The Playpen

Morning is the time of day I dread the most. I awaken, the house hushed and grey, and tiptoe past my daughter’s room into the kitchen where I quietly prepare my coffee. Usually, while it’s brewing, I stare out the window and slowly take in the sleeping neighborhood. There is no movement and, as the clock on the bookcase quietly ticks away, I find myself deep in thought and not quite ready to clear the haze from my mind. I take my coffee outside and sit down on the grey stone planter in front. From there I can see the entire street in its silent, slumbering splendor. I see the wispy ashen clouds high in the sky, lit from underneath with the faint crimson-purple light of a sun that has not yet emerged from the mountains in the east. I hear the hollow, sorrowful song of a lone Mourning Dove far off in the distance, as if singing some lonely prayer to no one in particular. I smell the fresh, earthy moisture of the morning fog as it dampens the tree trunks and grass around me. I see my own breath as I exhale into my mug while sipping its contents.

In the morning I am naked. Exposed without the cover of traffic, spreadsheets, telephones and distraction. I am alone. I am completely alone with my own thoughts and, in the deathly-still moments before sunrise, I can hear them. In the morning, I am not funny. I am not smart. I am not doing well at much of anything.

In the morning I am a failure.

I’ve given up trying to control them. Worry, Doubt and Shame, the three demons that taunt me incessantly, know me too well. They know exactly where the gap in the armor of my mind can be found, and attack it constantly by replaying events in my life of which I am not proud, whispering ominous what ifs and chipping away at my belief in myself. They remind me of financial concerns and mock my failed attempts to overcome them, and spend most of their time relentlessly reminding me that “I should have.” They paint scary, threatening pictures of my life and the lives of my family and show them to me, pointing out all the darker areas while explaining how they are representative of things that will go wrong in our future and how the common subject in each of the paintings around which the dark areas are centered is me. Then they ask sarcastically about my plans for the future and laugh scathingly at my responses. Those three demons, each and every morning in silence, with no one to bear witness, torture me to the breaking point until they ultimately succeed at their goal of convincing me that I am simply…not…good enough.

This morning as I was about to succumb to them once again, to give up and let them have their way with me, I heart a faint tapping at the front door. I started, then rose from my stone wall and turned to go back inside. My daughter was standing just inside the door, her face puffy and flushed from having just awaken from a long night’s sleep. She was staring up at me through the glass with half-open eyes, clutching the pink stuffed unicorn I had grabbed off the shelf for her the night before on a quick trip to the drugstore for shaving cream. I opened the door and stepped quietly inside, closed it slowly and crouched down in front of her, placing my hands gently on her shoulders.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I said with a forced smile, the memory of my conversation with the demons still very fresh in my mind. “Is everything OK?”

She looked at me for a moment then fell into my arms, hugging me tightly and burying her face in my shoulder. Although I was concerned that something was wrong, it felt good and we lingered there in silence. I felt her tiny hand making little circles lazily on my back I listened to the sound of her breathing for a few minutes more. Finally, I tried again.

“Sweetie? Are you all right?”

She pushed away from me and looked into my eyes, thinking for a bit before finally whispering, “You’re the best daddy in the whole world.”

Worry, Doubt and Shame vanished. I pulled her back into my arms and smiled with the kind of happiness in my heart that cannot be planned, bought or controlled. As I held her, not caring that her tousled hair was tickling my cheek, I looked out the door and saw the first rays of brilliant orange sunlight pouring through the dew-sparkled branches of the trees and heard the birds beginning to sing. That little girl, the one whose well-being and future I have been carrying gingerly on my back since the very first day, thought enough of me as a father to say that, and that two or three minutes by the front door in the morning convinced me that I was getting it right. In fact, it convinced me that I might be doing the very hardest thing in the world right, and there must be something of value in that.

Tomorrow the demons will be back, and they will say and do what they always have. But tomorrow I won’t listen. My daughter thinks I’m the best dad in the whole world and, as of right now, I’m fairly certain that’s enough.

-Matt

Every so often a topic comes along that simply must be addressed immediately. If not just for expediency’s sake, then at least for peace of mind.

My mom and I have been having an argument since the last time she came to visit and, while I don’t like to ask much from the misguided few who continue to read this blog, I am asking for something now. I need clarification. Validation, if you will. I need to know that I am right and that my dear old mother is so very, very, wrong.

As I have mentioned before my daughter, now almost four-and-a-half, is not completely potty trained. She is still wearing her Pull-Ups at night and, until she started school again a couple of weeks ago, was having accidents on multiple occasions regularly throughout the week. One day during my mom’s visit, upon my arrival back at the house after a long day at the office, I was greeted by my wife. We exchanged our usual pleasantries, and I asked her whether or not Frankie had had an accident.

“Yep. Just had one,” she said flatly with frustration in her voice. “It was poop again today. That’s the third pair of underwear she’s messed up this week. At least your mom’s here to help. She’s in the bathroom helping her get cleaned up now.”

I rolled my eyes and headed down the hall toward the bathroom where I could hear my daughter and my mom speaking cheerfully. Mom was attempting to offer some encouragement to her regarding her potty training, and Frankie was babbling away. I also heard what sounded like waves lapping on the shore of a lake. I opened the door.

“MOM!” I screamed, what the HELL are you doing!?”

My mother, who had finished cleaning my daughter up was now holding her soiled underwear in her hand and, to my complete dismay, was swishing them around in the toilet! I was appalled.

Now, mind you, the water in the bowl was clean. Not even my mom would go that far. Nonetheless, I could not for the life of me understand how someone, anyone, would think that rinsing poo off a pair of underwear in the commode was acceptable behavior, regardless of whether or not they were going into the washing machine afterwards. She held her ground, stating that’s how it was done back in the day, and we have been arguing about it ever since. To make matters worse, she showed me the responses to an email she sent to a large group of her friends this morning in which she had asked them how, when they themselves were raising their children, they rinsed their childrens’ cloth diapers before laundering them for reuse. The responses were not only horrifying, but completely unanimous. They all rinsed them in the toilet. I scanned response after response for just one “eeeeew” or *gag* and saw nothing. They all did it. Every time. The closest I came to finding one of her friends that agreed with me was one woman who pointed out that she rinsed in the bowl using the clean water after flushing, which immediately made me question if perhaps the other women hadn’t, heightening the repulsiveness of the entire situation. And bringing me to the reason for this post.

Asking for comments is tacky. Bad form. An unwritten rule and, frankly, something bloggers just don’t do. I don’t care. See, my mom reads this blog and I want, no, I need her to see that I’m right. Please. Drop me a comment here and give me your opinion on this one. I am banking on the fact that most people will take my side.

Oh, dear lord, please don’t let me be wrong.

-Matt

PS – Thanks, mom for letting me poke fun at you. You know I love you, dirty hands and all!

PPS – We’ve decided to extend our Labor Day Sale to the end of the week. Check it!

Everyone always talks about the cute and adorable things their children say. I admit, I’ve been a victim of surprise on one or two occasions as well when something unexpected has popped out of my daughter’s mouth. Usually, its something that I consider to be well past her years or education level, and my heart swells with pride upon hearing her say it, after which I will call my friends and brag about it for hours or until they hang up on me.

Last night was a bit different. You see, our daughter has figured out how to manipulate me. I’m easy. Doing so typically involves no more than a sad little face and a statement such as “But nobody will play with me, daddy.” Of course, whatever she is asking for at the moment inevitably has nothing to do with her sudden lack of friends, but she knows that she can probably get a Porsche out of me if she sells that one just right.

Mommy isn’t as easy. Mommy knows what she’s doing. Mommy is tough. Frankie hasn’t been able to crack my wife at all, at least not while they are in the same room together. Sure, Aline is consumed by heartache once Frankie has left the room in a fit of crocodile tears over not getting a Jolly Rancher, but she never lets her see it, and is a master of tough love. It’s a gift.

Last night, Frankie was trying to con her way into one more episode of SpongeBob before bedtime. She knew that Aline and I were both tired, and she knew she had a shot, as neither one of us had much energy left. From where I stood in the kitchen, I could hear her going into her pitch and stopped what I was doing, cocking my head to one side to listen.

“C’mon, Mommy. Pleeeeease just one more?”

“No. Sweetie. That’s enough. It’s time for bed.”

“Pleeease, Mommy? I won’t ever ask for one again. I promise.”

“You will ask again. Probably right after this one. TV time is over, it’s bedtime.”

“I won’t eat candy.”

“No.”

“I won’t cry and get out of bed.”

“No.”

“But Daddy said it was…”

“NO!.”

My wife turned off the television and several minutes of crying and whining followed until my wife, beginning to lose her patience, interrupted.

“Frankie! I’m very tired, and I want you to do as I say. Now, it’s very late, and you are going to be sleepy all day at school tomorrow. The TV stays off, we’re going to bed, and that’s final!”

Upon hearing that last line, I nodded my head in satisfaction, impressed that Aline was able to hold her ground so well on so little sleep. I started to walk happily down the hallway toward the TV room to put her to bed when I heard Frankie once more, this time in a strange, low-pitched, breathy voice.

“Your hair is sexy, Mommy.”

I froze mid-stride.

“Your mouth is sexy, Mommy.”

The color ran out of my face.

“Your whole body is sexy, Mommy.”

With that I felt a shudder run through my body and regurgitated slightly. Where the hell had she learned that? She’s four! And what is up with that voice?!” Was this some new thing that was going around at school? Had…oh god…had she heard me say it? I did have some tequila a few nights ago and, well yeah, I guess I…NO! It doesn’t matter! Something had to be done. She had to know that type of language wasn’t ok. Well, it is ok, but not for her. And she had to know how completely inappropriate it is to say something like that to your mother! This would end now and we would have no more of it starting immediately!

It was at that very moment, as I was about to round the corner, enter the TV room and rain fire on this den of debauchery and sin that I heard a very faint, yet familiar, “click”.

Mommy turned that TV right back on.

-Matt
RedSparks. We own it. We love it. Now you can too.

Perhaps its because I moved away from my family home and can completely relate to the subject matter, or maybe it’s just because it’s amazing. Either way, this is one of the best posts I’ve read in a very long time.

• • • • •

Moving on. My daughter started preschool yesterday. No, not her first year of preschool, her second year. Of course I experienced all the usual feelings and emotions associated with sending your kid back to school. Like how last year the hemline on her jumper was here,

and this year its here.

No, not because she’s getting older and wants to wear it shorter. Because she’s just getting older period. That’s the same jumper. Unaltered. She grew that much.

In addition to becoming painfully aware of the rapid nature in which time seems to pass once children arrive, however, I noticed something else odd in myself.

I have transformed into an early education badass. I have schoolyard cred. I represent.

I noticed this transformation the night before the first day of school. There is a parents-only meeting that begins with a large assembly in the auditorium, after which the parents break off into smaller groups and have round-robin meet-and-greets in their children’s new classrooms with their children’s new teachers. You might think I would have acted somewhat reserved; paying attention to what was being said, socializing with the other parents and listening. Instead I blew into the parking lot with my family acting like a high school senior quarterback in a room full of freshmen. I can’t tell you why but, for some reason on the drive over, I became aware that there would be rookie parents there. I snorted. They have no idea what they are doing, I thought to myself. I am a pro. I am a veteran. I will show them.

“No no no no! Don’t take that coffee,” I said to an introverted father who was putting a quarter into a coffee machine. “They’ll have fresh stuff inside and it’s way better! But let it cool off a little, they always brew it too hot! At least that’s how it was last year! HA HA HA!”

“Make sure you sign in here!” I explained in a loud voice, completely cutting off the teacher that was trying to show new parents how to check their kid in and out of school, “And if you get here early, better use the sign in sheet underneath the top one, because they won’t have gotten rid of the old one yet!” I nodded for emphasis and walked proudly away as they stood there in silence, staring at the teacher then back at me.

During the meeting, one concerned mother, clearly worried about her child’s well being, raised her nervous hand and asked a question regarding the school’s policy when it came to children who cried all day as a result of being separated from their parents. Again I burst in.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” I bellowed, rolling my eyes while the teacher stared at me, her mouth still open in an attempt to answer the woman’s question first. “You have to bring a picture of yourself. You know, so they can show your child your face if they cry a lot. Seriously,” I said with a wave of my hand. “Not a big deal.” I could tell my confidence made the woman feel better.

My most successful attempt in proving my veteran status came when one of the teachers informed us that there were suggestion boxes, as well as email addresses where parents could, anonymously or not, leave feedback regarding faculty performance, school curriculum, or anything else that bothered them.

“Yeah! OR, you can also send texts about sucky things the teachers do to all the other parents and start a whole deceitful network of rumors and lies that has to be addressed by the principal!” I chided to the entire room of parents with a huge grin on my face. “Ain’t that right, Miss Tracy? Huh? HUH?” I added loudly, winking and elbowing one of the teachers standing next to me. She didn’t smile, and sort of just looked at me all serious, but I could tell she was impressed by how much I knew about school gossip and events that had occurred the year before and thought I was pretty cool.

When we walked out of the meeting most of the other parents avoided me. I wasn’t bothered, as this is pretty typical behavior when people are intimidated. Rookies hang with rookies, veterans with veterans. It’s just the natural order of things. Granted, none of the veteran parents talked to me either, but I assumed it was just because after seeing how knowledgeable about preschool I was, they didn’t want to come off as not knowing as much, and thus thought it best to keep their distance.

When all was said and done, I was feeling pretty good about myself. Who would have thought that a guy who was so nervous about sending his kid to school a year ago would turn out to be such a pro? Funny how life works.

-Matt


Lots of cool back-to-school stuff on sale at our online kids store, RedSparks. Take a look!

One of the nice things about taking a blog-break is you get the chance to re-visit priorities in your life that you have been putting off. For me, the primary procrastinated activity has been traveling back home to visit my family. I’ve been back by myself, but the whole family hasn’t traveled together in almost two years, and there’s a new baby boy that the great grandparents are dying to meet. Why so selfish about allowing my family the opportunity to see their kids and grandkids? Let me spin you a little yarn about that last experience, which will undoubtedly shed some light on my reluctance to globe trot with two rugrats. Here we go.

• • • • •


We had decided to take the Flyaway to LAX this time. Flyaway is essentially a large bus that travels to and from the airport from a depot about 25 miles away. The parking is about 75% less than the local airport parking and the seats are large and comfortable. It would be the perfect way for my wife, Aline and our daughter, Frankie, to launch our trip to St Louis. Easy, quiet and affordable. In an effort to save even more money, we had solicited the services of my brother-in-law to drop us off at the Flyaway depot in order to save on the parking as well. It was the perfect plan and, at precisely 2:00 PM, the agreed-upon time for our pickup, the three of us were ready, happy, and standing at the front door of our house with our luggage waiting for him to arrive. There was excitement in the air; nothing could go wrong.

As 2:15 clicked by on the oven clock I began to worry slightly, although not too much. Our flight was at 4:45 PM and Flyaway buses left every fifteen minutes. There should be no reason for alarm. When a nonchalant call to my brother-in-law yielded only a voicemail, I chuckled, rolled my eyes good-naturedly at Aline and turned back to looking out the front door. His car rolled up about 20 minutes later. “OK, babe, lets move it a little bit,” I said to my wife and we loaded the luggage and the kid into the car and headed for the shuttle. At 2:50 we were sitting in the Flyaway bus station, eagerly awaiting the 3:00 bus. My calculations put us there by 3:45. A bit tighter than I would have liked, traveling with a young child, but still manageable. I glanced at my watch a few times with a bit more anticipation than I had at the house, and looked for the bus. 3:05. I’m probably a little fast. No worries. 3:10. Hmmm. That’s strange; Flyaway is NEVER late. 3:20. I was now starting to panic a bit. I’ve never been one to thrive in situations over which I have absolutely no control, and this was certainly one of them. My brother-in-law had an appointment downtown, and was long gone. If we missed this flight, I might find myself stranded at LAX with 45 suitcases and a 2-year-old. Not a great combo.

It was 3:25 when the bus rolled in. The smile had faded from my face and I glanced at my daughter, happily drawing in her coloring book, then at Aline. I caught her eyes for a brief moment and saw a glimpse of worry in them. She knew as well as I that we might be up a certain creek without a certain paddle. They loaded us onto the bus, which had apparently been held due to a terrorist scare, and we were on our way.

Most people have heard about traffic in Los Angeles. Those of us who live here know that, 9 times out of 10, everything is fine. The tenth time, however, you might as well pull over and check into a hotel for the night or get out and walk. This was the tenth time.

When we finally reached the airport it was 4:30. During the ride I had become more and more frantic about the time, and my demeanor had followed suit. We had roughly 15 minutes to check baggage, get through security and to the gate before we missed the flight. Sweat beaded on my now-furrowed brow as the bus door opened.

“GO. GO. GO!” I shouted at Aline as I snatched up our suitcases and bolted for the ticketing counter. We were in trouble and my heart had begun to pound in my chest. My only hope was that they would cut us some slack due to the delay and hold the plane. Deep down, I knew that what we still had to do and the amount of time we had in which to do it were not lining up. The math had become flawed, and I felt ill.

I sprinted to the ticketing counter and crashed into it with my trembling hand, clutching our wrinkled boarding passes, outstretched toward the agent. “HereyougowearesolateI’msorrytheFlyawaywaslateandterroristsandbaby!” I shouted at her. As she slowly cocked a sinister eyebrow at me in annoyance I knew I had selected the wrong agent. Most people grind coffee in the morning. This one had an axe.

“I’m sorry sir,” she said, looking at me flatly, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, “ airline policy is that no one is allowed to go to the gate in less than 45 minutes of their flight’s scheduled departure.” I stared. She waited, eyebrows raised.

I took a deep breath as my wife and daughter caught up and stood behind me. I couldn’t be charming while sweaty, angry and heaving, so I calmed myself, took another breath, and grinned at her.

“I understand completely. Policies are definitely important. I imagine people like me make it really hard for you to do your job and I’m really sorry. It’s just that this wasn’t really my fault and I have a two-year-old here and I think that, if we really, really run right now we might be able to make it before the flight leaves. See, we’re going home to see my family and Grandma and Granddad are getting kind of old and haven’t really seen my daughter so it’s kind of important that I make this. Would you mind making an exception for us this one time? I’m actually a pretty nice guy, and I just want to see my family. Please?”

The woman typed a couple of angry keystrokes on her computer, which looked dishearteningly like a logout, and turned her back on me. With her back still turned, so I could barely hear, she said “That’s policy. Next time I’d suggest being a little more organized and getting here early.”

I lost it. Charming Matt flew right out through the Jetway and up into the wild blue yonder.

“HEY!” I shouted at her as she was walking away. She turned around looked at me, a mocking, amused expression glued to her unpleasant face.

“Do you know how hard it is to get a two-year-old packed and to the airport? Do you know how much harder it is when the bus service you utilized, a bus service endorsed by your airline shows up half an hour late? Do you even have children?! My guess is no because no man would come within fifty feet of such a disgusting woman, and it wouldn’t matter how drunk he was!”

That last remark caused a few things to happen simultaneously. The first was that I felt my wife’s grip tighten on my arm and looked down at her to find her looking up at me, wide-eyed, as if to say “Dude. Not good.” The second was the shrew-agent whirled around and began rushing toward me at full speed, fire spewing from her nostrils. The third was her manager, now very much aware of the situation, was also rushing toward me, determined to intercept her before she hurled herself over the counter and landed us all in prison. She succeeded.

After several apologies, explanations and driving home my point that several minutes of precious time had been wasted by this altercation, the manager, much softer and warmer than her predecessor, took pity on us. We had four minutes to make it to the gate.

“You’re going to have to run. All of you,” she said hastily, waving my baggage claim checks at me. “I’ll call ahead to the gate and see if I can get them to hold the plane. You’re at #43. GO NOW!”

I turned on my heel and yelled the first thing, which also turned out to be the most unintelligent thing, I could think of in the general direction of my wife and kid.

“Let’s ROCK!”

With that I bolted down the corridor toward the gate, determined to make it there on time and stop the plane, even if my family took a few minutes to catch up. Breathing heavily and pumping my arms with the precision of a well-trained Olympic runner I flew across the airport. The wind was whistling in my ears as I leaped onto the escalator, the bionic man sound playing in my head. It was when my foot hit the fourth step I became aware of someone shouting at me, and realized that I had been hearing that sound since I dashed from the counter but had been subconsciously ignoring it.

“MAAAAAAATT!” I looked back over my shoulder down across the sea of people on the floor and spied my wife and daughter, now two tiny specks some 400 yards away, waving frantically at me and jumping up and down. Immediately behind them was the nice manager lady, also waving and holding up the rope to let them through security.

“WHAT!” I belted. “Let’s ROCK!” I have no idea why I said it again. The first time was embarrassing enough. It just came out.

“YOU’RE GOING THE WRONG FLIPPING WAY!”

Do you know what a car seat carrier is? It is a gigantic backpack into which one’s car seat and base can be stuffed. It is monolithic, and more than once I have compared the sensation of carrying it to wrapping Danny DeVito in a large hefty bag and lugging him around for a piggy back ride all day. Distraught and horrified that I had not only bolted full speed a half-mile across the airport in the wrong direction and yelled “lets rock” across a crowd of people twice, I forgot about the car seat carrier on my back. I spun on the escalator, which had almost reached the top, and DeVito jammed himself between me and the metal hand rail, preventing me from completing my turn. The lower half of my body, however, was gyrating at such a speed that it continued, causing my downhill leg to buckle sideways underneath me. As I began to fall, DeVito caught himself on the railing and the shoulder straps of the carrier forced my arms to skyrocket above my head, my biceps pressing firmly into my cheeks causing a loud “BBBBPPPPPPPHHFFFF” sound to escape my mouth. I choked a little as DeVito let go and tumbled down a few stairs before finally righting myself, the carrier now dragging behind me by one shoulder. I raced down the escalator, shins throbbing, and ran through the sea of people, sure that I was trailing blood.

After what seemed like an eternity, I reached them, and the nice manager shoved us under the rope and screamed at the security agent to put us through first. My daughter, unable to grasp the urgency of the situation, was laughing hysterically and attempting to explain who Hello Kitty was on the side of her suitcase to the security guard.

“JUST. NO. TIME!” I shouted as I snatched her up under one arm, DeVito still dragging behind me, pushed my way through security and resumed my sprint toward Gate 43. The terminal narrowed as I ran, and people were frantically trying to move out of my way as I raced down the hallway. My daughter had stopped laughing the second I had picked up her and her Hello Kitty suitcase and was shrieking uncontrollably as I ran with her under my arm, her miniature body bouncing up and down violently. I briefly imagined the experience as similar to what firefighters must feel on their way to a four-alarm blaze, parting traffic, sirens wailing. I caught my second wind with sweat burning my eyes, lowered my head and ran as hard as I could.

About ten gates away I managed to glance at my watch. 4:45. If the ticketing lady hadn’t called ahead, we were going to miss it. My daughter had gone limp in my arm and I wondered if she was still breathing; or if I had perhaps jolted her to the point of unconsciousness. My arm burned from the weight and I was about to drop her when, once again, I heard my name.

I turned and continued to run backwards and looked back in horror at what was taking place. My wife was running behind me, tears streaming down her face, an overstuffed suitcase trailing in each hand. Because the suitcases were different sizes, she must have been having equilibrium problems. One of them had tipped over and opened up, and was now spewing my unmentionables all the way down the hallway.

“Your boxers, babe. Your BOXERS.” She yelled, still running and sobbing in a terrible combination of exasperation and exhaustion. “For a split second I thought about going back to help her but instead turned back around and yelled “WE’LL BUY MORE! THERE’S A TARGET,” over my shoulder. I had one gate to go and god help me, we were going to make that flight, underwear or not.

I burst into a large open area which contained the ticketing counters and doors to multiple gates. Still in full sprint, my eyes swept the room erratically and finally landed on their mark. A large sign reading “Gate 43”. My face fell in terror as I lowered my gaze to the doorway leading to our plane. It was closing. I had made it just in time to see the leg and foot of the final passenger disappearing down the Jetway and heard the door slam shut, locking loudly. I screamed, muscles aching as I made my final burst toward it. The weight had simply become too much to bear, and I discarded my daughter as I ran. She kept up with me for a few short strides, arms windmilling like crazy as she attempted to match my pace, but her little legs finally gave way and I saw her tumbling away and to the right out of the corner of my eye. In letting her go I also inadvertently let the car carrier slip off my arm and I heard the seat cracking and splintering in the bag behind me as it bounced along the floor before finally slamming into a group of trash cans on the far wall. I reached the door and hurled my body into it, banging my fists on its cold blue surface as hard as I could while yelling “PLEEEEEEAAASSE, DON’T LEAVE! NOOOOO! PLEASE, DEAR GOD DON’T LEAVE!” I waited for a moment. Then two. My sweat-soaked shirt was clinging to my back and my entire body ached as I fought the burning in my lungs. There was no answer. Only silence. We had missed our plane.

I let out a moan and began sobbing uncontrollably as I turned, my back now resting on the door and sank down to a sitting position, holding my head in my hands. The tears just flowed and I didn’t want to stop them. It was over. I had failed and we were doomed to spend the rest of our lives in a dark, smelly terminal of Los Angeles International Airport.

As I sniffled and raised my head I peered out through the cloud of dust that was silently settling around me and paused. Something was not right. I glanced across the room at my wife, who was crouching down and cradling my daughter’s tiny battered body in her arms, then back around the room. The terminal was full of people. A lot of people. They were calmly reading papers, drinking coffee, surfing the internet on their laptops but, unanimously, they were all looking right at me. Some were smirking, some bore expressions of disbelief and bewilderment and some were whispering to each other but one thing was consistent. They were all looking at me.

As I attempted to process what was going on I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I looked up from the floor to see a kind-faced airline ticketing agent looking at me, almost as if in pity. I wiped tears from my eyes, blinked and stared at her.

“Sir. I’m sorry. I have to ask you to take a seat with the rest of the passengers and not block the door. The rest of the cleaning crew needs to get through so we can get your flight boarded and on it’s way. I’m very sorry for the delay. Please, sir.”

“But. We’re too late. The Flyaway. We ran. I don’t….I…”

“The plane just arrived at the gate, sir. It was delayed in Dallas. I’m surprised they didn’t tell you that at check-in. Now If I could please ask you to move once again we can start boarding the passengers and we’ll be underway.”

My jaw dropped as the room erupted into laughter. I rose slowly to my feet, and dusted myself off as the other passengers wailed hysterically, slapping each other on the back and pointing as I limped slowly, head hung low, back to where my family sat on the floor. When I reached them I took them both in my arms and embraced them before collapsing in an exhausted heap onto the floor, my head resting on my wife’s empty suitcase.

We made that flight. And we did it my way.

-Matt


We’ve got some awesome new Tea Collection merchandise coming up at RedSparks, our online baby boutique. Bookmark the link and check back in a few!

For those who don’t know me that well, I’m pretty into music. I was one of those kids who’s parents made them listen to every single kind of music known to man throughout their entire childhood (yep, even the New Christy Minstrels), put them in dance class, had them in chorus and musical theater and sat them down in front of a piano, trumpet and guitar every day to practice. We had a fairly musical household.

I once heard a quote from a favorite guitarist of mine that I have remembered and repeated for years and years. “Sometimes, the absence of a note is stronger and more powerful than the note would have been itself”

I have been blogging for almost two years now and, in that time, I have learned to recognize signs that reoccur every so often which point to the unanimous conclusion that maybe its time to step away for a bit. It would appear that, approximately once per year, I reach a point in my blog life where I become incredibly cynical and judgmental. In addition to allowing countless posts to pile up in my reader and rolling my eyes when I hear the alert from my laptop announcing that a new post has published, I also sit in front of a blank Word document for hours at a time, my mind hollow and listless, searching for a topic that’s good enough or funny enough to post. When I do finally manage to get something down on paper, I detest it. It seems that, during these periods, I am capable of producing only rubbish and sophomoric dribble that makes me wretch when I read it, and hitting the publish button in WordPress is akin to the sensation one might feel when turning in a test one has cheated on; shame, disgrace and guilt. In a nutshell, blogging isn’t fun.

I also have a tendency to become a bit negative, in case you missed it.

The good news is that, in the past, I have simply tried to weather this phase and have written through it. Some of what I have come up with during these periods is fairly dark and I don’t imagine anyone who would have happened to read those posts would have come away from them feeling anything less than suicidal. But now I know that, sometimes, this just happens. Its not a bad thing, it just means its time to get away for a moment. Take a break. Spend more time with close friends and family. You know, normal stuff. I know that, in doing so, I’ll come back the better for it.

I’m not talking about very long, mind you. A week or two maybe; we’ll see. If you know me at all you know I can’t stand theatrical, woe is me, boo-hoo, “I am finished with blogging-the end is nigh-goodby cruel world” posts. This is not one of those. It’s merely meant to serve as an explanation of my whereabouts. Simple as that.

So let’s not consider this a full rest, it’s more of a half rest, which is defined as “an indication of a period of silence lasting two beats in simple time”.

Simple time is exactly what I’m going for. I’ll catch you in the next measure.

-Matt

When I moved to Los Angeles some fifteen years ago I couldn’t put home behind me fast enough. It wasn’t that I had a bad relationship with my family, it was that I wanted my freedom, and would do anything to get it. I was a young man on the loose in the big city and nothing could stop me.

Now, tapping cautiously at the gates of 40, I realize how important family is, and how much I wish they were still nearby.

Brad, my cousin, was kind of a pain in the butt when we were little. Lets be honest. He used to hit us, kick us, body slam us…he was unruly to the point that when our mother used to tell us we were going to Grandma’s house to hang out with the cousins we would roll our eyes and say “C’mon, MOM!” We did not get along well.

Recently Brad, now a strapping young man, moved to San Diego with his charming wife and beautiful daughter. And I had the pleasure of not only hanging out with him this past weekend, but seeing what an amazing dude he’s become, so very far from the little stinker that used to terrorize us all day. It would appear that somehow along the way he transformed into a caring husband and father. Let’s see, what else can I say about him? Oh yeah. He’s also become this hot shot architect had himself a book published, BIM and Construction Management: Proven Tools, Methods, and Workflows. I almost forgot that little detail.

Not only can I not even attempt discuss his book intelligently with him (the content is so far over my head he might has well have written it from the Hubble), but it’s doing well and I’ll bet one day will be referenced in architectural and design classes all over the country. Pretty damn cool, I’d say.

This weekend, we had a terrific time barbecuing, hanging out and drinking beers. I find myself comforted and happy that I, once again, have family nearby. But, above and beyond that, I’m happy to have this family close. Because I’m so proud of him and, even though at one time I considered him a nuisance and wondered what would become of him, I now consider myself lucky to know him. I’ll be better off for it.

My hat’s off to you, Brad, you make us all look good.

-Matt
Don’t forget to swing by RedSparks, our online baby shop to check out what’s new!

I read a report a few years ago that found that Los Angeles tap water is some of the most contaminated water in the United States. Among millions of other things, the group that performed the study found large amounts of antidepressants and estrogen in their sample. Clearly, I have not been drinking enough water because yesterday I acted like the very worst kind of being on the planet. A man.

It’s taken me years to come to terms with the fact and admit that testosterone and I do not get along well. The last time I let it consume me and alter my behavior I was drunk on many shots of tequila and talking copious amounts of trash to my buddy in an impromptu, 2:00 AM street football game. I got so wrapped up in it that I ran smack into the back of a parked car running a post route and hurt my leg for a week. It was at that point I decided maybe I’d be better off painting or writing poetry or something. Machismo just doesn’t suit me.

Yesterday was a very difficult day. Our newborn son had apparently decided that he had no interest in sleeping, eating or sitting quietly and staring at his baby chair rattles and had booked his day planner solid with screaming and whining. This in and of itself doesn’t really bother me. What I did let get to me was how my wife handled it.

Aline and I have been in a pretty good place as of late. Our relationship could be described as turbulent at best, but I honestly believe that most people who see us together envy the fact that, when we are not at each other’s throats, we are very much still in love with each other and enjoy hanging out, even after being together for 14 years. However, two straight months of having a baby scream in her ear got to her yesterday, and she slipped back into that zone of negativity that she visits once in a while. This has a profound effect on me. I need to have positivity surrounding me in my life. If those around me are not happy, I am not either. I’m like some kind of human processor interpreting signals from people all day long and reacting to them immediately. It’s a curse.

The day progressed poorly with my wife in a terrible mood, my son screaming non-stop, and my daughter throwing tantrums and whining. By the time Aline and I were ready for bed, everyone was in pretty bad shape and I was admittedly seeing red. At about 11:30, after she had fed him and put him down, he immediately began screaming again. I lost it.

“Get your blanket and go sleep on the couch so you can’t hear him!” I barked at my wife. “This baby is going to LEARN to sleep on his own!” She slunk off to the TV room to get some sleep and I laid down angrily in our bed, determined to let my boy cry until the frikking cows came home if that’s what he wanted. I stuffed my feet under the sheets, turned my back on his crib and covered my head with a pillow in an attempt to drown out his wailing. After about 20 minutes, I lost it again and yelled at him.

That’s right. 37-year-old Matt yelled at two-month-old Baby.

I don’t know what I expected him to do. Did I think he would see the rage in my eyes and say “oops?” Did I expect him to think Oh, CRAP. Dad’s really mad, dude. I’d better shape up or I’ll lose my Wii for a week? The little kid can’t even focus yet and I yelled at him. What an awesome dad. A true role model.

This morning I woke up, made my coffee and sat outside in the early dawn thinking about it for a long time. A little sleep late in the night had brought some semblance of perspective back into my feeble mind and I felt ashamed. I had behaved not only like an idiot, but like a child.

The thing about my role in this little universe of people I spend my days and nights with is that I am the buffer. I know this. Before children, I was the one that could always calm Aline down. I would talk her out of the tree, make her laugh and restore that balance to her Libra life she so desperately needs. After children my role remains the same, but has intensified. I’m the guy who comes home to a frustrated and exhausted wife and two screaming children and makes hot dog bites, gives horsey rides and cheers everyone up. I strive to be the kind of man who’s wife can’t wait for him to get home in the evenings because she knows that things will just calm down and be more fun when he arrives. This is what I do, and this is what I love to do.

Last night, I slipped and, as you can tell from the beginning of this post, I took the blame off of myself and placed it firmly onto Aline’s shoulders. At the end of the day it was not her fault because that is not how we play the game. My job is to be there. All the time. Both physically and emotionally. Not only was I not, but I behaved much like the two-month-old that was causing me the grief to begin with. I gave up my post at the gates of AngryLand and I led us all right down Main Street. I was stupid and weak. So help me god, it ain’t gonna happen again.

-Matt

So I posted a contest when practically everyone I know was at Blogher. Then, after everyone got back, my server went down for 3 days and no one could enter, even if they wanted to. Perfectly executed, if I do say so myself. The good news is it’s still running and its easy to enter. Just drop a comment on this post by tomorrow, and you can win a $25.00 gift certificate to our baby store, RedSparks. You can also read the post if you like. It’s only the coolest thing I’ve ever done. No big whoop.

• • • • •

I’ve been, for the most part, solely responsible for handling my daughter’s morning routine since having our son. I can sort of remember what my wife’s face looks like, but it is admittedly fading as she spends most of her days trapped in our bedroom with a baby stuck to her chest. Sometimes I’ll slip a little note under the door or leave a plate of food outside on the floor, but the half-eaten scraps and crumbs on the plate the next morning serve as our only form interaction these days. One day, when he has grown out of his pattern of eating for 45 minutes every 30 minutes, she and I will reunite and hopefully pick up where we left off.

In the meantime, mornings with my daughter are mine. They usually consist of hanging out and watching cartoons, drinking milk, eating a snack, getting dressed, brushing hair, going pee-pee, brushing teeth, then heading to school. This particular morning was no different aside from the fact that I had decided to indulge in a fifth cup of coffee, and had been away from the TV room for a while. When I returned, my daughter was very excited and animated.

“Daddy! Daddy! You missed it! You missed it!” She belted at me, pointing at the TV.

“What’s that, sweetie?” I asked with a smile on my face, fully expecting her to tell me something about Crabby Patties or that she had figured out why Caillou wears that weird mandarin-collar shirt all the time.

“They’re called Bendaroos! I want them! I want them! Can I have them, Daddy? Pleeeeeease!?”

I was a bit taken aback. So far, at four-years-old, she had pretty much focused on the shows she was watching, and typically lost interest or wandered off during commercials. This one, it would seem, had caught her eye.

“Why do you need Bendaroos?” I pressed.

She stuck out her tiny little hand, and actually began ticking off the features and benefits on her fingers.

“There is no mess. No glue. And no stains,” she stated matter-of-factly. “And, you can use them over and over again!”

As I stared at her from the doorway, my mouth hanging open in disbelief, I arrived at a decision that my wife had been right about all along. She was watching too much TV. While I had been dealing with the new baby and my unrealistic desire for just a moment’s peace and quiet, especially in the mornings before work, they had taken my sweet little angel and corrupted her. They had turned her into a consumer. My mind instantly raced through all the other advertisements I had seen on her channels, which generally market to children and women, trying to imagine what else might be on her Chirstmas list this year. Did she want smooth, dry underarms that she wouldn’t be ashamed to flaunt while she danced the Pasodoble with a dashing Latino man in a bar? Did she want sugary, liquid fruit snacks dyed to every unnatural color of the spectrum and squished into EZ-Squeeze tubes? Did she think she was fat? Or, the worst, was I going to have to explain why a maxi-pad with wings might be better than a standard pad and how it would help her stay comfortable and confident where the other leading brands fall short?

Dear god help me.

I turned off the TV and decided it was time to get back to my roots. Back to the things I used to do with my parents when I was a kid. Simple stuff like sitting together and eating breakfast. Reading a book. Even playing outside a little bit in the sun. None of those things is really that difficult. It’s simply a case of the television serving as a crutch or a go-to activity for me. When I actually thought about it, I only had 13 channels on my childhood television, and around seven of them were apparently useless. I really didn’t watch that much and I am probably all the better for it.

So maybe she’ll get her Bendaroos because I’m a softie, but after that, the television goes off. She’s too young to be a demographic segment, and I’m not prepared to explain who Joe Camel is yet.

-Matt

There comes a point during the first several months following the birth of a new baby when every family hits the wall. In the beginning, joy surrounding the new arrival as well as an omnipresent abundance of adrenaline keep us happy and moving at ludicrous speed. Everyone is comfortable, patient and level-headed; one big happy family so to speak. Then, as lack of sleep and tension created by incessant crying and diaper-changing begins to accumulate, the wall grows from a tiny speck, barely visible on life’s horizon, to an ominous, looming monolith of aggravation and fatigue directly in front of you until, finally, you run full force into the solid stone surface, knocking yourself unconscious. I fear my wife and I may currently be just about one arm’s length from the wall.

Dominick has been in our lives for precisely seven weeks, and in that time things have been not only tolerable, but very pleasant. Frankie has gotten along with him swimmingly, he has been sleeping for acceptable lengths of time and, all in all, things have been pretty good. About a week-and-a-half ago, however, I began to notice some changes. First, I believe my daughter may have begun to realize that her new baby brother was not just visiting from some faraway land, and that he would actually be a permanent guest in her home. She has become more whiney while regressing to baby talk and mashing up her food with her hands, clearly envying the attention that the “baby” was getting and attempting to mimic the behavior that was responsible for it. My son, while still barely able to open his eyes, clearly somehow noticed this new development and decided that HE now was not receiving enough of our time, so he has begun to cry loudly virtually every waking moment he has had, which are many. In addition, the household dog, who I almost forgot we had for a couple of weeks, has felt the brunt of the neglect and has stopped eating in the mornings, which inevitably leads to throw ups in the afternoon. All of this has led to Aline and I basically teetering between the ability to hold it all together and tragically slamming ourselves into the wall at full speed in a brilliant and gory display of carnage and hysterics.

However, I do not like negativity. I don’t like reading it and I certainly do not enjoy feeling it. So I’ve attempted to make myself a little list of the reasons why this particular moment in our lives (which is actually quite short if I were to take a step back and look at my entire lifespan on a timeline), is not really a big deal. I plan to come back and re-read this post often, sometimes with my wife, whenever things get heavy. Little reminders, if you will, of the positives.

1. No matter what day it is, there’s always a weekend coming up.


2. During the evenings at the moment, when I sit in our back yard, its about 75 degrees and breezy. You can’t beat 75 and breezy under a full moon.


3. I have a really cool collection of power tools and my circular saw has a laser on it.


4. I still have a job.


5. Christmas is coming up in five months.


6. I’m not dead.


7. So You Think You Can Dance is on. I love So You Think You Can Dance.


8. I can’t be certain, but I think the McRib may be coming back soon.


9. I finally have a pair of sunglasses that look awesome on me.


10. In no time at all I will be looking back on this time and wishing it wasn’t over.

The benefit of having a second child is that, from experience, you know that no matter what the phase or the irritating habits your kid may be going through, they will pass. This knowledge is infinitely important in that it can keep you going through the tough times by allowing you to focus on the light at the end of the tunnel. Yes, Aline and I are on the brink of purchasing a couple of one-way tickets to Bellevue, but we will make it through, and we both know it. That, in and of itself, is enough.

-Matt
One thing that’s always helps me when dealing with a screaming baby is buying it clothes. Have you snooped around our online baby boutique, RedSparks