, the smell of jet fuel, the deafening roar of the wind…before you know what has happened you are in freefall and, well, there you are. With bungee jumping, however, you have time to think about it. Time to look down at the tiny little people on the ground just beyond the tips of your toes. Time to think about what might occur should you slip and fall. Time for concern.

I relate the births of my daughter and son to these experiences. Frankie was a skydive. A whirlwind of chaos during which my only survival tactic was simply survival itself. Complete instinct and reflex. Dominick was a bungee jump, comparitively speaking, and I had time for concern. I still do.

I have a son, you see. A son. I am admittedly a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to the roles of a man and a woman in the household. Fault me if you will, but I still believe that a man is responsible for certain aspects of raising children, likewise for women. My wife could most likely go back to work tomorrow and earn a higher salary than me, yet I believe it is still my responsibilty to teach my son business and management and so forth. It’s how I am wired.

During this little break of mine I have had a great deal of time to finally process what having a son means to me. I consider myself to be a good father to my daughter. I nurture any talent she may find intriguing, blow dry and style her hair, take her to the playground and read long (dear god, so very long) books to her at bedtime. But she is still a girl and, like it are not there are some things I just can’t teach her. At least not as well as my wife. My son is different. He is my responsbility. Perhaps not so much now during the breastfeeding and the vomit and the poop, but soon. He will learn what kind of man to be from me, and that frightens me.

I do a fairly good job of coming off spotless here on my blog; presenting myself in ways that mask my flaws and emphasize my strengths. The truth, however, is that there are likely more flaws than strengths, and I am not sure that I can hide them from him. In five years I have learned that children learn by example, not words. They are observant and absorbant, and no action taken by either parent goes unnoticed. He is watching. Already, at 10 months, and he is learning, and I have not yet grown up. I have not taken the necessary steps to fix those things about myself which I do not wish for him to inherit, and I don’t know why. What I do know is that I want him to be a good man. A decent and honorable man, and I have become painfully aware of the fact that, if I don’t make some changes soon, his odds of becoming that which I want will be noticably increased.

So to him I have this to say.

Dominick,

-Matt

In the darkest hole, you’d be well advised
Not to plan my funeral before the body dies

I awoke with a start and wiped a drop of drool from the corner of my mouth, looking around frantically, my heart racing. After a few seconds of vertigo I regained my equilibrium enough to realize that I had fallen asleep on the living room couch; Aline had gone out for a walk with Dominick and the sizzling of pancetta in a skillet along with the brightly colored wristband Guy Fieri was wearing as he explained how to make rocked-out, steamed sea urchin with a flaming watermelon fireball spritzer had lulled me into a deep slumber.

I could set you free, rather hear the sound
Of your body breaking as I take you down

What the hell was that? The nasal, melodic voice echoed through the house and chilled my spine me as I forced air through the blurred, hazy corners of my mind. I rose, and walked groggily down the hall, the sound becoming louder as I approached the rear of the house.

Let the sun never blind your eyes
Let me sleep so my teeth don’t grind

Frowning, I opened the door to the guest bedroom, which was dark except for a thin sliver of yellow light that I traced along the floor from my toes to a walk-in closet in the back corner of the room. Although I had installed a child proof device on the handle of the door, it stood open a bit, light streaming out.

It was a closet I called my “studio”. It contained all of my guitars, recording equipment, CD collection, DVDs, records, album covers; typical man faire. I considered it my hideaway. A place where I could be alone and play music, record and basically wind down without interruption. It was my sanctuary, and it had been breeched.

I pushed the door open and my breath hissed through my teeth when I took in the scene.

My first instict was to assume that it had been ransacked, and I instictively grabbed a microphone stand and whirled around, my new weapon cocked like a baseball bat, ready to inflict a minor cut on whomever had dared enter my home.

In the darkest hole, you’d be well advised
Not to plan my funeral before the body dies

It came again, and I relaxed my stance a little. Why would burglars be playing music? It didn’t make sense. With the microphone stand still in my possession, I ventured out and down the hall to my daughter’s room, which had clearly become the source of the lyrics. They became almost deafening as I reached the door. I pushed it and it swung open with a creak, barely audible over the noise.

Much like my studio, her room was in complete disarray. I glanced about frantically, attempting to piece together what was taking place. Then, as if guided by some mysterious force, my eyes came to rest on this.

then this,

and this,

then finally on my daughter, who was not only dancing about to Alice In Chains like a manic lunatic, but was performing some type of ritual that resembled what I could only assume was a four-year-old version of moshing. While I slept, she had broken into my hallowed chambers, stolen my most sacred music, put it on her CD player and completely trashed her room in dance. She had gone crazy.

As our eyes met she froze in place, arms raised, with one foot off the ground, waiting in anticpation for what she must have thought would be the coming of the Apocalypse. Slowly, the tension in her body faded as a huge grin crept over my face before it finally gave way to gales of uncontrollable laughter. I ran to her, sweeping her up into my arms and embraced her as tears of joy streamed down my face.

My daughter was a metal head.

The Lord had blessed me, for I was home.

-Matt
Hey. There are new Misha Lulu spring fashions for girls at RedSparks. Perfect for headbanging and thrashing. Check it.

First things first. I haven’t posted about my son, Dominick, in ages. Some of that has to do with the fact that I haven’t posted about anything in ages, so I can’t really be held accountable for lack of emphasis on the male portion of my offspring spectrum. The truth is, he’s a terrific kid, and I can’t believe he’s growing up so quickly…even got his first tooth a week or so ago (thank god.) Anyway, here are a couple of sweet photos of the boy to prove that I really do own one.

Pretty cute, hey? OK, on to other things. What do Paul Simon, Joni Mitchell, John Lennon and Nickleback all have in common? That’s right! They all write amazing, thought-provoking and brilliant lyrics. I, however, believe that they may have met their match. Remember how we cut back on TV for Frankie a while ago? Well, it is having a profound effect on her, and we intend to keep it up. For starters, she is much more mellow and well-behaved. Not perfect, by any means, but better. The second thing I have noticed is that she is beginning to rely on her imagination more for entertainment, and that can only be considered a very positive thing.

Take yesterday morning for example. She loves music. loves it. In fact, she adores it so much she has taken up songwriting as a hobby. She will usually crank out two or three new pieces on the way to school in the morning, and some of them are actually pretty good. Yesterday morning, I was finally able to talk her into letting me record one of her better ones – a melancholy number about a crying dolphin that is so cool it doesn’t even need a name. The lyrics are deep. So deep, I am embarrassed to admit, they fly high over my head. In case any of the rest of you have this same problem, I have taken the liberty of transcribing them right into the video. I think you’ll agree that the potential impact of this piece on today’s society could be mind-blowing. Enjoy, and look for it on iTunes.

-Matt
Did you remember that we started our online baby boutique, RedSparks, for Frankie? Yep.

So I was inspired by last week’s series, in particular the post about television. My daughter is becoming a pretty creative kid, and I am fairly sure that Toot & Puddle has nothing to do with that fact. So on Saturday I decided we were going to shut it off and do something a litle more stimulating. I give you the “I.T.W.”

The I.T.W., or “Interesting Things Walk”, is basically a photography hike. I strapped on my Nikon D40 and she strapped on her Fisher Price Kid Tough Digital Camera and we embarked on a long journey to find and document all things interesting around our neighborhood.

When I was in art school, we had a photography project in which each student was assigned a small section of a road. We were to photograph it, then return for a critique. The first round photos was all the same; street signs, building facades, trees, etc. Our teacher, Dennis Keeley, lambasted us and urged us to look more closely or “go deeper,” as he put it. By the end of the assignment the photos were terrific. There were homeless men, shots of unkempt, empty hotel rooms with drained liqor bottles in them and an abandoned, unexplained campfire. I tried to pass this lesson on Frankie during our walk.

“Yes, that’s a tree, sweetie, but what is interesting about it?” She ate it up and got some pretty damn good photos if you ask me. Let’s critique a few:

Her first photo was simply a textural study, clearly intended to stimultate intereset by focusing on contrast caused by strong horizontal and vertical lines.

Her next one (two actually), surprised me. She knows that we don’t throw fruit roll up wrappers on the ground because it will hurt the trees, but I was amazed that she so adeptly illustrated her commentary on the cancer that is humankind, and its apparent commitment to furthering the decay of Mother Earth.

I was impressed with not only the composition of her next piece, but also with the maturity she displayed by visually stating her opinion that, even though we are a free people, declining property values in a struggling economy bind us to a larger degree to the pursuit of the almighty dollar, effectively “fencing us in” to our mortgages and rental payments from which we may feel we have no escape.

And this one is just a pretty flower.

All in all it was a terrific experience. We had a great time and I have vowed to to it again soon. The interesting thing was that, when we returned home, TV was all but forgotten, and we spent the rest of the day doing creative activities, of which my personal favorite was Playdough for the simple reason that we made this and that it is totally badass.

So, yeah. TV off for a while. At least more moderation. She took her creativity seriously on that day, and I am pretty sure she can’t wait to do it again.

-Matt

RedSparks.com

The last day of Time Out is upon us. I want to thank each member of the Time Out Panel for being honest and straightforward; I think the series was a terrific success, and I learned a lot. We laughed, we cried. It was better than Cats. I’ll read it again and again.

So today I thought I’d close the series by just asking the moms a little something about themselves, and pry a bit deeper into their personal lives because, after all, that’s really what blogging is all about, right? And I also thought I’d take a moment and throw my own two cents in and give my own opinion on this particular topic because, after all, it is my blog, and I haven’t met a person yet who doesn’t love a good compliment; sort of explains my logic in selecting this panel and is my way of saying thanks.

We all have characteristics within ourselves that we are proud of. If you could pass one personality trait from yourself on to each of your children, what would it be and why? How about one personality trait from your spouse or partner?

Mr. Lady
Whiskey In My Sippy Cup

From me? A little bit of artsy-fartsy-ness. I’m no Picasso or Beethoven or Hemmingway, but I’m fairly artistic. I really hope that my kids grow up to have appreciation for art; not just the actual, physical product, but the creative process. From my husband? Athleticism. My husband was a hard core, record-holding athlete in his day, and the man hasn’t met a sport yet he can’t play. I, having the coordination of a Jello mold, find this a very admirable quality in a person. He’s more conscientious and disciplined for having grown up a rigourous athlete, and I hope my kids take some of that from him, too.

Author’s Opinion: Mr Lady is one of the first bloggers I started reading and she will probably be the last. With her ability to twist pop culture and raw emotion into one blog, as well as the possession of wit that could cut glass, I am sure that her children are not only intelligent and well-rounded, but will also buy mom flowers every day on Mother’s Day well into their Golden Years. And that’s something.

Barbara Boucher
TherExtras

Tough question. [And to think I asked for this question over naming my favorite 80’s metal band.]

I am most pleased when I see my children show good social skills. We worked really hard to develop ours theirs. Believing that personality has a strong natural origin (over being learned) I have pretty much resigned myself to accept who they are and the frequent signs of quirks from my side of the family. From my Studly Hubby I most hope they carry his optimism. Always.

Author’s Opinion: Barbara is a straight shooter, and I respect her ability to not conform to the “norms” within the blogosphere. She’s one of the most intelligent women I know; we have joked about my inability to even remotely comprehend her blog on a regular basis; My guess is that any child of hers probably doesn’t buy Cliffs Notes, and any kid would be better of for that.

Kori Jones
See Kori Rant

From me, I would like my children to inherit the belief that no matter what happens in life, things will always get better; there is a cycle to it all, good and bad and it will eventually come back around to good again. As long as we keep getting up and doing the best that we can with what information we have, we can do anything. From my partner? The ability to control his temper, because God knows they aren’t going to learn that from me.

Author’s Opinion: Kori gets down on herself a lot, but the truth is I have never come across an individual with a stronger spirit or a more giving heart. The amount of adversity she has overcome in her life makes my head spin, and she always manages to keep fighting on. Kori is a true inspiration, and her kids will most certainly benefit from her strength and compassion.

McMommy
The McMommy Chronicles

From my husband? How to grill a steak perfectly.

From me?
The appreciation for a good guitar solo in an 80s hair band, a good glass of wine with someone whose conversation you always enjoy, and how when I pee? Yeah, it all MAKES IT INTO THE POTTY! Not on the shower curtain, not gathering in a little puddle on the floor—IN.THE TOILET. (A PSA to Matthew and Carter’s future wives: These two are a work in progress, but hopefully by the time I pass them off to you, we’ll have this little aim situation taken care of. Unless you like living in frat houses. WAIT A SECOND. On second thought, if you DO like living in frat houses, move along. I sure as hell don’t want you marrying MY angelic sons!!)

Author’s Opinion: McMommy is funny, and her blog is light and easy to read. She sees more traffic than Los Angeles on a Friday at 3:45 PM. Because she is a mommy and has some time to write and got lucky? WRONG! She works hard. Mcmommy is shrewd, savvy, professional and frankly, is the best social media marketer I know. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, this one, and don’t let her fool you. Her kids will KILL in business one day if they want to, because McMommy knows what she’s doing. Much respect.

Aline Pfingsten
RedSparks

I’m obnoxiously good with finances. I balance my checkbook down to the last cent and it’s always correct. I should have been an accountant, except then I might be considered boring and I’m certainly not that. So, I really would like for my daughter to learn and appreciate the value of money. Juggling finances and being good at it is an important trait especially later in life when she has a family. As for a personality trait from my spouse, that’s easy. His incredible sense of humor, his ability to make us all crack up at any time, all the time. After eleven years of marriage I can say he can still get me doubled over crying my eyes out. Laughter in a home is a good thing.

Author’s Opinion: Aline is my wife. Knowing my children came from her puts my mind at ease that they will come out OK. We fight once in a while, as do all couples that have been married for as long as we have. But we laugh, too. So hard and so often. I have had the best nights of my life with her, and that’s just because she’s FUN. Not a lot of people are FUN, and I consider myself lucky to have found her. I believe that the NUMBER ONE factor in a successful marriage is that you must enjoy being with your spouse more than anyone else on the planet. And I do. My kids will be fun too, because of her, and there’s a great deal of comfort in that.

This marks the end of my series, and I REALLY enjoyed doing it. Thanks again to all the moms involved; I had a great time. Funny. I have this weird feeling I used to get on closing night of a school play. Lets do it again one day, shall we?

If you’d like to read all of the Time Out series, click the links below for previous discussions.

Time Out – Frustration

Time Out – Preschool

Time Out – Private Time

Time Out – Television

-Matt
RedSparks.com