The Playpen

I complain about being a father a lot. Lets face it, it can be a real pain in the ass sometimes. I always find myself on this particular Sunday morning looking back on my life as a dad and marveling at, not only how quickly it is all going by, but all of the challenges I have faced along the way. I mean, I have lost night after night of sleep over a hole in a heart, I have baked exact replicas of the very darkest part of the human anatomy and, of course, I have eaten poo.

It ain’t that easy.

But I also have met a lot of other really cool dads along the way, and knowing them has helped me understand that, not only am I not alone in my strife, but that most of my issues are no greater or more unique than anyone else’s. That really helps. There’s the dad that helped me out in the very beginning and that I promise to get a post to this week and there’s the dad that snuck me into his secret club. There’s a West Coast drinking buddy dad and the dad that makes me feel guilty when I do drink because I should have been working out instead of ordering an extra shot. (I had no idea that guy was all ripped and whatnot!) All in all some pretty cool guys.

Then there are those little events that happened this morning, where I woke up to find Grandma and Frankie making me this cool monster card,

I got a really nice gift and a beautiful card from my wife who somehow found time to get to the mall while sleeping less than two hours a night and I got to eat Burger King Croissan’wiches for breakfast. At the end of the day, really, does it get any better?

The truth is that the ageda, exhaustion, trials and tribulation are what makes being a father so great. If it were easy, no one would appreciate it for what it means. I love it, and want to wish a sincere and heartfelt “Happy Father’s Day” to all those guys who go out there and make it happen for their families day in day out. We’ve come a long way since our fathers’ Father’s Days, and I’m proud to be a part of such a great group.

Rock on, dads.

-Matt


There aren’t any real Father’s day specials on our site, RedSparks, but we have a few things with skulls on them. Check them out!

My mom, who is staying with us for a couple of weeks to help us keep the house and ourselves from completely falling apart while adjusting to life with another Matt in the house, recently brought me this article from the LA Times. Its from the “Ask Amy” column and, in this particular instance, I don’t think Amy did a very good job of responding to “Concerned Party Pooper’s” comment. If I was my high school writing teacher, I would have scibbled “Take a STANCE!” in red pen by her reply. In any case, the gist of the article is that Concerned Party Pooper (CPP) is upset by how birthday parties at his childrens’ private school have become all about “shock and awe,” and force them to delve more deeply into their pocketbooks than they are comfortable with. I think that Amy missed an opportunity to hit on an issue which I can not only identify with, but find completely disturbing and frustrating, just like CPP.

The problem with parents who attempt to “show up” the other parents by hosting gigantic catered birthday galas for every kid their child has ever known is twofold. First, and most obvious, is CPP’s main gripe. Expense. My daughter has around 25 kids in her preschool class. Not only is it expected that each and every kid attend each and every birthday party, but it is expected that the parents will provide a gift to each child as well. There also exists an expectation about what said gift must be. A five-dollar whoopie cushion from the corner drugstore won’t cut it. These kids wear Prada. I believe that, in addition to wiping out my 401K so that I can outfit some child I barely know in the latest UGGs, this sends a very negative message to the child themselves. No one I have ever known gets 25 gifts, fancy gifts no less, on their birthday, not including what they receive from family. It teaches the child to expect royal treatment throughout their life in addition to spoiling them and making it almost impossible for the child to learn the value of their possessions. A kid that age simply can’t play with a toy or put together a puzzle with any focus at all when there are 24 other presents waiting to be unwrapped. The puzzle ends up lost or on the floor.

The second reason has to do with the parents’ motives and their commitment to the life experiences of the child. I may get in trouble for saying this, but I actually believe that these children enjoy these parties less than they would if the parents took a step back, forgot for a minute about how impressive their kid’s party could be and started thinking about how fun they should be. Half of what I see when I attend these parties is for the parents and not the kids. Sure, they get to run around and play and have a blast. Kids can have fun anywhere. But typically the events are thrown in some rented venue where there is supervision supplied by the people who work at the venue. The parents generally congregate around an elaborate spread of food designed to impress while they discuss the 100-dollar centerpieces in their Burberry scarves.

Color me old school, but I think it should be about fewer guests and more about what the child truly loves. Forget the mini-quiches and the grilled eggplant with mozzarella cheese and roasted pine nuts. Have pizza and hot dogs and spend some time having a birthday blast with your child. There was one particular party thrown by my mother that, some 30 years later, I remember like it was yesterday. She sent out invitations that she had made by hand. Little scrolls rolled up with the edges burned so they would look medieval. She stayed up all night rolling up newspaper and painting it silver to make an entire armory of swords and lances. She made knights helmets out of cardboard, each one complete with a feathered plume form the craft store and its own unique face plate design. We had ourselves a tournament. There were sword fights and hammer throws, Guineveres and Lancelots. She wrapped it all up with a good old fashioned Big Wheel jousting tournament and to the victor went the first slice of cake. It was absolute heaven and I am fairly certain that, while it cost her a lot in effort and sleep, it barely made a dent in her checkbook.

People will do what they do, and I really don’t have any right to judge them. But I what I can do is make sure my daughter understands the difference between excess and quality. I want to give her the gift of blissful nostalgia when she thinks back to her birthday parties, and there won’t be any Louis Vuitton in sight, I promise you.

I think now I know why dear old mom gave me that article, and I’m glad she did.

-Matt

Would it be totally lame if I now asked you to click over to our online baby store, RedSparks, and spend all your money?

You’re all bloggers. You get it. Do you ever have a post planned, down the the last, hilarious “zinger” ending, then something happens in your life that makes that post seem so foolish and irrelevant that there is no way in good conscious you can put it up? I’ll post the one I had planned later, when it is respectul to do so.

Everyone knows my son has been born, and that he is beautiful and amazing and perfect. The delivery was early and tough. I’m not going to lie to you, I found myself throughout the process thinking “Oh, man, we are NEVER doing this again…we just don’t do childbirth well. We have a hard time. We have bad luck.” It was an emotional process, to say the least.

Several years ago, after Frankie was born, I had a breakdown. Aline was at the hospital; it was late at night. I went out in to my backyard, worrying about my daughter’s survival. I leaned up against the back wall of my house, next to the bay window where no one would ever see me, even though there was no one there, and cried like I have never cried. There is something that guys do. They hold everything in and they don’t let anyone see that they’re hurting for fear of being viewed as weak or unsupportive. But they DO hurt. This particular time it just all came out. It needed to come out. I dried my eyes, took a deep breath, tried to make it look like I hadn’t just bawled my eyes out, and went back in to my empty house.

I thought I would make it past the breakdown this time. Dominick was born early, but not that early. He was 7lbs, 6oz, and was out of the NICU in less than 24 hours. This was EASY compared to Frankie. I was still freaked out, and worried about my wife’s health, but it didn’t seem like something worth crying over. I was A-OK and in control.

About a week after he was born, and had just come home with Aline, I was at the market. I had let the house go, and there was no food anywhere to speak of. A new mom and her family have to eat, so I was replenishing the pantry. I heard the text alert go off on my phone, and grinned as I pulled it out of my pocket, expecting to see another congratulatory message from friends or family on the birth of our son. As I stood in line at the checkstand, listeneing to the New Yorker checker making jokes, I read the following message.

“Diana passed away tonight. Please don’t text me or call me.”

Diana was the one-week-old daughter of a girl I know fairly well. I remembered initially feeling that this girl was far too young to have a child, and even admit questioning her decision to keep the baby when she knew there would be complications immediately following birth. But, throughout the pregnancy, I looked at the little ultrasound pictures she had all around, heard some of the things she told my wife and friends about her excitement and came to realize that this girl was ready to be a mother. She changed my mind, and I admired her strength and dedication to her unborn child. She proved me wrong.

I had the breakdown again. Right there in the market. I hid it until I got to the car, then it just flowed. So badly that when Aline saw my face when I walked in the door she panicked because she thought something terrible had happened to me or to the new baby. I just couldn’t stop it. It was less than manly for sure but, once and a while, I need to be less than manly.

Once again I have been reminded, this time through this girl’s terrible and tragic loss, how lucky I am. There are people out there going through things so unimaginable that they would probably kill to enjoy the experiences in my life I call diffucult. My life – my friends, my children and my family are beatiful and perfect…even with what I consider to be faults. I have absolutely no right to complain about anything, and will wake up tomorrow with a renewed appreciation for everything I have, the experiences I have been through and the incredible people around me.

Life is beauiful and terrible thing; the more I live it, the deeper my love/hate relationship with it becomes. There is one thing of which I have become certain. If you don’t take a few minutes every day to love every little bit of it, you are doomed to go through the tiny portion of it you have left missing every single gift it has given you.

Rest in peace, Diana.

-Matt

Because, against our better judgement, Aline and I actually kind of like this person and want to support her.

Because Aline and I (OK, just Aline) actually kind of love ice cream, especially when its that popular “free” flavor.

And because its an awesome excuse to post this cute picture of our daughter getting the only present she remembers on her fourth birthday.

Hop on over here, read the post and enter the giveaway. If you win, you’ll feel a lot better about gaining 10lbs knowing its for a good cause.

-Matt and Aline

An interesting development has been taking place with my daughter, and has caught me off guard a bit. She’s becoming cocky. While I am completely in the dark and totally baffled as to where she may have picked up this despicable behavior, I am determined to nip it in the bud. No one likes an arrogant kid. Except, of course, me.

In all seriousness, this is not something I had ever even considered when my wife gave birth to my daughter, and I am not completely sure how to deal with it. I am certain that it manifested itself with our desire to implant as much self-confidence as possible into her from a very young age. Say what you will about us as parents, but we have never knocked her down for anything she has attempted, and have always encouraged and praised the heck out of any behavior or ability from her that we considered to be positive. Examples? She belts out her favorite Clique Girlz (say a word, and I will flog you) song in the back seat of the car and we make her feel like she’s the next Lena Horne. She draws cool stuff like this and a second later you can bet she will consider herself to be right up there with Shepard Fairey. You know, that kind of thing. Great parenting, right?

Lately, though, she has begun to believe it a bit too much. As we were roaming leisurely through the supermarket the other day, an elderly lady looked at her and kindly stated “My lord, what an adorable little girl,” to which my daughter flatly replied “I know.” After I mentioned to her that I liked how she was adding vibrato and runs to her songs (enter: proud daddy) she waved me off with a casual “Yeah, I’m a really good singer.” Then, the icing on the cake, she came into the kitchen unprompted and exclaimed “Daddy, I am very beautiful. I am a princess!”

Uh Oh.

So what to do? I can honestly say I do not know how to teach modesty to a four-year-old. I certainly do not want to respond, particularly to her last statement, with “No way, you’re not!” or some such terrible thing. But I also am not certain she will grasp the overall concept of modesty and why it is important. For the time being I settled on “Heh heh. Ummmmm…..*cough*….Tory Holt left the Rams, that’s the last of the original super bowl team, can you believe it? Let’s have Spaghettios!” But I know I can’t keep avoiding the situation forever.

Quite a pickle, I must say,

-Matt

Guess who won the little BookSwim giveaway. Jessie Leigh from Parenting The Tiniest Of Miracles. She’s a fellow preemie parent, so I’m super happy to give the prize to her. Congratulations!

I take everything I read for surface value, and never look for deeper meaning in anything, unless it’s a good book. I was raised on reading, and I have my devoted parents to thank for that. They religiously made sure we had story time each and every night and, now that I am entrenched in the throws of adulthood, I find myself to be considered at best somewhat well-read, at least compared to some of my peers.

This is why I’ve decided to do a product review and giveaway here on The Playpen. I haven’t done a lot of reviews or giveaways, usually because I’m not totally behind the products, but this one was a standout and I think what they offer is significant and important.

The people at BookSwim have come up with a pretty cool idea. Essentially, its an online book rental service that allows you to browse through numerous titles of books in multiple categories and place them into your personal “rental pool”. Books are shipped directly to the home address you specify, up to as many as 11 at a time, depending on the level of plan you purchase (I am currently subscribed to the ‘light reader” plan, or three books at a time, for about twenty bucks a month). When you’re done reading, you drop the books into the provided postage-paid envelope (they always let you keep at least one), drop it in the mailbox and its gone, only to be replaced by the next books in your pool in a few days. Think Netflix for the written word.

BookSwim’s angle is that you can save a lot of money over time by renting books rather than buying them. This is true, but I find there to be a greater value as well. Time and variety. If you are like me, you read a book to your kid about 25,000 times over the course of a few days, then never, ever, ever again. BookSwim’s service lets me keep a steady flow of books coming to the house (saving me the trip to the library, which I have yet to make in almost four years of parenting) while keeping my daughter entertained and well-read.

Cap it all off with user reviews, which are helpful, and a fairly easy-to-navigate site, I would recommend this service to anyone who places value on their children reading books over watching television, at least whenever possible.

Now that I’m done blowing smoke, the giveaway. I’ll keep it easy. Drop a comment on this post by next week, say, end-of-day Wednesday, April 29, and one winner chosen at random will receive three free months on the BookSwim Light Reader plan.

Its just that easy.

Oh, and I should point out that they carry all types of books, not just children’s. Even textbooks. So, admittedly, while I’d like somebody with a little kid to win this, I guess I’ll let it go even if you want to use it for yourself. Finally, and just because I’m feeling patriotic today, I’m going to have to limit the entries to within the continental U.S. only.

Good luck,

Matt

Big savings on cool spring and summer kids clothes at our online baby boutique, RedSparks. Check it out.

Although admittedly a bit late to the party, we actually picked up a Wii a month or so ago. I had given up my Playstation and my Xbox when I finally realized that having a child made it a little difficult to sit uninterrupted for four or five hours trying to solve Ninja Gaiden, so a Wii seemed like a good choice for the entire family. So far it’s worked out pretty well. My daughter has created her own Mii, a hulking East German woman named Giddy who wears a permanent diabolical frown and too much blue eye shadow, and she uses her quite effectively to crush me in tennis and golf.

But having a Wii in our household has brought two interesting observations to my attention. The first is that the warning screen that the Wii displays upon startup that states “Make sure objects and other people are out of your range of movement or arm motion to prevent damage or injury” should not be laughed at after all, as a half-empty beer rocketed into the wall during a heated game of bowling only five short inches short of the TV screen will leave a dent in the drywall.

The second is how comfortable my daughter is with all things computerized and electronic. As I watched her navigate through windows, X out of menus, select, deselect, and so on, I was suddenly slapped in the face by a harsh reality. I am no longer the “young generation.” Until very recently, I have always thought of myself as a member of the technologically-advanced elite, and laughed uncontrollably at the thought of how primitively my parents were forced to live. I mean, their cars had cranks on them. Then, however, as I watched my daughter interactively purchase 10,000 Wii Points and began to download a new massively-multiplayer online role playing game, I began to think about what she would think of my own generation. I started running down a list of things I take for granted of which she would have no working knowledge:

Manual car windows
LP’s, 45’s, 8-tracks, cassettes and, probably CD’s
Pong
Optional seat belts
Smoking being cool
Coiled and tangled avacado-colored telephone cords
Dot-matrix
Rooftop TV antennas
35mm slides

The list just grew and grew in my head until I finally had to stop thinking about it all together. My generation, so smart and oh so avant garde, has been replaced. We are old-fashioned and out-of-date. Our day in the sun has passed. There will come a day when, in passing my daughter talking to friends on the telephone, I will overhear:

“No, dude. They only had THIRTEEN channels. Oh my god I know, right? What? NO dude, a KNOB! Yeah, hahah! Totally. Mmmhmm. By hand. All the way across the room. Soooooooooo lame.”

I cried softly.

Later that evening, after I had put her down to bed, I trudged to the TV room, head hung low in defeat, and did the only thing I knew to do. I put on an episode of The Golden Girls and had a laugh with Rose, Blanche and the gang, subscribed to the AARP newsletter and went to bed at 8:30.

-Matt
At least I’m young enough to know how to create a link to our online baby boutique, RedSparks. Click it, why don’t ya.

My daughter started her Spring Break this morning. Apparently schools have not adjusted to the fact that the majority of families that send their children to them consist of two working parents since I was a kid, and she gets two full weeks off. This means a longer drive each morning to drop her off at the in-laws for the day.

On this particular morning we were driving past an industrial area on the Golden State Freeway, and a smokestack that was billowing thick plumes of dark vapor into the air caught her attention. She panicked.

“Daddy! Daddy! Somebody’s house has fire! Somebody’s house has fire!” I could hear that she was actually very worried that someone was losing their home, and thought quickly.

“No, sweetie, that’s a factory. That smoke is coming from whatever they’re making inside.”

“A fac-tree?” she asked, a little calmer now. I paused, thought for a second, then went on.

“Remember The Lorax?” Remember how the Onecler comes along and starts making all of those thneeds? Its like that. Maybe the Onceler has a new factory over there.”

Now it was her turn to think. After a moment, she asked quietly “Is that Onceler in there burning all the Truffula trees?” to which I replied “If he puts up enough of those factories, he might…just like in the book.”

She was silent for at least five minutes, and I immediately felt a bit concerned that I had frightened her. Right as I was going to say something, she stated matter-of-factly,

“Don’t worry, daddy. That only happens in books.”

Anyone who knows me knows that in my quest to instill an unrealistic amount of knowledge into my daughter’s brain at a way-too-young age knows that I immediately began preparing a mental diatribe about the effects of global warming, the polar ice cap and how her generation would be responsible for saving the world, if it wasn’t already too late, and that is why we don’t throw our lollipop wrappers out of the window.

Then I thought about tiny little Maddie, who was taken so, so unfairly from this earth a couple of days ago, perhaps even before she had the chance to know who The Lorax even was, and I thought about what it really meant to be a father and, more importantly to be a child. I thought about Maddie’s innocence. She had done nothing, was not even capable of doing anything yet to deserve the injustice of her passing, and I cursed myself for being in such a hurry to rush my daughter into adulthood. Maddie led a beautiful existence; although I do not know her or her family personally, the love that they had for one another is clearly evident in their photos.

For a second, I hated myself for not simply letting my daughter just be a kid, and scorned myself for all the scolding, correcting, frustration and anger I have ever had towards her in her four years on this planet. In feeling these things; in not simply sitting back and joyously recording each and every moment I have with her, even the awful ones, I have been disrespecting Maddie and her parents, Heather and Mike, and I am sorry for that.

With a little lump in my throat, I let go and simply replied “That’s right, sweetie. It only happens in books.”

She put her head on her car seat and went right to sleep.

-Matt

The March of Dimes is an organization that is near and dear to both Aline and myself. We encourage anyone interested to make a donation in her name.

I have no business writing about this topic whatsoever, as I am not yet in possession of my second child. I’m going to go ahead and write about it anyway because I am a know-it-all and because it seems like a pretty good headline from an SEO point of view. Kidding. No I’m not.

I made a lot of mistakes during Aline’s first pregnancy with my daughter. First and foremost was not being completely engaged or having a full understanding of what she was going through. While this was in part due to typical male Peter Pan-esque characteristics, I also believe that it was because I had not planned or prepared myself in the least. Typically, most of the focus is on the woman. I am, of course, not going to attempt to compare the male and female roles or discomforts during pregnancy, I’m neither that stupid nor suicidal. What I would like to address, however, is the importance of taking the steps necessary while things are still relatively calm to prepare yourself to be a better husband and father once the second one arrives.

1. Take a look at your man-chore list (also sometimes referred to as a honeydo list) and do it. With a new baby in the house, that stuff will never get done so, unless you’re comfortable having a large hole in the roof where possums and raccoons can enter and exit at will, pausing only long enough to poop in the ski gear cabinet of the garage for the next year or so, better dust of the DeWalt Heavy-Duty 1/2″ VSR Drill with Anti-Lock Control and get that stuff fixed now.

2. Make sure you are in a good spot mentally. If you are stressed out beyond belief, drinking a fifth of Seagrams 7 with grape Gatorade every night and losing hair down the bathtub drain in large, gray tufts before the baby comes, you are going to be a real Nicky Santoro with only an hour of sleep per week. My wife agreed to let me take a little weekend trip alone a while back, and it worked wonders. Do what you have to do now to get your patience back.

3. Have a clear understanding of where the new baby is going to be spending most of his time and have it ready. The worst thing that can happen to a man is to walk into the house with his wife and fresh new baby and hear his wife exclaim angrily “The nursery isn’t painted? What are your free weights still doing there? Is that a slice of ham on the floor? You told me you were going to take that Paulina Porizkova poster down, and where is his crib?!” As we all know, with a new arrival to the family comes chaos. Make sure you have your rubber duckies in a row early.

4. Get in shape. This is the hardest one of all to carry out. Because your wife is lying on the couch most of the time bloated, sore, asleep and disoriented, it can be tempting to dart out for Taco Bell or a quick 10-piece. Face it, there’s no way she will ever have the speed, strength or agility to stop you. Hell, she will probably even shout “Be sure to get me a couple of Meximelts, too!” as you walk out the front door. Try to resist the urge. Babies take a lot out of you, and if you are lugging around enough extra bodyfat to make your own Buffalo Bill skin suit, you’re just going to feel that much more fatigued and aggravated during the day and won’t be much help at all. Shoot for dropping 10 pounds. Most of us can afford to lose it, and with an average male metabolism it’s pretty easily attainable with a little focus.

Most guys, myself included, feel a little bit useless and aimless during their spouse’s pregnancy, especially during the last trimester. Typical male instinct requires us to take action and, if you are like me, having your role be to simply wait around should your partner need your help or something fetched from the fridge once in a while, while necessary, is far too passive. Carrying out one or all of the items on this list not only allows us guys to feel like we are self-starting and taking responsibility for a part of the preparation, it shows our significant other that we are taking an interest. And, if you work the angles just right, you can probably get yourself some new power tools out of the deal.

-Matt
To early to shop for your kid’s summer bathing suit? Not a chance. Check out our new Melissa Odabash swimsuits at RedSparks. Catherine Zeta Jones wears ‘em, so you know they’re classy.

First, business. In what was clearly a short spell of misguided delirium, Vegas Dad hooked me up with this award recently.

The award acknowledges a blogger’s effort to transmit cultural, literal, ethical and personal values every day. Truth be told, I am lucky if I transmit the flu to coworkers once in a while, let alone those lofty values. Either way, I’d like to say thanks, Jason. The nod is greatly appreciated. The rules state that I must now award it to 15 bloggers that I feel are equally (probably even more so) deserving of it. I don’t think I even know 15 bloggers, so I’ll do what I can. If some of you already have it, just accept it again already.

.
Ca-Joh

deguia.net

Nuclear Family Warhead

Whiskey In My Sippy Cup

Maggie’s Mind

TherExtras

Parenting The Tiniest Of Miracles

My good friends KC and Hilda

And last but not least, Jeremy at Discovering Dad, who is probably considering changing my title on his site from “contributing writer” to “non-contributing flake.”

Now on to something else worth considering.

I tend to brag about my daughter a lot. Lets be honest, most of us do, right? I am constantly talking about how smart she is, and calling my sister excitedly on the phone to let her know that, at the ripe old age of three, she has begun singing with vibrato in her voice. So cool. I also get caught up in hyper-parenting from time to time, over correcting my daughter and pushing her to do things “the right way.” Of course, I do these things because she IS highly intelligent and I am very proud of that. I want her to succeed and I want to develop that gift in her as much as possible. I’m sure that other parents do this from time to time with their own children’s gifts, the bleachers at a little league baseball game are clear proof of that.

This week, however, I heard a story that was absolutely heartbreaking. A woman, 38 weeks pregnant, lost her child in a bizarre turn of events. I do not wish to link to this particular woman’s site, it is up to her and her alone whether or not she wants this brought up publicly, not me. What struck me the most was reading through her posts before she lost her child. You could hear the excitement and anticipation in her posts, she was clearly on cloud nine awaiting the birth of her child. Then the rug was pulled out from underneath her. I found myself feeling slightly ashamed for how I have been behaving. Has it been that long since I held my tiny little daughter in a state of sheer panic, attempting to stimulate her after feeding so she would breathe and bring the color back to her face? Has it been that long since I watched my wife’s blood pressure skyrocket to near seizure levels in the delivery room and felt my heart leap into my throat at the thought that I might actually really lose her? No, it has not.

This woman’s whole life was turned upside down. I do not know her, but I imagine she is not I a very good place right now, and I wish her all the strength, courage and support she requires to weather this storm. But I also owe her. We all owe her. We owe her the decency to back off from bragging, pushing, competing and gloating. We owe her a step back, to look at our own children, shortcomings, annoying habits and dirty diapers aside, and simply love them for who they are, and for being here. It is not important if my daughter draws a sun with the right colored crayon or puts all of her things back where they belong each and every time. What’s important is that she made it, that she’s here and that I love her.

-Matt