The Playpen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you for all you do.

-Matt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eight years ago I made a house a home.

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

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

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

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

All my love,
Matt

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!

What better way to kick off the holiday weekend than announcing the annual Labor Day sale at our online baby store, RedSparks?  Gratuitous?  Yes.  Poor form?  No way.  Because I have a little code here that gets all Playpen readers 15% off everything in our store, including some brand new merchandise from Tea Collection, for this weekend only.  Its like a little gift, no?  Here are a couple of the really cute Tea items.  You know, in case you were curious.

Shibori Wrap Dress

Named for the ancient art of Japanese tie-dye. Printed dress in our classic wrap style. pair up with jeans or organic purity leggings. Imported. 100% cotton, machine washable.

Purity Organic Legging

A great layering piece, for a versatile wardrobe. pair up with shibori print wrap dress or with t-shirt for every day playtime. imported. 100% cotton, machine washable.

Koinobori Graphic Tee

Named for the kites commemorating Children’s Day in Japan. Layered sleeves and contrast indigo trim. Pair with Kei pant from Tea Collection. Imported. 100% cotton, machine washable.

Kei Yarn Dye Pant

Named for a textile gallery in Kyoto. Washed canvas for soft, rugged look. Pull on style, with elastic waistband and reinforced knees. Two back pockets. Pair with Koinobori graphic Tee. Imported. 100% cotton, machine washable.

Takayama Plaid Top

Named for a mountain village of Takayama known for traditional architecture and crafts, this sophisticated pull-on style has contrast knit collar and sleeves. Pair with our Tea collection denim. Imported. 100% cotton, machine washable.

So there you go.  Cute huh?  We think so too.  Now down to business.  From the moment this post hits the stands and throughout the entire weekend, you get 15% off the styles listed above.  Wait. There’s more.  If you act now, you can use your 15% off code to take 15% off anything in the RedSparks shop.  Just type in ‘laborday15′ at checkout, click ‘redeem’ and you’re off and running.  Simple as that.  And you know what?  Since we’re feeling generous, if you’re really interested in picking something up on the cheap, send us an email or drop a comment here before you buy and let us know.  If you catch us at just the right moment, we may feel like throwing in some free shipping, too.  Maybe.

Thanks to everyone for your continued support, and here’s wishing you all a happy and healthy Labor Day weekend!

-Aline & Matt

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.

My daughter isn’t fully potty trained. She is a daredevil to a fault and will jump off a piece of furniture three times her height without thinking. She’ll walk right up to a rabid dog and try to pet it and wields a pair of scissors like a Spartan, but we got one thing right. She is deathly afraid of fire. I’m not sure how we did it, but she won’t come near the stove, won’t touch matches or fireworks with a 50-foot pole, and god help me if I try to light a stick of sandalwood incense. She fears it from the bottom of her soul, and I’m OK with that. As a result of this phobia, when there is fire present she babbles on and on about it nervously, asking questions over and over, hinting at her concern that it may somehow impact her own life in some way; basically feeling me out to make sure that everything is OK and that the fire is not a threat to her.

Every year, wildfires burn out of control here in Southern California and those of us who are fortunate enough not to be affected by them go on about our business with nary a concern. It’s a similar relationship that Midwesterners have with tornadoes and that I assume Floridans have with hurricanes. As long as it’s not tearing through my house, it’s chalked up to a simple fact of life.

As we all drove down the Golden State Freeway yesterday on our way to get free ice cream, Frankie noticed the billowing smoke and orange tongues of flame from a portion of the Station Fire, high up on the mountains just east of the freeway. The Station Fire is particularly bad. It has burned over 85,000 acres and, as of this entry, is only five percent contained. Our weather has created ideal conditions in which fire can thrive lately; triple-digit heat with very low humidity, and when I stand outside in the morning when the breeze is blowing west I compare the scene to the apocalypse. Smoky, orange skies with clouds of brownish smoke whisping by cast a spooky amber light on the city, even in the morning hours. Tiny pieces of white ash fall soundlessly down and accumulate on cars and shoulders like snow. The air tastes foul and at times it’s difficult to breathe. In point, there is no way to shield my daughter from the fact that something is wrong, so I simply addressed her questions as best I could with basic answers that one would usually give a four-year-old and moved on. Before long, we had passed it, had our noses deep in Strawberry Swirl and had moved on with our lives. We were content.

This morning I woke up and, as I sat outside with my coffee, was once again reminded by the coloring and odor of the air of the Station Fire. This time, however, it was Monday morning and my daughter was still in bed. My mind abandoned the fleeting thought and moved on to its own concerns; money, bills, job, kids’ school…typical Monday faire. I found myself forlorn at the thought of returning to work already, stressed out about the economy, annoyed that the Rams were going to have another bad season and generally pissed off at the world.

“I need a day off, dammit,” I said to myself with a scowl. “I’ve been working too hard. Don’t I at least deserve some time for myself? This economy just isn’t fair.” I got up and drove to work wearing a glowering mask of self-pity.

When I arrived, the first thing I did was check the news. There it was again. The Station Fire. I quickly scanned the article and was about to close the window when my eyes landed on one particular phrase.

The fire claimed the lives of Capt. Tedmund Hall, 47, and Spc. Arnaldo Quinones, 35, on Sunday, according to the Los Angeles County Fire Department. The two firefighters were killed while fighting the Station Fire when their vehicle went down a steep, 700-foot embankment Sunday afternoon.

I froze on that paragraph for a moment and my mind took over, immediately playing out a vivid scene for me in which two fire fighters, amidst towering flames, wearing heavy coats, pants, boots and helmets, dehydrated and exhausted from lugging huge amounts of gear through scorching heat went over the side of a mountain in a fire truck while working harder than I ever have in my whole life just to keep me, my family and others like me safe. Not for status, not for power or corporate ladder-climbing and, although I didn’t know them, I’d be willing to bet that it wasn’t for money either. It was so that my family and I could have ice cream, then go back home and sleep soundly in our home knowing we would be fine.

I then gazed at a photo I took yesterday of my son, now three-months-old, who has just started to do this

to me, thus closing the Baby Gap forever, and came to the understanding that while I was sitting there with my coffee this morning complaining about how bad I had it there were families of two heroic people out there who were sitting together in tears, the very first realization of a countless number of lasts just beginning to flit through their minds as their sorrow took hold and changed their lives forever.

I mourned for those firefighters, their families and so many others like them. And I created a new goal for myself right at that instant, or at least renewed my interest in adhering to an old one. It doesn’t involve money or cars or tuitions or vacations; it’s so much simpler and I am embarrassed for forgetting it.

I’m going to have a terrific Monday. I’m going to have a terrific life. Because, at the end of the day, if I can go home and wrap my arms around my wife and kids, laugh with them and wake up another day to do it again I truly do have it all, and to not love each and every minute of that would be not only inappropriate and disrespectful to those men and their families, but ungracious as well. And I am most certainly, humbly, grateful.

-Matt