The Playpen

Ten years ago, on this very night, I sat (high on slightly more than life) huddled with a small group of friends in a tiny cave lit by candlelight on the edge of a desert about 50 miles north of Los Angeles.

As my friend tuned in the boom box to the countdown which, at those particular coordinates could only be found in Spanish, I stepped out of the cave and clambered up to the top of a large mound of boulders to gaze at the city lights far, far away. My body was warmed by alcohol and God knows what else, and as I looked at the tiny luminescent grid in the distance my thoughts were consumed with only one thing; myself. As the frigid desert air whipped through my fleece I said under my breath “I’ve beaten you, Los Angeles. You lose.”

This morning I woke up and had a family. I had a beautiful and intelligent daughter and a handsome and alert son. I had a supportive, attractive, brilliant wife, trying her best to hide her fear. I had a mortgage and I had a tuition. I had a real life. And I had knowledge. I had grown a bit and, as I looked back on that New Year’s Eve, I could not help but scoff at my previous, arrogant self.

In the ten years that passed between conquering a city containing 3.5 million people with individual lives and the moment the sun kissed the roof this morning, releasing steam into the dawn, I learned. I learned that I most certainly conquered nothing, and that my purpose had been all wrong. In that ten years I had built an empire, which crumbled. I rebuilt it, only to see it crumble again. I had the rug yanked out from under my feet, and detested life for treating me so poorly.

Somewhere along that oh-so-short timeline that is a decade, I came to an awareness. One that I will use to shed light on every decision I make for the rest of my existence. I realized that, in life, there is no rug. The things that we perceive as stability, security, success and power are all just temporary facades over which we have absolutely no control. We can nudge them and, if we are lucky, maybe even influence them from time to time. But at the end of the day, our lives are in someone else’s hands; a disucssion for another day. I realized that, no matter how hard I tried, how hard I fought, there really was only one true constant in this great big mess called life. Only one thing that I could depend on. Only one thing that made me human. People.

Throughout all the ups, throughout all the downs, there have been people in my life; in all of our lives. People that reach out, that pick us up, that show us love and that extend a needed hand without consequence. There have been people that have made us laugh, inspired us, caused us pain, and awakened us. There have been people that have loved us. I can say without a doubt, on the dawn of a new decade, that people, and the relationships we have with them, are the meaning of life.

Every man, woman and child deserves our respect, admiration and compassion. None of us is any greater, or lesser, than the other. I swore when I started writing online that I would never write a “New Year’s Resolution” post, but I’m doing it now, and would like to suggest that anyone reading this try, at leat a little, to do the same.

This year I am committed to only one thing; to being a good human being. Losing weight, quitting smoking, spending less money; these are all selfish goals that can be carried out on the side. I am committed to helping those who need it. To offering assistance to those less fortunate, to humbly privding a shoulder to those in pain and to those who can benefit from a few small words of encouragement. I have realized that my, our, purpose in life is to support and nurture the human spirit, to put one’s problems and concerns aside and ask oneself “What can I do for you?” This, I believe, is the path to remembrance. Complete selflessness is a mark that nothing else can leave on the face of life, and I intend to do it.

When life gives you lemons, share them with others.

Happy New Year to you all. May peace, love and happiness be yours in the upcoming year.

Sincerely,
Matt, Aline, Frankie and Dominick.
RedSparks

“What time are they coming?” I asked my wife hurriedly, after tossing back what was left of my whiskey and sliding the empty glass across the kitchen counter.

“4:30,” she replied frantically, not raising her head from the bowl of cookie dough she was stirring while setting the oven timer with her other hand, “And I still have to get dressed and do my hair. You better get going, there’s no way we are going to make it.”

I cursed and looked at my watch. 3:25. How the day had slipped away from us I had no idea, but this was a pattern we seemed doomed to repeat every year on Christmas Eve, and I was not sure if we bit off more than we could chew or were simply bad planners. It didn’t matter. We were hosting eight guests, many of them already in their cars and heading merrily towards our house, fully expecting to walk in and smell the aromas of mulling spices, a crackling fire and a full Christmas dinner. The only aroma we had managed to stir up at that moment was a quick whiff of gas as the stove lit to begin preparation on the first course. I cursed again as I pulled on my coat and stepped out into the cold to begin a journey that had become, over the years, the most dreaded task I had ever been forced to carry out; an angry, deflating and demoralizing trip to a place that I very much imagine to closely resemble the End Of Days.

I was going to Honeybaked Ham.

I can’t speak for the rest of the country, but there are a lot of people here. All on the same schedules, all with the same needs. And on this particular day, Christmas Eve, all of them wanting, no needing, their beautiful, crusty, brown-sugary and savory Honeybaked Ham. I had been each year before this one, and the experience was always the same. As I would round the corner my heart would sink as my eyes were met with the sight of an almost-infinate, winding serpent of people stretching for blocks, all waiting in frustration to get their hands on that perfect piece of gold-foil-wrapped pork. It was ludicrous, and the experience always put me and my wife into a bad mood. Me for having to endure the indefinite wait for meat, my wife for having to greet all of our guests with her hair not done because I was not yet home to relieve her. There had to be a better way.

As my car sped down the freeway on my way to Burbank, I decided to call ahead and ask for an approximate wait time. Perhaps knowing what I was in for before I saw the line would lessen the blow when I actually saw it. As I fished my phone out of my pocket my wallet fell out onto the floor. I glanced down to pick it up, noticed the corner of a twenty-dollar-bill sticking out and stopped.

I had an idea.

With the Jack Daniels still warming my blood I dialed the number, held the phone to my ear and waitied.

“Honeybaked Ham, this is Trudy,” said a raspy female voice on the other end, one that I could only assume belonged to a sixty something, three-pack-a-day smoker who’s face had seen too many years of hard living. I paused for a mintue, faltering as a result of the unexpected harshness of the individual who had answered, then pressed on.

“How long is the wait?” I murmered in a low voice, applying a faint British accent to my tone. I am still not sure why I felt the need to wear a vocal disguise, it just happened.

“I don’t know,” Trudy snapped. “Just as long as it is every year. I don’t have time to go count 500 people. Anything else?”

“Wait!” I said, still British. I took a deep breath. “Want to make twenty dollars?”

I held my breath as I drove in silence for what seemed like ages.

“I’m listening,” came the eventual reply, this time a bit softer and lower.

“I’m really late, and my wife will kill me if I wait in that line and show up for dinner during the third course with the third course. I just can’t wait. I’ll pay for my ham, but the twenty dollars is yours, Trudy. All yours.”

Silence. More silence. Then finally:

“Come straight to the little room at the back behind the drink machines. Talk to anyone and the deal is off.”

Click.

My adrenaline pumped as I pulled into the parking lot where there were actually employees directing traffic. I got out, pulled my hat down low over my eyes, thrust my fists deep into the pockets of my overcoat and began walking briskly towards the front door past the line of impatient and fidgety people, my head down. I grabbed the door handle and bumped into a portly, red-faced man as I squeezed through.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He bellowed. “The line is back there!”

“Just have to take care of a thing real quick,” I said quickly. British again.

I saw the door immedately over the sea of Honeybaked patrons exactly where she said it would be. It was cracked slightly, and I could see that it was dark inside with the exception of a single bare bulb, haloed by a cloud of cigarette smoke. I made my way to the door, the eyes of countless ham-buyers burning into the back of my neck as I clutched a tightly rolled wad of bills in my pocket. They gave me comfort.

I opened the door with a sqeuak and closed it behind me. The silence, immediately following the din of the wating room, was deafening. I waited for a moment, not able to make anything out in the darkness, before I saw the faint orange glow of a cigarette in the corner, followed by a scratchy exhale and a fresh cloud of smoke.

“Put it on the table.” The voice was Trudy’s.

I took a few tentative steps towards the voice and opened my trembling hand, dropping the wad of cash onto the tiny card table. After a few seconds I heard a shuffling sound, followed by a large foil-wrapped object sliding towards me. The ham came to rest a few inches from the edge. I stared at it, then back at the blackness where the cigarette had been.

“Thank you, Trudy. Trudy?”

There was no reply. Trudy was gone.

With that I snatched up my ham, tucked it under my arm and bolted for the door. I heard customers began to shout and clamor as they realized I had a ham under my arm, but kept running as fast as I could.

“Stop that guy!” someone shouted, and a few people stuck out their arms from the line as I whizzed by them, however they were too afraid of losing their place to stray too far from where they stood, and I avoided them. I dove into my car, their protests fading behind me, turned the key in the ignition and stood on the gas pedal, tires squealing as I rocketed out of the parking lot and onto the dark city streets. With my heart pounding in my chest, I looked at my watch and smiled. I was going to make it home in plenty of time, and I had my ham.

I have seen, or rather not seen, Trudy every year since then. Same place, same transaction. Each Christmas Eve when I call I experience a brief feeling of anxiety, bracing myself for the news that she has moved on to other things. But she is always there, in that dark room, with my ham. Waiting.

There are some Christmas traditions that must never be forgotten.

-Matt

Another Christmas Tradition should be buying something at our online store, RedSparks. Don’t you agree?

I have a thing about heroes. We all want to be something we’re not, at least I think we all do. That thing may manifest itself in a road not taken somewhere years ago that now lingers in the depths of one’s memory as a faint, but persistent “What If”. For others, it may take the form of a fantastic escape from the reality of The Real, such as a glamourous red-carpet hollywood starlet or a lottery winner. For me, it’s a hero.

It’s funny how my definition a hero keeps changing. When I was a wee lad, my hero was Tommy Herr, second baseman for the St Louis Cardinals. He wasn’t a particularly memorable player, but he played the same position I did for the best baseball team in the world, and that was enough. Then, as I grew a little older, it was Wonder Woman. Actually, now that I think about it, puberty and the gold-winged red corset might have had a bit more to do with my interest in Lynda Carter than her actual heroism. Either way. After that, it was basically every lead guitarist in every eighties metal band that rocked. George Lynch, Nuno Bettencourt and Eddie Van Halen, to put a finer point on it.

Now I am a grown man. With children and a wife and a mortgage. The wistful daydreams of screaming solos, cheering crowds, wild backstage parties and chugging Jack Daniels out of the bottle have faded, and I am faced with the actuality of what a hero truly is. I struggle with it on a daily basis.

Losing my job has been less than awesome. Luckily, my neighbor runs a pretty succesful construction business and I have been helping him out, which has allowed us to stay afloat for longer than we would be able to had he not been around. This is fortunate for two reasons. The first, and most obvious, is income. The second, however, I did not expect to discover on the very first day I dropped my daughter off at school and drove to a job site in Beverly Hills; an introduction to humility.

Not even a month ago I would come home after an eight hour day and complain to my wife about how tired I was from having sat in my office all day staring at a computer screen and attending very important, earth-moving meetings. I would note how my eyes burned and my back hurt, and would self-righteously plop myself down on the couch with a loud, ever-so-exhausted sigh. Boy, was I beat.

Then I started helping my neighbor, and I was reminded, once again, of why my much sought after hero status continues to elude me. These men work. Hard. It is not rare to see their trucks absent from the driveway at 5:30 am, only to return briefly at dinner time, then disappear again into the night, not returning until well after I am in bed. They demolish, lift, saw, strain, hammer and sweat all day long, seven days a week. They do not complain, they do not rub their eyes, they do not stretch their weary muscles and they, most definitely, do not sigh. They do whatever it takes, whatever is needed, to provide the best possible lives for their families each and every day. That, in and of itself, is heroic. But it goes much farther than that, and I never would have realized this fact had I not been given the opportunity to work with them. It is this additional phenomenon, I believe, that has finally provided me with the correct definition of the word “hero.”

I find it difficult to explain. I believe the best way I can decribe it is “mindset”. It is how, when they are worn to the bone, aching and exhausted, they approach others and their loved ones. Somehow, through it all, they manage to be loving and supportive husbands, fathers and friends. Any time I find myself in a patch of adversity in my life, I work to get things “back on track,” and in doing so become frustated, angry and selfish. I feel as if I am owed something better and, when things do not go exactly my way, develop a large chip on not one, but both shoulders. These men are different because they have learned that, in life, there actually is no “track”. It’s just life, and they do not waste a second of it. They work harder than anyone I have ever known, yet still come home to their friends and families with a smile on their face and a bounce in their step. They do not lash out, become frustrated or mistreat anyone, and there is no doubt in my mind that if I asked my neighbor at 10:00 PM on a Sunday night (practically the only time he has to see his children) to patch the hole I put in my wall in an attempt to put up surround speakers myself, he would be over in less than five minutes to help. Smiling.

A true hero is one who puts his entire self aside for the benefit of others, whatever the cost. A person who works impossible hours at backbreaking job in order to proide for his family is a hero. A person who forgets about his own situation and provides support, patience without strings and a shoulder to a close friend during trying times is a hero. A person who, no matter how dire the situation or how bleak the outlook, can not only say, but prove to his family that everything will be just fine is a hero.

I am not a hero. I am, however, fortunate enough to recognize that this time in my life may not actually be a terrible time at all, but rather an opportunity to learn from those who are. I am almost certain that I have been somehow guided to this very point, and would be a fool to consider it anything but a blessing. And, if I work hard enough at it, maybe, just maybe, one day someone will write something like this about me.

-Matt

As many might already be aware, I lost my job a few weeks ago. Even though I had a strong suspicion it was coming, it was a shock for the whole family, and things have been a little tense. Fortunately, friends and family have come out of the woodwork to help me out with some graphic design and consulting projects, and that fact should help to get us through the holidays until people begin hiring again. In addition, I have been helping out another friend of mine in a field most marketers don’t typically find themselves in, construction. Granted, most of my days are filled with a lot of waiting around, running errands, filling out pricing spreadsheets, shopping for materials and a lot of people yelling “Get away from there!” and “Don’t touch that!”, but the experience has, suprisingly, been fairly enjoyable. I have color on my normally pale face from time in the sun, and have noticed an incredible change in my body composition.

I felt a swell of pride as my wife ran her hands over my bulging, shaved pectorals the other day day and said “Build me something, baby.” Who knows? Maybe I’ll keep doing it.

Apart from that, the only noteworthy news is that we finally took my daughter to an appointment that we have been guiltily putting off for some time. Her four-year vaccinations. Having watched shots administered to our six-month-old son recently, I can say without a doubt that taking a four-year-old is a considerably different experience. They know. And they remember. They are little people who experience pain the same way we do and, as we dragged her into the doctor’s office, our hearts were aching. She was to get four shots. How in the world were we going to get through it? After the first, I suspected, there would be no way she would let them do it again, let alone another three times, and my mind was filled with visions of her tiny body strapped to an operating table bound in leather restraints, screaming madly.

But she amazed me. Not only did she not cry, but she watched; each and every one. She stared, unflinching, as the needle pricked her skin not once, not twice, but four times. After the third, she looked up at me, unblinking and stated “Daddy? I don’t think it’s that bad.” I couldn’t believe it. She was an absolute trooper, it almost frightened me. But I was prouder than could be and my wife’s eyes welled up with tears as we congratulated her and headed off to the market to buy candy canes and ice cream.

Seeing her get through that experience, possibly one of the most traumatic things a four-year-old can edure, without so much as a flinch got me thinking. My daughter is strong, stronger than I even knew myself. She must have gotten that from somewhere, right? I’m thinking her parents. She’s watching us, every day, and learning from how we handle tough situations. At that very moment I vowed not to undo what we had instilled in her. We’re not backing down in the face of adversity, we’re rising up. We will get through this, and we will pervail on the other end. I’m too proud of her to be scared.

-Matt

Now’s as good a time as any to pick up something for your kid for the holidays at our online baby boutique, RedSparks. Know what I’m sayin?

Hmmmm…..what to post today. Let me think about it. Hang on a minute….no, never mind. Wait! I think I just had an idea….

You read it right. Half off everything in our online baby store, RedSparks, today only. And we’re online, so you don’t have to camp overnight, get in fistfights or shove belligerent moms out of the aisle and into the toilet paper display at Wal-Mart. Score.

-Matt

“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

The economy is hitting us pretty hard. Let’s face it, it’s hitting everyone pretty hard. Cost of living in Los Angeles has seen a very dramatic increase over the last three years and wages have either remained stagnant, decreased, or people have lost their jobs altogether. All of this, coupled with the weight of being completely responsible for the lives to two children has been causing me a great deal of stress lately. As a friend so aptly put it the other day, “I’m doing everything I can to succeed, but I still feel like I am just waiting for things to turn around,” and I couldn’t have agreed with him more.

Because I have an amazing wife, the second Aline returned home from her girls outing a while ago, she began pushing me to get out with a friend of mine next. Granted, that may be in part because she was anxious to go out again, but it didn’t matter because she was sweet, supportive and patient and insisted that I have a good time, and I thank her for that. I took her up on her offer and, yesterday, enjoyed a round of golf with one of my best buddies of 32 years.

I don’t have any particularly funny stories to tell, or any deep, emotional discoveries to talk about. What I can say is that I learned, after I returned home, how much I needed a day like that. The weather was absolutely beautiful; it was one of those days where I actually admit to myself that there are things I still love about Los Angeles. There was cold beer, a lot of laughing, cigars and conversation. And it was the conversation, I think, that I found to be the most refreshing. For some reason I expected our entire round to be dominated with talk of the economy, poor investments, rising costs of living, loss of bonuses and the like; I believe my buddy’s financial situation to be very similar to my own. Surprisingly, aside from some light small talk, it barely even came up. It’s almost as if, sometime after I dunked my first ball into the lake on the fairway of the third hole and we had a good laugh, we both realized that this wasn’t about those things. It was about escaping them. And it worked.

The entire day we just joked, relaxed, hacked away and let the sun shine lazily down on us as the breeze blew the smell of fresh cut grass under our noses. It was more therapeutic than I ever imagined it would be; god’s prescription for what ailed us both, I suppose.

My friend and I used to be pretty damn good golfers, believe it or not, back in the days before children and mortgages. Back when we had the time to spend hours and hours on a course, honing our skills. Yesterday, though, we hit balls into lakes, off trees, into sand traps and cart paths, over fences and even into other golfers. But you know what? I think it was the best game of golf I have ever played.

-Matt

We have some cool baby golf-inspired clothes at our online boutique, RedSparks. Play through and check it out!

Sometimes I worry about my kids. Not for all the usual reasons that one might think, but simply that growing up in the post-digital revolution has its disadvantages, and is not all good. Most reading this are in the same unique position that I am. We have the advantage of knowing, embracing and using all the current technologies available today (let’s face it, we’ve all joked about how complicated our kids’ video games are today, but if we really wanted to we could sit down, take a pull from the honey bear and completely kick ass in Halo in no time if we wanted to), but we also have the benefit of remembering what things were like before the internet exploded. We remember rotary telephones, carbon paper, Brother typewriters and the U.S. Postal Service. And there are advantages to that. Take email for example. I have noticed that people in a corporate environment have begun to use email as a tool for avoidance, and are slowly forgetting the art of confrontation. Too many times I have received a scathing email from an individual in my office, with the entire legislative branch of the United States Government c.c.’d for maximum damage, only to confront that person face to face and find that they cannot even look me in the eye, and often back pedal out of their stance in a display of cubicle cowardice. Technology can take away bits and pieces of our humanity, and this worries me.

That’s why I have decided that my children, come rain or come shine, will not only know what the following 10 items are, but will love them. I do not care if their friends laugh and poke fun at them, or call me a fossil. Knowledge is power, and that works with the past as well as the present and future. Here we go:

Matt’s Kids’ Retro-10 Checklist

1. Chemistry Set. I haven’t seen a (real) chemistry set on a mainstream toy store shelf in over two decades. Probably because legal weasels got ahold of the companies that made them, waited for some kid to singe his hand on a Bunsen burner trying to see what burned sulfer smelled like, and sued them out of business. Stupid. I learned so much from my chemistry set that, even with the occasional “incident,” I still utilize a lot of that knowledge today.

2. Kick the Can. Pop quiz: How many hours a day did I sit in front of the TV and play Xbox when I was eight? Answer: None. Instead we played active, social childrens’ games like hide and seek and kick the can. Not only were they a blast, but we made new friends playing them and ran all….day….long. And, unlike Atari 2600, these games are still fun when you play them now.

3. Chess. OK. Granted, this is not so much a retro throwback and is still very much alive today, but I’d bet there are less kids playing it, even knowing how to play it now then when I was a kid. And in addition to sharpening a child’s ability to think strategically and apply logic, it allows them to spend a solid block of uninterrupted time with their father or mother, which is a very, very good thing.

4. EASY-BAKE Oven. No, not necessarily for Frankie, but for my son, Dominick, as well. Boys need to know how to cook, so they can get chicks in high school and keep them in marriage. The EASY-BAKE is still very much alive and well, and isn’t quite as gender-biased as it used to be. I LIKE the EASY-BAKE for both of them because it provides an actual reward for one’s efforts that can be shared with friends.

5. Big Wheels. I could be wrong on this one due to geographic limitations, so please correct me if I am. Here in Los Angeles, I haven’t seen a Big Wheel in over 15 years. This may be because there is so much traffic and a 45 minute car ride is required to play with one’s friends, but they are not here. If they have died out, I’m bringing them back. My Big Wheel provided me a tremendous amount of exercise and some of the best memories I ever had, even after the front wheel got old and got a flat spot on it.

6. Letters. I love paper. I buy really, really expensive thank you notes. It’s a vice and I actually think its kind of cool. After our recent trip home to visit my family, I wrote a whole mess of them to thank people for their hospitality and gifts. Not only was my hand killing me, but I made a ton of mistakes. I am forgetting how to write. And if I am forgetting, my kids aren’t even going to know how. Everything has a keyboard these days and, after a certain grade, they won’t ever pick up a pencil again. My kids? Are going to write letters. A lot.

7. Sockem Boppers. Pretty much faded away because they “promote unhealthy, aggression-based relationships between siblings.” But you know what REALLY promotes that type of relationship? My sister tearing up my ’58 Mickey Mantle All-Star card and then telling on me for stealing one of my mom’s valentine’s day chocolates. My sister and I would pop on the Sockem Boppers and go at it whenever we got mad at each other and had a lot of fun doing it. I see nothing wrong with it at all, and find it amusing that, in certain circles, grown adults pay $250.00/hr for this same type of therapy.

8. Shogun Warriors. OK, I don’t really think this is a great toy for my kids at all. I just wanted to talk about them because I had them and they were awesome and they were huge and Raydeen shot an iron-cutting fist and missiles across the kitchen at 80 miles per hour. Yeah, I was a little nerdy. Why do you ask?

9. Books. I have heard so many people over the last ten years, even people my own age and older say “I’m just not a reader.” Just so you know, when you speak that phrase to me, my mind automatically processes and translates it as “I big dummy.” I am ok, if my children read The Great Brain series and Harry Potter on a Kindle, I’m all about the environment. But, dad gummit, those kids will read.

10. Pizza Parlors. I will roam the earth until I find one. About once a month, my family would go out at night together, be it in the warmth of summer or the freezing snow, sit in Ken’s Pizza and enjoy ourselves some pie. There were little red glass candles, checkered table cloths, heavy dark wood and stained glass. It was about laughing, talking and connecting as a family, not about giant stuffed mice, germy rides and climbers, flashing lights and buzzers or tickets. These are some of my favorite memories when my family was all together, and I want my children to remember the same thing.

I believe all of the things I listed to be important (except for the Shogun Warrior, of course), but certainly have miles and miles more of things just like this. What are some of your favorite toys, games or activities from your childhood and, if you have children, do they enjoy these things too?

-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!.

Believe it or not, The Playpen actually started as a blog that was to be 100% dedicated to our baby clothing business, RedSparks (could that really have been over two years ago??). As it turned out, I actually kind of started to enjoy writing all kinds of crazy stuff on it, snatched it forcefully out of my wife’s hands and shoved her away while shouting “MINE!” and haven’t looked back since. But since we are going through a “sharing-education” period with our daughter at the moment, I decided it would be best to practice what I preach. So, with no further ado, I’m happy to announce a new segment that will pop up from time to time, Aline’s Antics. The Playpen is, after all, sort of a mommy blog, and I think it’s great to have a mommy’s perspective once in a while. Plus, try as I might, I simply cannot bring myself to post about mascara. Enjoy! – Matt

Hi all!

It’s great to have a voice again here on The Playpen. I hope to be able to get one of these up once a month. Let’s see if my newborn son will allow me the time, or if my husband will allow me the opportunity, to keep it up! First, business.

Why I like Picaflor Kids.

Picaflor is 100% rayon, which is a terrific and more environmentally-friendly alternative to cotton. When I pick product lines for the site I always keep in mind to select wearability without sacrificing style. Picaflor washes and wears beautifully, is machine-washable and dryer-friendly. Plus, most of the line features fun, bold colors that kiddos and parents love. It’s also one of the few “dressy” lines in the market that offers preemie sizes; something that is very near and dear to my heart. They also support sustainable manufacturing through fair-trade practices, and a percentage of their profits are directed to charities that benefit children in Peru. How can you argue with that?

My favorite this season from Picaflor? Our lilac striped lily dress.

A simple girly dress. Of course Frankie must have one . OK, enough of that.

Other things that I’m into this month:

1. See’s Candies blueberry truffle. I don’t really need to say anything about these. If you are a chocolate snob like I am, you will just instantly understand.

2. Halloween is coming up, I’m shopping for black and white tights for Frankie’s witch outfit and some cool black boots that won’t break the bank account. If you ever need striped tights of any color, check out www.welovecolors.com. Very cool site with lots of neat variety.

3. Also this month we have the cousins over for Halloween, so Frankie will have a companion to go trick or treating with. I love how excited she gets about sitting on the porch to give out candy. It’s my favorite part of the night, and it makes me happy that she’s more into giving than receiving, at least for the time being. We haven’t had company for Halloween in a while so I’m currently looking for fun cookie recipes and snacks. Anyone got any bright ideas? (Oh, I also have to be able to prepare them in the next hour or so, so there’s that detail.)

We’ve decided to paint our nails black, Frankie wants spider designs on hers. The challenge is to make it to the night with the nail polish still on since she immediately likes to pick the designs off. Go figure.

4. My new black mascara, LashBlast Hydrofuge by CoverGirl, makes my lashes absolutely scandalous. You must buy some right now.

5. Last but not least, I finally got to go out with a couple of my girlfriends

I hadn’t done that in so long…too long. It’s what I needed to get me out of my new baby rut. We had Sunday brunch and, of course, enjoyed a few Mimosa’s.





It was a beautiful day, good food and great company, what else can a girl ask for?

I look forward to writing this new segment on The Playpen. Introducing and discussing lines we carry on the site is one of my favorite things to do, as well as sharing a few helpful tips here and there along the way. Thanks for reading!

-Aline