The Playpen

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

• • • • •

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

and this year its here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Matt


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

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

• • • • •


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s ROCK!”

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

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

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

“YOU’RE GOING THE WRONG FLIPPING WAY!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Matt


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Matt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Los Angeles, CA, July 2, 2009 – RedSparks, a Los Angeles based online boutique specializing in modern apparel for preemie, infant and toddler, is pleased to announce the addition of the Kicky Pants line of organic children’s clothing their online children’s retail store.

“Adding Kicky Pants apparel to our online boutique was an easy decision for us,” noted owner Aline Pfingsten. “We are thrilled to offer this amazing line of green clothing for children that is not only earth-friendly but also of exceptional quality and beautiful design.” In addition to other organic preemie and toddler clothing carried by RedSparks, they are currently offering a selection of seven different designs by Kicky Pants, all of which are eco-friendly outfits for children made from bamboo. Kicky Pants clothing is made from a sustainable, renewable bamboo, which is naturally antibacterial, antistatic and antifungal and also 3-4 times more absorbent than cotton, making it an excellent choice for both baby and earth.  Take a look at some of the adorable Kicky Pants styles now available at RedSparks.com.

Bamboo Moss Coverall

Boys eco-friendly moss coverall by Kicky Pants. 95% bamboo and 5% lycra, very gentle and smooth next to baby’s sensitive skin. No synthetic or chemical processing. snaps down the front. Machine Washable. 24.00

Girl Dot Ruffle Dress

Beautiful dot eco-friendly layered dress by Kicky Pants. 95% bamboo and 5% lycra, very gentle and smooth next to baby’s sensitive skin. No synthetic or chemical processing. Layers add a feminine touch for your sweet little girl! Machine washable. 50.00

Bamboo Striped Polo

Modern stripe bamboo polo by Kicky Pants. 95% bamboo and 5% lycra, very gentle and smooth next to baby’s sensitive skin. No synthetic or chemical processing. Two front buttons and detailed stitching. Machine washable. 24.00

Ruffle Romper

Beautiful wavy design eco-friendly romper by Kicky Pants. 95% bamboo and 5% lycra, very gentle and smooth next to baby’s sensitive skin. No synthetic or chemical processing. snaps at the bottoms with ruffles on the butt. Machine Washable. 28.00.

In addition to providing a variety of stunning, well-made apparel and accessories specifically for preemies and toddlers, RedSparks.com actively participates in the community of families facing the challenges of premature births. Through community out-reach, and with hopes of future partnerships with local charities and non-profit groups that help support pre-term children with special needs and their families as their small business grows, Matt and Aline Pfingsten strive to be a stronghold in their community.

To read the full RedSparks press release, click here.

-RedSparks

I had a whole organic, eco-friendly baby clothing press release post planned for RedSparks today, but something happened last night that forced me to bump it to a later time slot.

I received the Brookstone catalog in the mail.

I love the Brookstone catalog. I keep it by my bed and read through it over and over again until the next one comes. Some guys keep porn tucked away in their closets. I keep Brookstone catalogs. It’s chocked full of useful and innovative gadgets, contains brilliant photography and Photoshop image manipulation (I saw a white Pekingese pasted onto a plaid doggy bed next to a sliding glass door once that was so real you could swear you were right there in the shot!), and their prices are reasonable. From the moment I gazed in awe at the voice-activated television remote control, which I immediately realized would save me hours of time by allowing me to say “change channel up,” rather than having to go through the laborious chore of painstakingly raising my arm and pushing a button, I was hooked.

Brookstone rulez.

While practically every product Brookstone offers is a hands-down winner, I thought I’d take a moment and review four of what I call “Matt’s Platinum Brookstone Picks” from the Fall 2009 edition. These are products that are not only standouts, but that everyone can benefit from by having in their home. Click the thumbs for a larger image.

1. The Sona “Stop Snoring” Pillow.

Weighing it at a crisp $79.99, this pillow helps everyone stop snoring immediately by opening up your airway, allowing you to breathe easier. I myself have already ordered two, and expect to be sleeping deeply and quietly in no time. After studying the photograph, I realized there was an added benefit. Note that, in order for the Sona to function properly, you must sleep with your arm fully-extended over your head.

This means that, in addition to a good nights sleep, your feet will also hang almost a full yard off the bottom of the bed, allowing them to “breathe” in the chill night air and reducing offensive perspiration.

2. The Upright Bath Scale.

Another bargain at an affordable $249.95, this scale addresses a problem that each and every one of us faces every day. Let’s be honest, when you weigh yourself you don’t want your results to be subtle, displayed in discreet little numbers far away. You want the fact that you’re 75 lbs overweight to be right in your face. In the same manner a child might wave a new toy in front of a playmate, taunting him in a “nanny-nanny-boo-boo” manner, the Upright Bath Scale grabs you by the ears with its large 8-inch dial and screams “What do you have to say about THIS, Tubby!?” A must for masochists.

3. uGallop.

Probably the item I was most excited about on my list. Aline and I are always looking for ways to spice up our love life and, at first glance, the uGallop appeared to be the way to do it. Not only does it gyrate, pulsate and twist, but it comes equipped with 6-speeds, attached leather handle and stirrups. And, apparently, we would become more flexible while using it, improving our posture along the way. However, sadly, after receiving the uGallop in the mail and an entire evening of “No no no no….let me try to put my arm over…..wait….stop….stop, my back! Ok, listen, you lay over this way, then I’ll swing my leg this way and grab over…ow…OW…that’s my eye, that’s my eye, dammit!” I realized the uGallop wasn’t what I thought it was at all and sent it back. Turns out its like a piece of fitness equipment or something.

4. Manage Kids Screen Time.

An innovation so useful and so important to our society it doesn’t even need a name. “Device” costs $59.99 and virtually solves the only problem I have in my life: How do I keep from having to deal with the inconvenience and distraction of walking into the TV room and actually shutting the TV off after my kids have been parked in front of it for several hours? Face it, kids need their TV, and all my friends totally agree. But I don’t want to have to stop what I’m doing and give up 15 seconds of my valuable time when TV time is over. “Device” takes care of it for me, ensuring that I don’t have to interact with my children at all, freeing me up for important things like checking the mail for the next Brookstone catalog.

As you can see, we can all benefit from the Brookstone catalog in many ways. Much like philosophy or religion, Brookstone can open our eyes to new paths; new lives that we may have never before seen. It reveals doors to better places and provides us with support and relief from the monotony of the day to day.

Brookstone, you had me at hello.

-Matt

Whoa! I almost forgot! My contest! Eternal Lizdom busted out some serious culture and won herself our Sweetleaf Reed Diffuser, and Ye Olde Random Number Generator pulled up lucky numner “3”. Kori, you got yourself a rad $25.00 gift certificate to RedSparks, our online baby boutique! Well, played both of you!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Matt

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

• • • • •

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you need Bendaroos?” I pressed.

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

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

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

Dear god help me.

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

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

-Matt

Genius [jeen•yuh•s]-noun: The act of displaying unparalleled levels of intelligence by posting a giveaway for product from one’s business during the exact week when absolutely no one will see it.

Not a day goes by when I don’t say a little prayer begging the powers at be to prevent my daughter from becoming a successful lawyer, dentist or accountant. I want her to be an artist. In my opinion, artists shape the world we live in and define who we are as a species. They inspire us and provide nourishment for our souls. Granted, artists come in many different varieties, but one way or another they are necessary to our survival.

Until recently, I have been secretly disappointed with my daughter’s artwork. I know, she’s only four. But still. To me it just seemed like she should be farther along by now. Her Nana was an art teacher for decades, still painting professionally and her grandfather is an architect and a painter. But whenever she would come racing down the hallway and thrust her latest work into my hands proudly, waiting intently for my reaction, I would gaze at the dilapidated piece of construction paper covered in Elmer’s Glue, googly eyes and some dog eared purple feather she had found, there was little I could do to conceal my disdain for the work.

Then, yesterday, my whole world changed. As I walked into the kitchen she led me to the laundry room and showed me this.

Look at it! It’s fantastic! Proof, my friends, that there is true brilliance in her after all. After asking my wife “did she really do this?” about 14 times, I snatched the paper off the pantry door where she had taped it and began to dissect it. In addition to the perfect proportion, realism and color-sense she displays, something else…something HUGE…caught my eye. The smile. Look at how its drawn. Teetering perfectly on the edge of whimsical and solemn, the grin almost gives you the feeling that her subject knows something we don’t. As if it has it’s own little secret. I know you are all thinking exactly what I was thinking.

Yes. We know where we have seen that smile before.

You see, my daughter doesn’t even know who da Vinci IS yet. She managed to recreate at four what it took that man a lifetime to arrive at. Clearly, she is gifted and I can sleep at night.

In celebration of this new discovery, I have decided to run a little contest. Its been a while since I’ve given away something from RedSparks, our online baby store, so I think I’ll give it another shot.

Here’s the way its gonna go down:

First, the easy way. Just drop a comment here about anything you like by Friday, July 31, and you’ll be entered into a random drawing to win a $25.00 Gift Certificate to RedSparks.

Secondly, the Grand Prize. Below, I have included my daughter’s piece into some of my favorite works of art (personally, I think it improves all of them). In your comment, if you’re so inclined, provide the name AND the artist of the five original works shown. If you’re the first to do so, I’ll send you this cool Sweetleaf Reed Diffuser (perfect for nurseries and kid’s rooms) absolutely FREE!

That all you have to do. Pretty darn easy, right? Best of luck. Note: Images below are just thumbnails. Click each one for a larger pic!

Thanks for playing!
-Matt

Author’s Note: I apologize for the length of this post. Once every so often, you just have to write one for yourself.

My best guess is 1981. I’ve never been one to remember the years during which events happened. Some can rattle off the year for every little occurrence without batting an eye, and I am simply not one of them. I would have been nine, which seems about right, so my best guess is 1981.

I used to get a lot of sunlight in my bedroom when I was little during the summer. It flowed in brightly in the mornings and the whole room glowed a dazzling gold. When I think the nostalgic thoughts that sweep me back to the parts of my childhood I loved, I remember that light, and how it turned the darkness red when I had awaken but not yet opened my eyes. On this particular morning, however, I had been awake since the first sliver of grey-blue pre-dawn had stretched a lazy finger across my ceiling and the very first Cardinal had begun to chirp from far away on the neighboring farm. Today was a very big day.

As soon as I heard my mother in the kitchen and caught the first whiff of her morning coffee, I bolted downstairs to eat breakfast. She smiled at me and asked me to go up and put on my uniform so that we could all leave immediately after we ate. Happy to oblige, I ran back upstairs and burst into my bathroom, then paused and gazed for a moment at the counter. There, neatly and exactly where I had placed it so carefully the night before, was my baseball uniform. Number 23. White with red pinstripes; crisp, fresh and ironed, sitting in a prim folded pile next to my glove, spikes and cap, I wondered if Stan Musial had felt the same sense of pleasure, pride and excitement that I did when he looked at his uniform the morning of a big game. I decided that he must have, and got dressed, pausing for a brief moment to tip my hat in the mirror at an imaginary ballpark full of people following an imaginary home run.

It was the state finals. My team had gone all the way and we were squaring off against the very best the state had to offer. It was a team from the Jackie Robinson League, and they were better than us. We all knew it. We also knew we could win. We were that good. Following a long road trip north with three or four of my teammates piled into the sideways, pull up seats of my dad’s wood-paneled station wagon, we were addressed by our coach, given the batting order, and the umpire shouted the words that made my heart leap into my throat each and every game for eight years, “Play ball!”. As I trotted onto the field to take my position at second base for the first inning, I distinctly remember clamping my hands into tight, pale fists in a useless attempt to control their shaking. This was like no field we had played on before; it was huge. I don’t ever remember feeling truly intimidated before that game, but I was making up for it now. I fought the voices that told me I wasn’t good enough from my head, kicked the dirt, crouched down with my hands on my knees and we were underway.

The game was terrific. It had been a nail-biter through and through; in all honesty it was the type of game that baseball fans talk about 20 years after it occurred. The other team was bigger, stronger and oh so much faster than we were, but we had held our own and were teetering on the very brink of becoming the state champions. It was the top of the last inning, there were two outs, nobody on, and we were trailing by one. The crowd, which had tripled in size as word of the close score spread throughout the park, was on its feet. It was the stuff miracles of made of and it was my turn to bat. I rammed the knob of the bat into the paint of the on-deck circle, knocking the doughnut to the ground, adjusted my helmet, stuck out my jaw and walked to the plate. As I dug my cleats into the soft dirt of the batters box and moved my bat in slow circles I raised my eyes to look directly into those of the pitcher. He was a giant, and on top of the mound easily had a full foot of height on me. The noise from the crowd became almost deafening as he went into his windup. As he hurled the ball toward the plate I locked my eyes onto his release.

Curve Ball. Stay in the box.

The pitcher could throw a curve faster than most guys in the league could throw a fastball. Despite how I knew the pitch was going to behave I bailed out of the box in what felt like the split second before the ball struck my head.

“STRIKE!” I heard the umpire yell from where I laid in the dirt. The crowd moaned. He had scared me and my heart was now racing at an uncontrollable speed. I gave up trying to control the adrenaline that had overtaken by body and dug back into the box as the noise lever increased once more. Again, I looked directly into the pitcher’s eyes and he into mine as he started his motion. I locked in on his grip.

Fastball.

I dug my rear foot into the dirt and swung as hard as I could, my eyes riveted to the speeding baseball as it hurtled toward me. As my bat crossed the plate I heard a sound that has been, to this day, burned into the innermost depths of my mind.

“CRACK!”

It was one of those hits that you don’t even feel. The bat strikes the ball just in the sweet spot, so perfectly that the wood absorbs the entire impact. It’s the most beautiful feeling in the world. The crowd absolutely roared and, before I lowered my head and began to sprint toward first base, I caught a glimpse of the ball sailing deep into the outfield. I had clobbered it. Halfway down the baseline I looked up again and saw the first base coach manically circling his arm and pointing me to second. The ball had dropped and I was going to stretch a single into a double, maybe even a triple. I stole a peek into the outfield and saw the center fielder with his back to me crouching to pick up the ball. I grunted and pushed my legs to run faster. Everything became a blur as I rounded second base at full speed. I heard the second basemen screaming at the center fielder to throw it in and remember seeing a look of panic in his eyes as I ran past him on my way to third. We were going to win the championship.

With lungs burning in my chest I touched second base with the outside of my foot and bolted toward third. I looked up and saw the third base coach, jumping up and down from the excitement repeatedly giving me the sign to slide. The skin on the back of my neck tingled as I imagined the ball sailing through the air behind me and stared at the third basemen with intensity as I saw him raise his glove, eyes wide, to catch the ball and tag me out. A few strides from third base I extended my arms and dove head first toward the base, my body crashing into the ground in a fully extended slide right at the moment I heard the pop of the ball landing squarely into the pocket of the third basemen’s glove. As I slid through the dirt I stretched my fingertips as far out in front of me as I possibly could and prayed as I felt the impact of the ball inside the third basemen’s glove violently on my back. He was too late, my hands were already resting firmly on the bag.

“SAFE! SAFE! SAFE!”

The crowd erupted. My teammates were whooping and screaming, some crying, jumping up and down on the sidelines and smacking each other on the back. I saw my parents in the stands absolutely elated. I saw the pride in my fathers eyes and the happiness in my mothers. My heart swelled three times and I stood up to dust myself off as I caught the third basemen out of the corner of my eye dejectedly throwing the ball back to the pitcher. I was glowing as I stepped off the base to bend over and brush the dirt from my knees. It was at this very moment I felt once again, this time much more gently, the third basemen’s glove on my back. As I heard the umpire yell “OUT!” I realized what had happened as tears welled up in my eyes. The third basemen had faked the throw back to the pitcher and had held onto the ball, waiting for me to step off the base so he could tag me out. It was the oldest trick in the book and I had fallen for it. I looked up and saw the horror and disappointment in my teammate’s faces. The crowd had fallen silent and the only noise that existed now were the cheers of the opposing team as they ran off the field.

We had lost the game, and it was because of me. Although I had said “don’t worry, we all lost,” to practically all of my teammates at one time or another and meant it, this time it really was MY fault. Our entire season and, more importantly, our dreams, had been crushed in an instant by my stupid mistake. I had failed.

I haven’t talked much about my son yet and I have explained why. But as I was looking at him sleeping last night I started thinking about my own childhood and, although it was very pleasant, was not without its share of tragedy and disappointment. For whatever reason, the story I just told has been haunting me all day, and I wonder how my own father must have felt about that moment when I cost my team the championship. Clearly, it is an event that I will remember with a certain amount of shame for the rest of my life. But what about him? Gazing at my son’s tiny little sleeping body made me realize that my father probably had it worse than I ever did in that particular instant. Not only did he share my disappointment and embarrassment, but he hurt for his son as a father. Something I never really considered before last night. Its true, life can get pretty narrow sometimes and bad things happen to us once in a while. But I now realize that the worst things aren’t those that happen to us, they are those that happen to our children. Those events over which we have no control and can only offer encouragement as our children grieve or become heartbroken. I’m certain I will find a way to handle it but, to be honest? I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

-Matt