The Playpen

“Where did you lose it, daddy?” she asked me as the car rolled along quietly through the chilly LA morning sunshine on the way to her school.

I paused for a moment, realizing that I had just opened a far-too-complex conversation with a four-year-old, then replied “I didn’t actually lose it, sweetie, like the way you lose a toy or a doll. They just decided they didn’t need me any more so I won’t be going back there.”

“What about your board? Can I still draw on your big white board?” she asked.

“No. Not on that one. That board belongs to them. It’s OK, we have markers and a smaller board at home. You can still use those.”

The questions kept coming. “So where will you go after you drop me off after school?”

“I’ll go back home, kiddo.” I aswered.

“You’ll work at home?”

“If I can,” I said, now regretting what I had gotten myself into. “The last time this happened to daddy, before you were born, I did pretty well for a while doing graphic design and consulting.” I immediately felt a bit foolish for expecting my daughter to understand the concept of “consulting”, but she took pity on me and let it go.

We drove in silence for several minutes, each of us wrapped up in our own thoughts before she asked another question.

“So you’ll just take me to school and then be at home? For how long?”

“Hopefully not too long, but the last time this happened it was a lot longer than I thought so, yes, I’ll be at home for a while.”

Thoughts whirled in my mind as I awaited her response, and with a furrowed brow and a heavy heart I began to formulate complicated answers to what I expected to come next; explanations of the term “recession”, a model of typical corporate downsizing in a cash-poor financial structure and why middle-management marketing was no place for a person to be these days. How was I going to let her know all of this would be OK? Why did I even bring it up to a four-year-old?

Finally, after careful thought, she shouted her reply.

“YAAAAY! Now we can play together all the time!!!!”

I smiled a little knowing that, once again, her point of view was the better one.

-Matt

As it turns out, all of those people who smiled at us warmly, patted our hands and said “Don’t worry. The second child is much easier,” were totally screwing with us, and are probably reading this somewhere in their homes right now laughing at us hysterically. Dom has not started sleeping more and, in point of fact, is actually waking up every two hours all…night…long. This has a profound effect on my wife’s well-being, not to mention on her schedule. Every so often, in the mornings, my incessant son will allow her the esteemed privilege of enjoying the whirlwind of whining that is preparing my daughter for school, but most days the responsibility falls into my court.

I am tired. I cannot, in good conscience, complain about being tired because, until my wife gets a bit more sleep, she most certainly has it worse. However the fact does remain that two kids takes a lot out of both parents, and I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t feeling some of the effect. This is the reason why, last night when my daughter was engrossed in NickJr.com and mentioned that she wanted to skip her bath, I willingly obliged and enjoyed 20 minutes of the Saints/Falcons game on Monday Night Football. A rare treat these days. This little detail, which may seem slightly extraneous at the moment, will mean a great deal as I continue my story.

Daylight Savings is the anti-christ. At least when you have children. I remember fondly the days when Aline and I would cherish the extra hour, looking at the clock, smiling and nestling back into the blankets for a blissful 60 minutes, free of charge. With kids, however, that hour matters. The first words out of my mouth this morning when I woke with a start to see Frankie hovering over me at 5:40 A.M. were “Frankie? Tonight we are going to learn how to tell time.”

Aline had endured a particularly rough night with Dom, so I begrudgingly trudged through Frankie’s morning school routine, my persona completely devoid of any real motivation or fight. I gave her a bagel and, when I glanced at the cream cheese smeared all over her mouth upon having finished it, let my head fall back to the couch cushion and thought to myself “Forget it. It’ll be easier to clean off when it dries.”

As I was getting her into her uniform, I noticed that I had inadvertently selected the “bad polo” that she wears under her jumper. It’s bad in that there is a big marker stain on the collar that will not come out. We keep it for emergencies. Since it was slightly chilly this morning and she would be wearing her sweatshirt over it, I decided to let it go. No one would notice.

Because I allowed her to skip her bath the night before, her hair was a mess. About halfway through me trying to brush out the tangles with her complaining loudly in my ear I simply gave up and wrapped the whole mess up in a pseudo-pony tail and finished it off two hair ties to hold it in place. A red and an orange.

Finally, because she was so tired and so whiny, I gave in to her demands and let her select a piece of her Halloween candy to enjoy in the car on the way to school. A grape lollipop. What the hell. At least it would keep her quiet.

I was starting to feel much better, and even had a little bounce in my step as I was walking her from the car to her classroom. By the time I reached it I was in such a good mood I burst in, a huge smile on my face and shouted “Good morning, everybody!”

Her teacher smiled at me, looked at Frankie, then back at me. I held her gaze, bobbing my head with that huge grin still plastered on my face for about another thirty seconds before finally asking “What?”

“Um. It’s picture day today. Picture day,” she said.

Now completely serious, I looked at my daughter as my heart sank. There she stood in all her glory. Crusted cream cheese, tangled hair, a stain on her shirt and a purple mouth and teeth. I couldn’t believe it. What made her haggard and unkempt appearance so much worse was that I couldn’t even say I had forgotten picture day. I didn’t even know. Sure, we had the form at home and I suppose I could have looked at it, but I did not. To add insult to injury, I had no cash and no checkbook, so my daughter’s teacher had to write a check for me. That’s right. I’m in to Miss Cindy for $37.00. With juice.

I made the drive back home with my head hung low and my heart pounding, playing out the scene in my mind of me telling my wife what I had done to our poor hopeless daughter on picture day and fearing for my life, wondering what I could possibly say that would make this right.

All I could come up with was “Thank God for Photoshop.”

Matt

My daughter normally looks brilliant. That’s because she wears clothing from our online store, RedSparks!.

There are a few posts that every blogger is required to write by law. As a good friend recently pointed out, “The Post in Which I Loose All My Readers” is the first. After that I’m pretty sure that “The Post About Nothing” is the second, and “Random Things” is the third. Never one to break from tradition, I have decided to obey that law.

We traveled back home to St Louis to visit my family last week. The last time we did this it was with one child, and things did not go well. This time, with two, I was expecting the worst. Fortunately the moon was in the seventh house and Jupiter aligned with Mars because both kids were little travel cherubs, and the trip could not have gone more smoothly. Frankie was completely stoked to be flying on the big airplane and spent most of her time coloring,

and Dominick basically just ate and crashed the whole time.

Mommy got to have a little chill time with some friends of ours,

and daddy did too.

Frankie and her friend spent time off by themselves doing girl things,

and Dominick just checked out the scene.

Because of the time difference I was awake to see the sun rise on the first day or two, but my stepdad’s wicked-awesome metal bird sculptures kept me company while I drank coffee outside and waited for the others to get up (They’re for sale, by the way…so is his awesome other work. Just thought I’d throw that in there.)

Pretty good trip, I’d say…I’m glad we went.

The problem is that, since I’ve been back, I have lost all interest in things electronic, including the internet. Traveling and visiting family does that to me. Being away, disconnecting, jabbering away until the wee hours of the night with friends and family and eating big breakfasts with grandparents always places the laptop squarely onto the back burner.

So here I sit, looking at a white page half-full of not too much, struggling for content that will not only entertain, but that will also ignite the little literary pilot light that burns inside me from time to time, and cannot do it. So I thought I’d take the easy way out and just flat-out talk about myself. I don’t have to think about it and it will buy me some time until I actually have to think of something good. 10 things about myself that almost no one knows. Here we go.

1. I love glowing yellow light at night. Think paper lanterns, the Swiss Family Robinson Treehouse and old Japanese homes nestled in the forest. Love it.


2. I used to use a body wash from the Gap called Grass. It smelled like a lawn that had just been mowed. I loved it and was really pissed when they discontinued it.


3. I am a master of electronics and can handle almost any home theater setup but cannot, for the life of me, keep my Bluetooth headset charged.


4. Once, for Halloween, I went full drag as a French Maid. After my girlfriend (yep, it was Aline) did all my makeup and I put on my wig I looked in the mirror and was very, very bothered by how hot I was.


5. I eat way too many eggs.


6. If she were real, I would leave my wife for Princess Jasmine.


7. I throw up if I ride in a car or a train sideways.


8. Birds, of any kind, make me incredibly uncomfortable. I also think that all birds are dirty. I do not know why.


9. When someone else is talking, and they start to get that little phlegmy, gurgly sound in their voice, I subconsciously clear my own throat and continue to do so until they clear theirs.


10. My largest character flaw is that I will immediately begin laughing uncontrollably the second anyone falls down, regardless of whether or not I know if they have hurt themselves.

So there you go. Don’t worry, I’ll come up with something better on the next one.

-Matt


Don’t forget to check out our online baby boutique, RedSparks. It’s dope.

Maybe you don’t need a lavish party.

Maybe you don’t need fancy gifts.

Maybe you don’t need wine, or a ring or laser lights or craziness.

Maybe I’l believe tonight what you tell me. When you put yourself aside, for the thousandth time, and say that you’re just fine with what you have.

Maybe I’l be OK with the fact that, after so many years, so many wonderful memories, it’s the thought that counts.

Maybe I’ll forget that I wasn’t able to do something special for you on this special day.

Maybe I’ll let it go.

Or maybe I’ll remember this day. This day when you stood so strongly, so willingly, beside me, caring for our children and caring for our home. This day when I wanted so badly to buy you the world and was not able to; to which you laughed and told me not to bother. This day when I hurt inside because I couldn’t show you how much I love you, and how much I want for you the very best that life has to offer.

Maybe I’ll remember.

And maybe, one day when the fog has cleared and, once again, I can prove my eternal debt to you in the only way I know how, I will look back on this day and make up for a shameful absence of appreciation tenfold.

Because you deserve it. And because I will always, until the day I die, strive for you to have it.

Happy Birthday, Aline. I wish I could give you more.

I love you. Then, now, and forever.

-Matt

If I had the time…ok, lets start again. If I had the drive, I would conduct a massive experiment that stats the biorhythms of a large group of bloggers to determine whether or not there is a pattern in their posting habits. It’s been raining here, and I have been feeling a bit flat. The thing is, it seems to me that everyone is in the same boat. My reader was as lifeless as Bob Dole all weekend. Do the seasons affect moods, which subsequently affect posting habits? Is there a global blog-consciousness that connects us all? I think so. One day, I’ll prove it. Anyway, in digging through my files I found a lovely post that was written by my mom after her last visit. I, of course, am only posting it now and doing so selfishly to avoid having to write anything of substance myself. Sorry mom. It’s a good post though, and I DID say I might save it for a rainy day. – Matt

When a new baby comes along and he requires Mom’s home cooking rather than bottles, Nana doesn’t get to spend as much time with him. But we have met and I have fallen in love. During my two week stay at his house I changed him and rocked him and figured out what to do when he wasn’t hungry or wet but still yelling about some mysterious complaint. “Nana’s Golden Position” is to hold him out in front of me with my left hand under his head and my right hand under his bottom. The required movement is then to bounce his feet against my belly until he stops crying. My lost time at the gym was negligible since this works one’s biceps unmercifully. It usually quieted him down so I could hold him close as he fell asleep, pulling his knees up and turning himself into a tiny human bowling ball as he dosed peacefully. A caveat: do not wear sequined tee as this leaves red polka dots across a soft baby cheek.

For two weeks I watched him grow in strength both vocal and physical. He has a great future as an NFL field kicker or a champion hog caller. He lives in a very busy household, but his big sister as well as his mom and dad are devoted to looking out for him as best they can. And that is something a grandmother doesn’t take for granted but is extremely grateful for. One thousand eight hundred and forty-four miles away, I can rest easy about that.

Grandmothers must give equal time to all grandchildren; that is written in stone. But with Mom taking care of Baby Boy so much, I got to spend a great deal of time with big sister Frankie. So when my visit was over and I was being dropped off at the air port shuttle bus, Frankie looked so sad. Even as I smiled and kissed her good-by, babbling unsuccessful reassurances like, “I’ll see you soon. You can come to Nana and Papa’s house next time” (What does “soon” mean to a four year old?), her mouth turned down and I swear even the corners of her usually bright brown eyes drooped. These partings take a lot out of all of us. For two weeks we had baked Snickerdoodles, read books, watched “Caillot” episodes on TV (a new discovery for a grandmother with no reason back home to watch kid shows), and taken long “gathering” walks around the neighborhood.

This last activity remains one of the most dramatic examples of how much she has changed. She and I have taken long walks three times over her short life time. The first when she was two years old and she ran, not walked around the whole block. The second time she was three and didn’t want to stay on the sidewalk or hold my hand and continued to gravitate toward puddles of dirty water. Now she is four and this time we brought along a plastic bag and “gathered” our way for an hour of careful observation. Magnolia seed pods and their fuzzy outer coverings, leaves small and large (These last make great fans on a warm sunny day), discarded labels and bottle caps, small lost beads, dead rolly polly bugs (wood lice, for those who prefer more accurate labels). Apparently dead bugs are ok because live ones send her running and screeching. She is unbelievably eagle-eyed and patient, spotting the most minute shiny blue rhinestone in a crack in the sidewalk and slowly dislodging it then carrying it home in her sweaty little hand rather than in the bag where it might get lost.

The differences in our walks are a measuring stick of growth and maturity. I wonder if next time I can skip the warnings, “Not that piece of glass; it has sharp edges. Not that plastic bottle; it has germs.” And maybe next time we can take “Baby Boy” with us in the stroller.

So at the airport shuttle when we said good-bye she looked so sad but didn’t cry. I am sure Matthew gave her the same type pep talk I had before they drove away because by the time he rolled down her window so she could yell out “Bye, Nana,” she was smiling and waving.

I, on the other hand, was having an awful time.

-Nana

di • vorce [di • vohrs] noun : a judicial declaration dissolving a marriage in whole or in part, esp. one that releases the husband and wife from all matrimonial obligations

It’s no secret that things have been a little tough aound the old homestead lately. My oldest daughter, now four, has taken to raking my wife and I over the coals every chance she gets, presumably due to a perceived lack of attention as a result of having a four-month-old in the house. The four-month-old has been waking up, literally, every two hours for the last four months. All of this has placed my wife and me on a very high cliff, the edge of which seems to be inching closer and closer by the second. Yesterday we decided to do something about it.

The pediatrician suggested that, if Aline were able to provide it, that I take extra breast milk and feed the baby at our bedtime feeding, thus allowing her to sleep though one completely, giving her at least four hours sleep in a row which, at this point, I imagine is like something of a vacation. I rushed home from work, had my daughter bathed, fed and in bed by 7:45 (a personal best), and we had a nice evening enjoying a few hours of silence while watching a movie. As we got up to go to bed, my wife reviewed the feeding process with me. I was to take the breast milk, supplement it with a little formula, put it in the special bottle that is made to feel exactly like a woman’s breast (Where were these when I was in junior high?), warm it and feed my boy, all without making a peep. Seemed simple enough. I bottle fed my daughter for just under a year, I could certainly handle this.

When it was time to turn in, my son was still sleeping. I told my wife that there was no reason to wake him and that, when he did finally wake up hungry, I would get up and take care of business. In doing so, we could maximize the amount of shuteye she would be able to get, and everyone would be happy. It seemed logical, so we both fell asleep.

I’m not sure what time it was when Dominick finally started stirring. Anxious to get the bottle ready before his fussing turned to a full-blown scream and woke my wife, I quietly tiptoed out to the dark kitchen and took the bottle I had prepared out of the fridge, placing it on the counter. I didn’t turn any lights on. The bedroom where I would be feeding him was dark and, should I flip the light switch I would surely blind myself and either stub my toe or kick something on my way in, waking Aline for sure. I took out a pan, filled it with water and put it on the burner of the stove, wanting the water to warm a little before I put the milk in. Hands rubbing my sleepy eyes I gazed absentmindedly out the kitchen window for a minute, taking in the darkened neighborhood, before finally turning back to the stove and reaching for the bottle. I stopped. Dead in my tracks.

There was something on the bottle that had not been there before. A tiny black blob on rubber nipple. In my hazy state of mind, I grabbed it and held it close to my face to get a better look, raising it up until it was an inch or two before my eyes and caught the light of the streetlamps outside.

There, resting contently on the nipple of the bottle, was a cockroach.

“GGGGGAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, stumbling backward and skyrocketing the bottle out of my hand toward the ceiling. The bottle flew about 12 inches straight up before ramming at full velocity into the overhead kitchen lamp fixture with an ear piercing “CLANG”, then glanced off my shoulder and into the drying rack full of dishes on the counter, knocking several of my daughter’s plastic plates onto the floor with a loud crash. I clapped my hand over my mouth in terror and waited, listening for the shriek of a startled baby or, worse, the shriek of an angry wife. Much to my disbelief there was none, so I turned my attention back to the bottle, now spinning lazily on its side on the counter.

There are three reasons why, after I hit “publish” on this post, I will be single again. The first is that my wife reads this blog. The second is that, even though I have referenced the fact here many times that my wife is so obsessively-compulsive regarding cleanliness and is such a neat freak around the house that she buys household cleaners with which to clean the other bottles of househould cleaners, she will not enjoy my sharing with the world that a cockroach somehow made its way into our home at all, let alone onto the nipple of my son’s bottle. The third reason is that, even though I washed the bottle in soap and scalding hot water for a few minutes, then proceeded to boil the nipple in the pan of water for another five, she most certainly would have thrown it away, and the fact that I put that bottle into my babies mouth at all will undoubtedly cost me 50% of my belongings. In hindsight, I probably should have just tossed it. But I didn’t and, thus, my marriage will shortly be over.

You see, my wife was raised amidst civil war, has witnessed bombings and gunfire and so many countless horrors but, for whatever reason, remains deathly terrified of cockroaches. Even though the one that took perch on my son’s bottle was no bigger than the size of a sunflower seed, and actually didn’t really touch the very tip of the nipple, more of the side, she will forever in her mind see this:

And not even four straight hours of sleep can make that image fly. What can I say? What’s done is done. I’ve been married for over eleven years now and, all-in-all, it was a pretty good run.

-Matt
We don’t have household cleaners, but we do have some cool baby bath and body stuff at our online boutique, RedSparks. At least it will SMELL good! ☺

Author’s Note: If ANY of you who told me that it was OK to wash off poopy underwear in the toilet give me a hard time about this? We ‘re through.

The problem with having one parent who works in an office all day and one parent who is stuck at home all day is that, inevitably, the one who works wants to sit on the couch at home on the weekends and the one who doesn’t wants to go out. This weekend it was our turn to visit my family in San Diego and it turns out that my wife, who wants to go out, was right. Road trip, barbecue, beer, sun, beach, football, ice cream and seagulls. What more, really, can anyone ask for? I would normally try to turn this into an overblown, emotional and flowery post, but this time? I think I’ll just let the photos speak for themselves.

-Matt
Check out the Kicky Pants organic line of bamboo children’s clothing available at our online store, RedSparks.

You are doing a fantastic job. If I don’t say it enough it’s because I get wrapped up in all the little daily details; the dog waking up the baby, chicken nuggets, stickers on the water pitcher, home accent lighting…you know the drill.

This has been, and is getting really hard. Not for me, for you. I, myself, become cranky and frustrated if I get less than six hours of sleep a night. I can’t for the life of me understand how you continue to be such a terrific wife and mother on less than three.

Its important that you know and, for whatever reason, that the internet knows how appreciative I am of all of your hard work, patience and understanding during this period. Two children is most certainly harder than one and, even though all of our friends told us so and we thought we were prepared, I’m still shocked sometimes at how much harder it is.

But I’ve noticed. I’ve been paying attention. Somehow through it all you still manage to be pleasant and cheerful, speak softly and lovingly to our kids, not lose your patience and, in general, be an awesome mom. I know how hard you are trying and I know that sometimes it feels like you’re failing in certain areas, but you’re not. I know for a fact that, at the end of the day, those kids are going to come out perfect, and that’s because of you.

Don’t sweat the small stuff. Frankie will get this potty thing figured out. She really will. Dominick will start to sleep longer soon, I promise (did you hear that, Dom? Don’t make a liar out of me, dammit!). I don’t care if the house becomes untidy or if there are dishes in the sink. If you’re patient with me, I’ll get them done for you eventually. From here on out I’m going to ignore all of that stuff, those annoying, frustrating and irritating little details that happen on a daily basis and focus on what’s important – the fact that you’ve given me two of the most beautiful kids I’ve ever seen and the fact that we are lucky to be where we are. Nothing else matters, and I’m going to remember that.

I just want you to know that I love you and that, no matter what, I’m here for you. Hang in there. You’re gonna make it though this.

Thank you for all you do.

-Matt

Baseball has always been a pretty significant part of my life. I played organized ball for around nine years or so, and have always been a St Louis Cardinals fan. However, I believe in rooting for the home team so, when I moved to Los Angeles, I started to follow the Dodgers.

Dodger Stadium is unlike any other ballpark in the country. Its not a stadium, it’s a park. Its open and breezy with palm trees swaying in the mountains past the outfield. It’s always reminded me of a more grown up version of the little league fields I used to play on and, since the moment I sat down in the left field bleachers 15 years ago, I have been longing for the day when I might be able to share a ballgame with my son, the way my father did with me. There’s something fantastic about baseball, dads and sons. There’s a timeless bond created there that has endured through corporate sponsorship, performance enhancing drugs and Spiderman logos on the bases. When you’re there in the sun, eating a hotdog with your old man and cheering like hell at every crack of the bat, its special.

I had a daughter, though. Sure, I have a son, but it will be years before he’s old enough to go to the game, or at least old enough to share the kind of experience I’m talking about. So I decided to take Frankie. She doesn’t care much for baseball, and rolls her eyes and moans when I put a game on TV, but I thought we’d give it a shot. It wouldn’t be like taking my son, but it would be something, right?

Truth be told, I can honestly say that I have never had as much fun at a baseball game – and I’ve been to a lot of them – than I had yesterday with my little girl. It was a different baseball experience than I have ever had before, meaning there was a lot less focus on the actual game than I’m used to, but it was truly fantastic; we enjoyed every minute of it. From leaving the house decked out on our LA Dodgers best,

To our cool seats, close enough to the field but far enough back to keep the sun off our heads

We even enjoyed the 50-mile hike from our car to the stadium,

Even if we couldn’t quite make it all the way back to the car after the game without a piggyback ride.

Frankie was completely understanding and pleasant when I explained to her that she could not have sugary lemonade because she had already consumed 30 pounds of cotton candy and would have to settle for water.

We even had fun in the car on our way home, where we practiced our newfound skill of shouting “CHARGE!” at the tops of our lungs.

So, at the end of the day, it turns out I had been completely right all along. Going to a baseball game with my daughter is not as fun than it would be with my son. It’s more.

-Matt
Did you know there are lots of stylish play clothes for little boys and girls to play baseball in at our online boutique, RedSparks?

A few hours ago I woke up happier for the 4015th time.

A few weeks ago I laughed harder than I have in a great while.

A few months ago I learned what it meant to have a boy. My baby boy.

A year ago I gazed from a rooftop over the city in the evening, breeze tickling my cheeks, and witnessed pure beauty.

Two years ago I walked lovingly through the night, relishing the silent falling flakes as the snow crunched underneath my feet.

Three years ago I watched in awe as a waterfall cascaded onto the sand, then drank wine in the dark under a grand palm tree amidst a forest of pines.

Four years ago I fell in love with a tiny baby girl that will forever be able to break my heart with a glance.

Five years ago I had lunch in an English courtyard, then spent a few happy and tranquil moments at the edge of a stone fountain.

Six years ago I learned why so many people go crazy for puppies.

Seven years ago I laughed and sang, overjoyed at having the top down in January.

Eight years ago I made a house a home.

Nine years ago I watched the sun rise over Los Angeles from a far away desert and thanked god for a beautiful life.

Ten years ago I had the very best time with the very best friends in the very best apartment.

Eleven years ago you said “yes” and made every beautiful moment possible.

Happy anniversary, Aline. I love you more than I ever have. Thank you for sharing your life with me and for standing by me through thick and thin. You are the best friend I have ever had and I will always cherish what we have built together. Forever.

All my love,
Matt