Five Truths Parents Won't Like Hearing

Nobody likes hearing the complete truth. Sure, we thrive on hearing the portion of the truth that includes our strengths, skills, and how spot-on our Jay Leno impression is. But nobody actually wants to hear the whole truth. If the truth were a TV show, no store would ever sell the complete series on DVD, because nobody in their right mind would buy it. They'd purchase individual episodes in the iTunes store. I think this analogy is exhausting itself, so let's move on.

I avoid the truth even more so since I became a parent, especially since it typically involves such notes as: you gave your kid too much apple juice and now he's got explosive diarrhea. But there comes a time when the curtains must get pulled back, when the very facts we've been avoiding since we procreated must rise to the surface and ruin a perfectly good Wednesday. Here they are, in no particular order.

1. Your kid might not be cute

This is potentially the hardest pill to swallow. But small children are just as likely to be unattractive as the rest of us, saved only by the fact that they are tiny (tiny is mistakenly perceived as cute). I'm not saying your child is hideous, but I'm simply asking you to accept the possibility that everyone you know is lying to you about their adorableness. And if they aren't cute, don't worry. It's likely they'll grow out of it. And if they don't, at least they'll make a very good accountant.

2. Your sex life is comatose

Okay, so maybe I lied about truth #1 being the hardest pill to swallow. Because this one clearly trumps it, because good luck making anything in the bedroom happen with the fear of a tip-toeing toddler sneaking in mid-thrust. So speaking of hard, plan not to be for the next several years. If you're a guy, that is. If you're a woman, be as hard as you like. At least somebody will be.

3. You will never catch up on sleep...ever

I used to be naive enough to believe that those stretches of days where I'd get two hours of total sleep per night would be outweighed weeks later when both my kids were sleeping (as the expression goes) like babies. But that never happens. They just keep waking you up when you're utterly exhausted. It's like legal fraternity hazing.

4. Your kid is going to use curse words

Despite our best efforts to shelter our innocent children from the seedy, dark corners of the English language, they're going to use the language and sculpt it as they see fit (and whether you like it or not). The best we can do is to teach them the right context and setting in which to use them. I'm not saying to sit them down for a Joe Pesci movie marathon at age 3, but as they get older and these words find ways to their ears, don't be foolish enough to think your child is waiting until they get their driver's license to let the four-letter words fly. In fact, between ages 11 and 17, they will likely do more to prepare for what they'll be shouting in traffic than for the actual driving part.

5. Someone out there could do a better job of raising your kids

I accepted this truth before I even had kids. I knew from the start that I wasn't born with a great deal of patience, intellect, savvy, disciplinary skills. You know, the foundation for any respectable parent. So, you could likely throw a dart out the window and hit someone better suited to be a guardian than me. They could tie a double knot faster than me. They could give my kid a better answer for "What does your daddy do for a living?" They might even feed my kids healthier diets, taking the extra time and money to buy only organic, scouring the Internet for product recalls and sending them to the best schools in the tri-state area. But this is the truth we all should be okay with. Because there's a reason your kid needs you and not the perfect parent (who's totally fictional, of course). It's the same reason we need Bob Dylan and not Michael Bolton. It's because, quite simply, heart outweighs technical ability.

If this list has done nothing else, I hope it has proven an overarching truth...that we're never alone as parents.

Hang in there.

Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Staff Writer, www.DoctorsEtcetera.com
Follow me on Twitter here.

Five Reasons I've Already Run Out of Patience with My Kids

There. I said it. I have absolutely no patience with my very own children. I've officially run out. I mean, I used to have some. When my older son had just turned two and started taking an active interest in Nickelodeon, I would bite my lip as he complained when I put on the very show he, himself, had requested. But it's gotten way out of control. Here are some examples of ways in which my sons have pushed my patience to the point of extinction.

1. Random Anger

He's been better about it, but Antonio has had a tendency in the past to knock down his younger brother Nate for no discernible reason. Naturally, I defend poor Nate, yanking his big brother away. For reasons known only to him, Nate then proceeds to swing wildly at ME! Makes a lot of sense, right? Well, I'm done protecting the kid. Maybe he's developed Stockholm Syndrome, where you develop affection for your captor and defend them. Whatever the case is, he's on his own.

2. Unnecessary Wardrobe Changes

As recent as this morning, my four-year-old son (that's young) insisted on changing his socks because these other socks he picked out "go with my outfit better." Did I really just fucking hear that?

3. Dropping a Phone on My Face

No, really. He dropped a phone on my face. Antonio think it's hilarious when I'm lying down next to him, mindlessly scanning my iPhone, when I lose my grip and it lands unceremoniously on my forehead. Can't blame the kid for laughing. I look like a complete tool when it happens. But last night I learned what happens when my son takes the action into his own hands. Literally. He stood on his bed with my phone in hand, giggling menacingly, before intentionally dropping the phone, making a perfect landing with the edge of it on the bridge of my nose. And, if it needs to be said, I fucking lost it.Then he got embarrassed and he fucking lost it. We were both fucking losing it and then my wife came and told us to shut up.

4. From Obsessed Stalker to Silent Treatment

The only thing worse than when my kids won't leave me alone is when they refuse to acknowledge my existence. There's simply no happy medium. They either act like Alicia Silverstone in The Crush or a disinterested cat. All within the span of three minutes. So what I'm trying to tell you is my children act like a disinterested Alicia Silverstone.

5. The Most Annoying Sound in the World

Remember that scene in Dumb and Dumber where Jim Carrey asks, "Wanna hear the most annoying sound in the world?" Well, my son makes that sound. Every. Single. Day. My wife always reminds me, "Now that they know it bothers you, they'll do it even more." I don't comprehend why my dissatisfaction with something would encourage its continuance. But I've come to realize that's a major bullet point of parenting: these kids are out to destroy us.

Thanks for reading, and feel free to send along some of your own grievances!

Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here. I post quite often.

The Dentist Visit: How My Son Surprised Me

As a parent, there are certain rites of passage you must undergo to retain your citizenship in parentville. It starts early and continues until you die. Changing a diaper, getting peed on, apologizing to a stranger, getting punched in the throat, helping with homework, missing your show because Yo Gabba Gabba had clogged the DVR storage, etc. But maybe above all others, I have been dreading the dentist visit. My four-year-old had already been to the dentist once. My wife took him since I had "meetings" at work. Truthfully, I don't know if I really did or not. I probably made it up. I just knew I wasn't ready mentally to be a hostage negotiator yet, which is essentially the comparable skill that is required of the job. I never studied such a thing in school.

So you can imagine my apprehension yesterday morning as I approached Antonio on the couch, widening my stance so he couldn't escape, before escorting him forcefully to the car. It was like kicking Lindsay Lohan out of a New York City nightclub, minus the drugs, but pretty much everything else was the same. I mean, the kid begged with such desperation, you'd think I was bringing him to be dropped into a volcano, or to see a Kevin James film.

After about ten minutes of struggle, I was able to strap Antonio into his car seat and was on the road to the dentist's office. I had mercy on him and let him sit in the car for a few minutes before heading in, which in retrospect probably only made it worse.

By the time we'd reached the door to the office, he had managed to calm himself down to a respectable in-public level, now only whispering his discontent to me rather than frantically yelping it. I assumed, of course, this was merely the calm before the proverbial storm. But I tried my best to head in the direction of serenity, directing his attention to the TV nearby that was playing an episode of Dora the Explorer. Seemed to be working. Then, the exact thing I feared that could push his panic into overdrive happened. Some other kid started screaming like he'd just been set on fire. And as Antonio's name was called and we made our way to the hygeniest's chair, I worried that the screaming would be contagious. Here's a sample of it.

Random kid screaming

I was convinced that I was in for it. Hell, the screaming even made ME start to panic! But miraculously, he was fine. Better than fine, he was an absolute angel! He didn't flinch, he cooperated fully, opening mouth wider when asked and staying focused on the Disney Jr. playing on the overhead TV. He was so centered and calm I wondered for the first time if he was actually my son. Then, after walking out of the office and immediately asking for the donut I promised him, I was reminded he was all DeProspero.

 

How do I reward my son for having no cavities? By giving him one.

And all was right with the world.

Thanks for reading.

Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here.

My First Time Hosting a Sleepover (Videos Included)

So, it worked out that I'm writing this blog about having my nephew over for his first sleepover at our house directly after my recent piece about having a third kid. It was like we wanted to test the waters and see how it would feel to be outnumbered. Here's how it went...

 Giving them cupcakes got them to sit. But it backfired later.

Before I even go into the night, I'll preface this by saying that my five-year-old nephew Tyler is seemingly tireless. As in, he doesn't tire. He's a terrific kid and Antonio worships him, but I had some concern that we just wouldn't be able to keep up and that we'd end up leaving one of our own sons babbling in our wake as we hopelessly chased after him. Well, that sort of happened. But it was me babbling in everyone else's wake.

No sooner had Tyler walked in the door when he and Antonio had set up their sleeping bags, side by side, both boys giggling with glee. It was as adorable as it was menacingly frightening. Over the course of the next several hours, I played the role of peacemaker (Antonio and Tyler argued and made up about 17 times), monster (apparently, I make a good monster for children in that I get into character, am easy to run away from, and my glasses make me completely nonthreatening), and finally, bedtime storyteller. Here's a little taste of what putting these boys to bed was like, as they laid next to each other (in sleeping bags) in Antonio's bed...

(Antonio had just mentioned his bedside toy clock and how accurate it was, to which Tyler doubted its accuracy)

Video: Talking in the dark

This conversation went on for at least another 45 minutes, which also involved Tyler's improvised version of "Rock a Bye Baby" that included the lyrics, "You're cuter than me. I love you up in the tree." I'm pleased someone in the family has inherited my penchant for songwriting.

Naturally, after eating cupcakes, popcorn, watching a movie, riding bikes, punching me in the back, they were absolutely wired and stayed up pretty late. I did my best to pretend I was sleeping, but they saw right through it. In fact, they just laughed at me. I'm used to that. Especially from children who I'm supposed to be in charge of.

Both boys were up at 6:01 am the next morning. And I finally understood how my parents felt when my sister and I would relentlessly pester them on Christmas morning at a comparable time to open presents. As adults we realize that doing anything prior to 7:30 am is for institutionalized crazy people. Or exuberant children. I fall into neither of those categories.

The next morning, at 9:00 am (that's eastern time, by the way), Antonio's weekly soccer practice started. Considering the festivities of the night before, Antonio got approximately three hours less sleep than he normally does. So you can imagine his ambition to participate in a sport early the next morning was about as strong for him as it was for me. He stood idly by as other kids scampered past him, much like my Black Lab did after it had been spayed. After a while, even the coaches gave up on him. But not Tyler. He had some words of encouragement to get Antonio motivated...kinda.

Video: Tyler motivates Antonio to play soccer

Danny Tanner would be proud.

So, with about ten minutes left in practice, Antonio just started walking to the car, like he was a bad-guy wrestler leaving mid-match. It was the first time in my life that I was happy to see him give up on something.

After both boys peed in the emergency potty we keep in the car, we met Sonia and Nate for a late breakfast, before dropping Tyler off where he immediately left for hockey practice. Two days later, I still don't think he's stopped to sit for a minute. I've scheduled an appointment at the local spa.

If you enjoyed this, please share.

Thanks for reading.

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here.

The Case For and Against Having a Third Kid

Don't worry, anyone who watches my already existing children. Sonia isn't pregnant, as far as I know. I've just been noticing a significant amount of chatter lately regarding whether I should throw caution (and any semblance of sanity or a social life) to the wind and have a third child. And there seems to be two distinct schools of thought around this. Not surprisingly, both are built around the fact that my life would effectively be over.

 I had to use this GIF, because no photos exist of three actual children cooperating at the same time

CASE FOR IT (All things I've actually heard from people who have three or more children):

* Dude, once you have two, you might as well have eight.

Now, this is how I generally feel about cookies, but I'm not completely convinced it is also applicable to offspring. I believe the thinking here is that, if you're already wired to deal with more than one kid punching you in the groin, then what's another one?

* All children are a blessing.

Now, this is the crazy nonsense that the Duggar family might tell you. And trust me, I don't believe it. Most children are an absolute burden, as evidenced by pretty much any show on television. This does nothing to sway me toward the dark side. In fact, it does the opposite.

* But don't you want to have a girl?

Sure. I'd love to have a girl.  I'd also love to walk through a mall without being approached by a man holding a remote control airplane and a chloroform-soaked towel. But some things are out of our control, aren't they?

* Come on, join the "three kid club!"

This isn't even a point. It's just people whose lives are over who want mine to be over too. #miserylovescompany



CASE AGAINST IT

* Are you an idiot?

A legitimate question I've been asked by my male friends when this subject comes up. And I have an answer. Yes. Absolutely.

* They will outnumber you guys.

Probably the best case against having a third. I mean, if you were in a tag team match, you certainly wouldn't welcome a third member on the other team, right? But if that third team member would occasionally hug you? Then you might actually consider it.

* You can't afford another child.

Kids are money-suckers. I'll give you that. But if you put one on a street corner with an acoustic and an open guitar case? They become money MAKERS. Just an idea.

* Two is more than enough.

This coming from someone with 14 tattoos, seven earrings, and absolutely no responsibilities aside from ensuring your DVR storage space is under 90% full. But tattoos, earrings and DVRs don't crap on your hands. So....okay, fair point.


Ultimately, having children at all seems downright moronic most of the time. They demand our time, money, attention and guidance 24 hours a day and rarely ever reciprocate. But I'd be interested to hear from my readers, parents or not, about your thoughts on the topic.

Should having a third child be punishable by law?

Should having any children be punishable by law?

Let's discuss.

P.S. My writing is now featured in the recently released "Parenting Gag Reel" book! Several other comedic authors are included and you can pick up the paperback here or e-book here. I'm plugging along on my parenting book as well, refining the guest editorials section and it's all starting to come together. Stay tuned!

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here.

When Your Son Realizes Yours is Bigger Than His

We're surrounded mostly by people who, at their core, are out simply to get their point across, to tell their most interesting story, to get the biggest laugh. But not kids. Kids have no agenda. They just tell the truth, no matter the consequence or how offensive it might be to others.

"Hey, son, I put you to bed tonight. Let's get your PJs on." 

"No, I don't want you. Go away." 

This kind of thing happens. Regularly. At some point, you simply develop a thick skin or just cry by yourself in the bathroom. I've done both.

But the joyous upside of this uncensored honesty is that your kids will also tell you positive things that adults normally would not. 

"Daddy, your penis is much bigger than mine," my son will say, as I relieve myself while he's brushing his teeth.

"Why yes, it is, son," I reply. And then he'll stand next to me in front of the toilet and insist that we "cross streams." Thankfully, I know that he gets that expression from me. I'd be a bit concerned if I didn't know where he'd heard it.  

My four-year-old also notices that my wife's breasts are, thankfully, bigger than mine. But the fact that he even acknowledges I have any at all indicates brownies are out of the question for a few days. And he's completely infatuated with "private parts" already...especially his own. No impromptu dance party is complete without an appearance by his butt-crack and he constantly threatens (and often delivers) to "poke me in the balls." Much like when watching a Kevin James film, I've learned to turn my body away from him. Self preservation is key.

Should I be concerned, though? Will my constant affirmation that my penis is larger than my son's ultimately yield resentment? Well, I can't say for sure, but I definitely intend to keep doing it.

Be good to each other.

 

-Joe DeProspero

jdeprospero@gmail.com

Follow me on Twitter by clicking here. 

Check out more of my comedy writing at Doctors Etcetera.

 

Reflecting On a Sad Anniversary

I've been on the fence about even writing this blog for over a month now. I don't want people seeing this show up in their news feed and rolling their eyes thinking, "Here comes Joe with another piece of writing about how hard his life is." And frankly, I don't consider my life to be all that difficult. Surely, there are obstacles, but overall, I'm quite blessed. I just tend to let things fester in my brain before they ultimately are forced out by way of alcohol and I end up sharing too much. But today, completely sober (at least so far), here are my honest thoughts about what the last year has been like for me (it's cheaper than therapy).

One year ago, on April 14, 2012, I walked into my mother's condo to find her dead. No warning. And no time to brace for it. Not a day goes by that I don't think of that horrific image, her laying there next to a vacuum, cell phone continually ringing. I'd never discovered a dead body before. It was surreal and still feels like a dreadful dream. It makes me shake even to write about it. Thoughts came rushing into my head faster than I could process them. This couldn't be happening. She was only 59 years old. She'll never see her grandchildren grow up. But life is like that. It doesn't happen the way you expect or were prepared for. Then came the funeral, the emptying of her condo, and everything else unpleasant that comes with it. Oh, and breaking the news to my Grandmother only to have her die from a massive stroke. I still don't think I've completely processed everything. But one thing that does bother me is when people say, "At least she (Grandma) didn't suffer." The last thing that happened before the stroke was finding out her only child was dead. So please don't tell me she didn't suffer. She suffered in ways no one with a heart like hers ever should. At least it wasn't prolonged. That's more accurate.

So I'd love to be able to tell you that it's gotten easier over time. But I'm not there yet. Whatever "there" is. Sure, there are days when I'm entrenched in playing with my sons, laughing with my wife and mindlessly scanning my Twitter feed for PimpBillClinton tweets where I feel normal again. I've even gotten to the point where I can mention Mom in the past tense without feeling completely unhinged. But, being honest, I've realized that there's no timeline for healing. And I've also realized that people go on with their lives and assume you're fine if you don't shout in their ear with a megaphone that you're not. So, if you're around me and I get distant, seem to shut down socially and "get weird," there's a decent chance it's because of this.Simply asking, "How are you?" isn't a bad idea either. But I think most people are afraid of the answer or are simply too consumed with other things to even ask. It's human nature, I guess.

The hospice where my Grandmother died offered group counseling services after her death, which I was able to participate in free of charge through her insurance. It was the strangest experience. I went twice. There was this large, hairy male in his 50s that looked like Hagrid from Harry Potter who went on ten minute diatribes about his 85-year-old mother passing months earlier. Part of me wanted to punch him in the face for being so melodramatic despite his mother living a long life. Then I realized, 59 or 85, losing a parent is losing a parent. I still think he talked too much, though. Then there was a family of three Spanish boys, aged 15 to 21. They'd lost their mother recently too. Their father was there. At one point, when asked how he was dealing with the loss, he said with voice cracking, "I'm trying my best. I know I'm not Mom and I can't give them that. But I am trying." His frustration was obvious. And I wanted to offer a hug just because I sympathized with his situation. He was forced into a role where he simply had to be strong despite his sadness. That's the role that's been hardest for me, personally.

Something else that's been hard is seeing some people around me constantly mistreat or take their parents for granted. I suppose it's easy to take those closest to you for granted, but I'll admit to feeling more than my share of angst watching people argue, bicker with and treat their mothers as nothing more than a burden. I can only dream of seeing my mother grow old enough to become an unbearable nag.

I have a close friend who also lost his mother. And he told me, "You start thinking about life in two halves, 'before Mom' and 'after Mom'." I couldn't quite grasp the concept until now. But it's exactly what I do. I can think of a family party, a movie release, a song playing on the radio, a shirt I bought, and I can tell you whether it was before or after Mom's death. That's the profound effect a good mother has on you, for better or worse. 

So, if you've recently lost a parent or someone incredibly close to you, I hope this doesn't make you worry that it'll "never get better." Things do, in a way, get "better." But (as analyzed on an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm), better doesn't necessarily mean "all the way" better. Just better. And next year, maybe better still. It's still heartbreaking every single day. But we adapt. We have to. For my kids I have to. For my wife I have to. And that's what I tell myself every night before I go to sleep.

If you've still got one, give your mother a hug today. You'll never look back thinking you did too much of that.

Peace and understanding,
Joe
jdeprospero@gmail.com