Shit My Son Does that Makes No Sense

No one ever said that kids are logical. And if anyone did say it, they're a lying imbecile. My two-year-old son, Antonio is a pants-shitting enigma. Just when you think you've figured out every nuance of his quirky personality, he changes the game and bites you. No, really, he bites you. Here are just a few examples of why, when it comes to parenting, we're left with more questions than answers.

A random list of shit my two-year-old son Antonio does that confuses the hell out of me:

* You'll go with him to the grocery store. You'll stand in the deli line and the perpetually miserable clerk/butcher will give a half-hearted grin while handing your son a sample piece of cheese. Your son will ride standing up in the carriage and have a general blast. Of course, when you bring this up at dinner later that night, he will vehemently deny any of that shit happened. He's like a mini Alzheimer's patient.

* When we turn on the TV, or hell, even open the cabinet, and ask what his preference is, he'll say "You pick." The first time I heard this, I thought, "Fantastic! If only my wife would say those words while picking out a movie to watch!" But I soon realized that this "you pick" option held as much validity as the Bermuda cruise I just won by clicking on an Internet ad. No sooner do I make my selection when he's squawking that he wants me to change it. He's finally satisfied, however, when I get to the show he originally wanted to begin with. I just have to be lucky enough to guess right the first time.

* He refuses to believe that the leafy green stuff is actually called lettuce. It's called "salad!" and this will be shouted with great conviction until I agree with him. He'll make a good lawyer, but he'll almost always be in contempt of court.

As long as he's eating it, is it worth mentioning to my kid that what he's eating isn't chicken?

* He gets all excited to see his neighborhood friend Anthony. Then, when we finally see him, he acts like we're at Home Depot, reviewing paint swatches. He incidentally did the same thing when he saw Santa. It's a big joygasm while we're literally 10 feet away, but within arm's length? Take away smile, insert awkward, blank stare.

* He insists he's ready to wear "big boy underpants." Then, literally the second I put them on him he pees in them.

* Whenever he doesn't want to eat dinner, he purses his lips angrily and mutters, "I don't want cauliflower!" Ummm, Antonio, that's a chicken nugget. Clearly, he's inherited my vision.

* When we go anywhere as a family, he takes his backpack and throws a crazy assortment of random, unrelated items inside- his shoes, a stuffed animal, a Christmas tree ornament, a lemon, one sock. He's like a portable lost-and-found.

* He gets insanely pissed if I touch his face, yet he colors and puts band aids, stickers and stamps on it. I guess his face, his rules? I can only pray that he doesn't grow to idolize Mike Tyson.

* This isn't all that illogical, but I find it funny. For the past five days, whenever Antonio wakes up from his nap, he rubs his eyes, looks around and curiously asks, "Is it Christmastime?" You bet your ass it is, son!


Somehow, a boatload of people read my last Santa blog. Me likey! Keep passing this onto your friends and I will continue to open my personal life to the public. Deal? Deal. And for those serious readers out there, my book will soon be available on e-readers! More info to come.

Happy holidays,

Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Buy my book at http://amzn.to/v2pZE2

Santa Claus is Comin' to Town...Unless You're a Jerk

Forrest Gump once said that "it's funny how some things you remember and some things you don't." I bring this up for two reasons. For one, it effectively ties into the point of this story. And two, Forrest was always quoting his mom. I figure it's about time someone credited him with one. So anyway, the moment I'll always remember is the first time I was introduced to the folkloric fatso himself, Santa Claus. I was about four and was told by my father that we were going to his office for "Bring your kids to work day." The idea already sounded dreadful to me. I much preferred "Bring your kids some undeserved new toys because I feel guilty for that week-long business trip day." But when I was bamboozled by the truth in that Santa himself would be in attendance, I momentarily wished that my father had been unemployed (looking back at the bike I got that year, I'm now glad he wasn't).

So, leading up to this grandiose meeting...

This is what I was told about Santa:

He is always watching me. Even in the bathroom when I take shits.

If I fuck up, he'll rain a shitstorm of stinginess down on my helpless, naive soul.

He's above the law and sneaks into my house at night, un-arrested.

I have to arrange a meal for his post break-in treat.

He gets really pissed if I don't finish my dinner.

He and my parents maintain some kind of deranged "touch point" relationship where Santa receives a detailed rundown of everything I did wrong that might affect my toy intake come December 25th.

If I don't listen, Santa will give my gifts to [insert sister's, cousin's, or neighborhood friend's name].


So needless to say, I was clamoring to meet this guy (read: I was scared shitless). I mean, who would want to meet Santa given that preface? Oh, I know this guy, he's a real spiteful prick and has high cholesterol and a penchant for revenge. Where do I sign up?!

Anyhow, if you couldn't guess, I flipped as soon as I was within spitting distance of this monster. Every spirited wink he threw my way was met with a desperate yelp as I literally needed to be restrained from running out the door into oncoming traffic. I still haven't forgiven dad for arranging that intro. I've forgiven him even less for taking a picture of the incident and laughing about it as it perennially sat on our mantle.

Years later, viewing Christmas from the lens of a 32-year-old father, I now understand why the song "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town" includes the lyric, "You better not pout." Santa Claus is in fact a well-constructed farce meant to scare the hell out of children and get them to fall in line and quit their fucking whining...and I think it's fantastic!

As much as I resented the frequent "Santa is watching" warnings as a kid, I now do the same to my own son in lieu of wielding a belt or a wooden spoon.

"Want that remote control Buzz Lightyear? Then I suggest eating those fucking carrots on your plate!" It's unimaginable leverage in a world where I'd otherwise be relegated to coming up with my own disciplinary actions.

Santa wants you to shut the fuck up.

If you're wondering how this "Santa is watching" strategy has been working in my house, I'd say it's effectively infected my older son's psyche. When he's overtired and having a tantrum, the name Santa means shit to Antonio as he convulses on the carpet in despair. But later on, when he's faintly sobbing, thinking more clearly about his own personal end game as he stares worriedly into the night sky? Fear of God, my friend. If you're a new parent, feel free to create a negative connotation of Santa in your child's mind. It might confuse him or her, but they won't be sticking their fingers in your dinner plate (or electrical socket) anytime soon. If you're Jewish, I'm sorry, but you're on your own.

I can't say if Santa is real or not, but the fear in my son's eyes when I threaten to have Santa crap all over his recreational dreams? Oh, that's fucking real. My only problem is stretching this strategy beyond the holiday season!

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And, if you haven't been beat over the head with the news already, my debut comedy fiction novel is available for purchase! It's a very exciting time for me as I'm finally starting to get my writing out there. This particular story is about an unfulfilled office worker who comes to a breaking point, walking out on his job, and runs into a series of socially awkward, psychologically damaging events. It's only $8. That's like two cups of coffee at Starbucks. Hell, it's less!

My Book: https://www.createspace.com/3717506

Thanks for your support, as always. And if you don't already, go ahead and "follow" this blog to ensure you never miss a post!

- Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com

When the Cat's Away: My Kid-Free Night in Baltimore

Recently, business took me out of the tri-state area for the first time in a year. The idea of it initially delighted me- an entire night without bathing, scolding, carrying or dressing a kicking and screaming child? Whatever will I do with myself? And ultimately, that ended up being the question and the problem...

It all started Wednesday morning with a car ride to the Newark, NJ train station. Since I rarely travel anywhere, I arrived at the station a whopping 2 1/2 hours before my departure time. So I sat and read a book. Now, if you've never been to Newark, NJ, how should I put this? Well, Disney World's slogan is "where magic happens." Newark's should be, "where tragic happens." The place is an unmitigated disaster. So after sitting and reading for nearly an hour, I got up and ordered a coffee and donut. It felt pretty good only to have to worry about my own ravenous appetite for American cuisine for once. But no sooner did the sugary coating touch my lips when I was approached by the man my father had always warned me about.

"Hey man," he whispered forcefully. "These other fools don't know nuttin'," he continued, waving his hands toward the rest of the waiting folks around me dismissively. He looked like a shorter version of Samuel L. Jackson. "Listen, I don't mean no disrespect..." Historically, any sentence starting with that phrase is like a warning sign that screams, "Run the other way! Fast!" Because, more often than not, disrespect is imminent. "I just got out of prison for murdering the man who raped my daughter." Clearly, I'd hit the jackpot.

As the words "rape" and "daughter" were enunciated into my ear as forcefully as a dagger through the heart of a Newark resident, my eyes desperately scanned the area for a policeman. I saw one, about 20 feet away. Then it occurred to me, what would I tell them? "Excuse me, officer, but a freshly released convict and/or seasoned local actor has passive aggressively threatened to murder me?" That would be like complaining to the zookeeper because the cow just mooed.

It was somewhere in the middle of his sales pitch when I stopped listening and started reaching into my pocket before he could even utter the word "money." Trying to do the hand-off as gracefully as possible was a failure as I ended up pulling out my license and Visa card with the singles I was coughing up to him. I'm sure he wouldn't have minded had I simply emptied my pocket into his. As I was folding the dollars to donate to his Jack Daniels fund, he sheepishly laughed and said, "I feel like a fuckin' bum." I can't possibly imagine why.

The surrounding beggars must've seen this as an opportunity as I was then targeted more often than Jerry Rice from that point forward. I couldn't help them. I'd given all my singles to the murderous father of a raped child. Pretty good excuse, I thought.

So after the two-hour train ride to Baltimore, I arrived at my hotel. I stared up at the building, cutting into the night sky. The next morning I would be taking a car service from the hotel to the office, so I decided to take a stroll and see if I could scan the area and maybe even spot the office. I took two steps to my right and looked up again. The hotel and my office were pretty close to each other, as it turned out. So close, in fact, that they were attached. They may have even shared a heating and cooling system. The hesitation in the operator's voice when I booked the car service was starting to make a whole lot more sense. Hey, at least I wouldn't face much traffic.

Soon thereafter, I sat down to the most awkward, boring dinner of my life. I went to this place called Kona Grill and sat by myself, as the waitress peered over at me sympathetically from time to time. Being so used to having to shovel food down my throat so I could tear the antique vase out of Antonio's mischievous hands, I had completely lost the ability to execute this foreign concept known as "savoring your food." In fact, indigestion set in before I even got the check, the sounds of nearby crowds joyfully giggling serving as the backdrop to my solitude. Sonia called as I was paying the bill. She put Antonio on to say goodnight.

"Hi!" Antonio shouted into the receiver.

"Hey, buddy! I miss you!" I yelled back.

"Hi!" Antonio shouted again, in the exact same timbre.

"You being a good boy for mommy? Are you all dressed in your Curious George PJs enjoying your milk and cookies?" I asked, trying to move the conversation forward.

"Hi!" I could see this was going nowhere, so I asked him to put mommy back on. Wanna guess what his response was to that?

As I stumbled around the hotel after dinner, I found myself desperately vying for the attention of other humans who might interact with me. I made some pedestrian remark on the elevator to a guy in his 50s about the weather. It was fucking pathetic. I felt like crying into a pillow. This feeling increased exponentially when I realized my team, the New York Jets were playing on the hotel bar TV screen, only to lose embarrassingly in the last minute of regulation. It was as if God himself was an event planner and organized this night just to kick me in the balls.

It's lonely without someone to bother the shit out of me

I went back to my room about 11:00 pm and realized immediately that I had no idea how to fall asleep by myself. I was used to either a wife and at least one child's needs to dictate when it was time to sleep. Alone? Damned if I knew. So I regressed to what I used to do when I was single. I put on a DVD I'd already seen a thousand times and checked my text messages every 30 seconds.

I turned on the TV and was instantly met with an advertisement for porn, with the promise that "the title NEVER appears on your hotel bill." But I just don't trust that. Sure, the title won't appear, but what will it say instead? MISC- IN-ROOM PORN ORDER- $29.95? No, thanks. I had absolutely no idea what to do with myself (after I'd ordered the movie, of course). I literally opened all the drawers in the bedside nightstand to see if there was a Bible I could read and ultimately settled on doing something I couldn't really do at home with my in-laws- I got naked and ironed. It was awesomely liberating.

Anyway, I slept a few hours and got to the office the next morning by 8:30. I met with a co-worker there who set me up with a laptop I needed. Having not allowed myself enough time to eat breakfast, I dug into my pocket as I approached the vending machine. I realized I had no cash. Why didn't I have cash? Well, because I'd given all of it to the murderous killer of a man who'd raped his invisible daughter! That's why! I sheepishly turned to my co-worker (who I'd just met a few minutes earlier) and told her about my problem. She shrugged her shoulders and went back to her desk. Thanks for the hospitality (and dollar), you dolt.

Hours later, I buried my face in a book at the train station and before long, I was back home in New Jersey, eagerly striding into the house to see my family, who were already eating dinner. Antonio greeted me with a big smile and hug. It was fantastic. I felt like I was in one of those "Soldiers Surprising Loved Ones" videos on YouTube, but minus the months away from home and noble occupation. Then, I met eyes with my youngest son, Nate. He was sitting in my mother-in-law's lap. I was expecting a wide-eyed grin, but instead he bawled uncontrollably. Sonia said it was because he realized he wasn't in my arms. Nice cover, wife. It was a more heartwarming story than what I assumed, that he had already forgotten me and thought I was a stranger.

Seconds later, Antonio was entrenched in watching Team Umizoomi, right back to ignoring me, while I changed a dirty diaper of Nate's that would make most third-world countries jealous. It was great to be home.

I realize this entry was a bit different from my past kid-heavy ones. But I felt it necessary to convey just how odd it feels to be on your own once you're used to literally not having an arm free. In the end, I prefer the chaos to the boredom.

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And as usual, feel free to share!

-Joe DeProspero

jdeprospero@gmail.com

Follow me on Twitter!

Once Upon a Time...

One of the most entertaining aspects of parenting is the ability to throw your parental partner in crime under the bus. And this can be done a number of ways. For instance, while changing your toddler's diaper and they mutter under their breath, "I want mommy," don't let that utterance slide! Use that as your opening to make someone else's life a little less pleasant and your life a little bit more. "Honey, he says he only wants you!" is all you'll need to say, and you can safely return to typing out the email to your fantasy football league or whatever pedestrian bullshit you choose (anything beats changing an overflowing shit diaper).

With this theory in mind, I was all set to pawn my older son Antonio off on my poor wife the other night, so I could take a shower and lay my clothes out for the next day (read: eat a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and Crunch bar from Antonio's trick-or-treat bag in the bathroom so no one judges me). It was about 9:20 PM when Sonia completely turned the tables of misfortune on me. Having just changed him into his pajamas and before I could determine an escape plan, she gives Antonio a hug and announces, quite officially, that "Daddy is going to tell you a bedtime story...about a magic umbrella!" With that, she disappeared behind the safety gate and down the stairs. I stared blankly at Antonio as he showed a glimmer of excitement about the aforementioned story, which I was now being forced to produce in a matter of minutes. Well played, wife.

So, I turned off the lights and tucked him in, hoping he'd forget about what Sonia just suggested. No sooner did I crouch down to kiss his forehead when he said in the cutest voice possible, "Daddy, I want you...tell me story." How the hell could I possibly say no to that? Well, I tried. I offered to read two of his favorite Elmo books. I even tried distracting him by putting on my best teddy bear voice and pretending I was one of his stuffed animals, insisting that "PJ Bear is so tired, he needs you to stop talking so he can sleep." Antonio never falls for that lame shit. Good for him.

When nothing else worked, I knew it was time to suck it up and do my best Peter Falk from Princess Bride impression. Antonio lay in his bed, tucked in and eagerly awaiting a masterpiece. So, I started...

"Once upon a time there was a little boy named....Toby. And Toby had a magic umbrella."

I froze at this point, awkwardly smiling, hoping he accepted this as the whole story and instantly enter REM sleep. He wasn't buying it. "And then what happen?" I knew I was fucked.

"He took his magic umbrella to school with him (at this point, I am struggling for what effective purpose a magic umbrella could have). He was....scared of the bigger kids at school, so he pressed a special button on his magic umbrella and FLOATED TO THE CEILING!"

With this line, I'd jumped fully clothed into the deep end, no turning back now!

"He stayed up there all day and everyone wondered where little Toby went! They were very worried." I had shit for a transition here and I was kinda tired so I just jumped to the end. "Then Toby floated back down to the ground and realized he had nothing to fear at all. He and the bigger children played together and Toby never used that silly magic umbrella again. The end."

I paused for reaction, expecting Antonio to red-pen the shit out of my improvised tale. Then, a smile came over his face, as he uttered, "Say again." That was when I realized that I was a fucking genius. And like most geniuses, I was a slave to my audience. I read that story five times in a row.

Toddlers will forgive a total lack of plot as long as you speak in a soft, soothing voice

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And as always, share this with others! I'm always happy to hear from readers who can relate to my stories and I'm always inwardly pleased to hear that you've struggled just as much as I have. They say misery loves company. It also likes getting emails!

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
My Podcast: www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com
Follow me on Twitter!

Halloween Has Never Been Scarier

When I was a kid, as soon as I smelled the first piece of firewood, wafting into my nasal passage from nearby chimneys, I became sexually aroused. It was surprising at first, then embarrassing later when it was discovered by classmates that the Charlie Brown Pez I was holding in my hand couldn't possibly be in two places at once. Just kidding, mom. But seriously, the month of October, culminating with a holiday that allowed me the luxury of not being my nerd self for an entire day was quite appealing to me. Every year, despite being a glasses-wearer, I'd strap on some mask over my frames and go trick-or-treating at the houses of the girls I had crushes on. It was my only real chance of being within arm's reach of them. Inevitably, their older brother would answer the door in some uninspired football jersey they called a costume and I'd begrudgingly accept my box of raisins and be on my way to the next house, remembering that my crushes were probably out themselves and that's why they didn't answer the door! This analysis went on for several hours until my mother would come running after me, insisting I wear my puffy winter coat and totally unsexy Freaky Freezies gloves. "But mom, can't you see I'm mackin' it to the ladies? I can't do that while wearing these gimmicky accessories!" But of course, she didn't listen. Regardless of my sexless childhood, though, I still managed to enjoy myself quite a bit, right up to the last time I trick-or-treated, at age 17, wearing a Michael Meyers mask and occasionally slumping so people would think I was just a tall fifth-grader. But anyway...

This year was my first Halloween as a father of two. I knew this because I waited until five minutes before leaving the house on Oct. 31st before looking for my costume. And, I have to say, it's a small miracle I found anything at all. Having just moved into a new house last month, it's entirely possible that during the move, I packed my werewolf costume with the Corningware. But just in the nick of time, I found the bin that contained said costume and Antonio's personalized trick-or-treat bag. Hell, I even found Nate's missing boot to complete his costume! Clearly, all proceedings would have been off had I not found all these things at exactly that minute. It was truly a magical moment.

Speaking of magic, for the first time in almost 60 years, we had accumulations of snow on Halloween! And if you don't believe me, check my Facebook news feed, which when it snows is more predictable than a Lifetime flick with an evil, mustached male lead. While this made for some memorable photo ops, it also made for the most dangerous Halloween ever, as we went against the wishes of the police department and dodged downed power lines and risked an electrifying death. Hey, if you can't be a law-defying imbecile on October 31st, when can you be one?

So, despite 3/4 of my neighborhood being out of town, without power or working doorbells, we still managed to pester enough residents to fill half of Antonio's bag (the benefit of being one of five trick-or-treaters in the county is you get the lion's share of the Reese's). And Nate, true to form, didn't make a sound, as he lay completely adorable in his Buzz Lightyear costume, 95% of which was covered up with a blanket (the other downside of it snowing on Halloween). Unfortunately, he's not old enough to grasp the concept of suffering for your art.

Since Antonio and Nate's daycare lost power too, their Halloween parade was postponed and rescheduled for this morning (Nov. 4). Being the dutiful father I am (and having a guiltier conscience than a Catholic nun) I took the morning off to attend said parade and videotape the festivities. I'd remembered that the parade started at 10, so I didn't have to rush them out, and was able to take my time getting them into their respective costumes, which alleviated what would normally be an unyielding panic-fest with me having to track down at least one of their shoes which fell off five minutes after I put it on while grunting "fucking hell" under my breath.

After triple checking to make sure I had all the kids' costume accessories, jackets, food and drinks, I was out the door with them at 9:30, aiming to arrive at day care no later than 9:45, with time to spare before the parade. I walked into the center and noticed no children were around, so I dropped their stuff off in their classrooms and carted them to the gym, where I heard some rumblings. Walking in, I saw the other kids recklessly running around in their costumes. Then, I spotted my sister, who has a son there. We chatted briefly until she casually mentioned, "Yeah, so the parade ended about five minutes ago." WHAT?! Apparently, the actual parade happened at 9:15. The 10:00 event I was remembering was the "after party." After party? What is this, the fucking Source Awards?!! So, thankfully, my sons are both young and naive enough to believe that meandering aimlessly around a gymnasium constitutes a parade, so the only real disappointment I had to deal with (aside from my own) was Sonia's, who now had no video footage of said 9:15 parade. Out of desperation, I tried getting Antonio to stand next to his classmates and take some pictures all in costume. But not only was the camera dead, but asking Antonio to cozy up to his classmates (one of which he nearly belted with a chair two weeks prior) is like asking Rain Man for a chest bump. So, it was a failure on every level. At least I was consistent.

Dejected and demoralized, I left day care and headed for work, aiming to make it just in time for an 11:00 meeting, as I stared into my rear view mirror to the empty seats, feeling like I'd let the boys down, even though they are certainly far more concerned with sticking foreign objects into their mouths. While feeling a bit depressed, I got a mail notification on my Blackberry. The meeting I was rushing to work for was just canceled. So, of the two events my morning revolved around, I attended neither. Then, later on, I found a dead chipmunk in my outdoor garbage can while throwing away a shit diaper. God, I swear sometimes I can hear you laughing at me.

Nate (left) and Antonio (not left) as Buzz and Woody from Toy Story. Facially, they are impersonating each other here...

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And feel free to share this if you got a decent laugh at my unfortunate expense! Wheels are currently in motion for my debut fiction book, "The Boy in the Wrinkled Shirt" to be available for online purchase. If you enjoy my writing, the biggest compliment you can pay me is by, well, paying me! I mean, isn't that always the biggest compliment? But anyway, stay tuned! I promise it won't cost more than what you'd pay for a beer at Yankee Stadium.

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
My Podcast: www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com
Follow me on Twitter!

A Picture is Worth a Thousand (Curse) Words

No one ever said being a parent was easy. With the exception of sperm donors and essentially every celebrity with a nanny, of course. That said, people who aren't moms or dads may wonder what the most difficult parts of parenting actually are. Some of them are obvious. No sane human enjoys being woken up with a scream every 1-3 hours throughout the night. Similarly, being vomited on? Also known to dampen your spirits (not to mention your just-washed bed sheets). But there is another activity, which, when it occurs, makes you think back to the very moment of conception and how the current moment juxtaposes that in a way that makes you laugh, then weep a little. Of course, this activity is taking family pictures at [Insert Any Chain with a "Portrait Studio"].

It starts innocently enough. You make an appointment for a random Saturday morning in October to have four-month pictures of your child taken. Next thing you know, you're desperately striving to keep your children entertained and nondestructive because Buy Buy Baby overbooked and now you're waiting for some random ugly family to finish their ugly family photo shoot when all you want to do is jump in front of the camera and shout, "Stop! Just stop already! The world doesn't need your hideousness dedicated to film!" But, instead you start making promises.

"Antonio, if you're a good boy and smile for a picture, you might just get a TOY!" God, I'm such a whore. Why should a kid be rewarded for simply not being a jerk? Well, I don't know, but it was the straw I grasped when he started whining and we ran out of gummy fruit snacks.

So we were finally called in and we're already dying to leave, with the exception of my four-month-old, Nathan, who is the only one of the four of us blissfully unaware enough to be okay with the situation. In fact, he was a champ throughout. Smiling with little provocation, Nate was like one of the babies whose pictures they post outside the doctor's office of a super happy infant to create the illusion that going to the doctors is some sort of joygasm. In a word, he was an angel. Then it was time to take a family picture with Antonio.

Say what you will, at least the kids are smiling about something

Fifty years ago, when the movie Some Like it Hot was being filmed, writer/director Billy Wilder insisted that Jack Lemon and Tony Curtis nail each scene that included Marilyn Monroe on the first take. Why? Because Monroe was such a train wreck (pardon the pun, if you've seen the film) that whenever she successfully got through her lines, that was the take they were going with. So, in this case, Sonia and I were Jack and Tony, and Antonio, well, Antonio was Marilyn. the only difference was the blonde hair and unabashed alcoholism. All he had to do was smile once for 2-4 seconds. Hell, I'd even take one second. But no sooner did the cameras point at him then he launched into his infamous Ben Stein impression. True to our roles, Sonia and I kept iron-clad grins on the entire time. It was like the Miss America pageant, with no hopes of a crown to follow. I mean, tickling, a God damn tap-dancing Elmo, that weird vibrating tongue drum roll noise that all the store photogs seem to think works, even a whispered promise (read: begging) to get him a toy and a Swedish massage if he smiles. No dice. I desperately tried to conjure up an image or action that would wipe the stoic wall off his face. So I came up with a mental list of things Antonio would laugh at:

* Me getting hit in the face with a flying shoe
* Me getting hit in the balls with a flying shoe
* Himself peeing on the bathroom floor
* The sound of him farting in my face as I change his diaper at point-blank range

None of these were viable options in that moment. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the photographer (who I'm pretty sure was Tempestt Bledsoe of Cosby Show fame) worked Antonio into submission. She got the shot! At least she thought she did.

"Oh. No. Dad, it was you. You blinked," groaned Tempestt.

First of all, I'm not your dad. I don't know why all connoisseurs of the camera collectively have decided that this is accepted practice. If I wanted a girl calling me daddy, I'd wait another few years when my family angrily pins me down and forces me to conceive one because "there aren't enough females in this family." But, anyway....

So, ultimately it was I who ruined the one good shot. Fortunately for me, once Vanessa Huxtable broke the smile seal, she was able to squeeze out a few more mild ones. Of course, this was coupled with me intermittently tickling him and then quickly getting back into position, causing me to appear in a weird, hunched position in the final shot, making me look constipated. Not that I gave a shit at that point. I would gladly appear incontinent for generations to come if it meant us getting the hell out of there.

I spent the next hour and a half pushing Nate around the store so he'd sleep, holding an exhausted 30-pound Antonio at the same time (smiling can be quite tiring) while grimacing as I struggled to maneuver the stroller around crowds of impolite, unforgiving ignoramuses who I can only hope were there shopping for their less evil, pregnant friends. Why was I with both kids? Because Sonia had to go over the photo packages and Antonio flat out refused to stay with her. Yet he still managed to squeeze a Buzz Lightyear rocket toy out of it. Bravo, Marilyn. You've negotiated a better deal than most overpaid celebrities.

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And if you laughed at this, forward it to a friend (or even an enemy. They like to laugh, too.)

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
My Podcast: www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com
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Do Unto Others...Unless They Steal Your Shit

When I was 12, this guy Matt in my neighborhood took issue with me during a snowstorm when my sled accidentally collided with his. He was a year older and, at most, five pounds heavier than my meager frame. Like most things, it escalated after some yelling and before I knew it, I was looking over my shoulder every day on the walk home from school. It didn't help that we lived a block away from each other and shared the same route. Then, one day I came home more perturbed than usual and my father noticed. He asked, "What's wrong, son?" So, I answered, "Well, dad, there's this aggressive dickhead who can't wrap his pea-sized brain around the fact that our sleds colliding was a fucking accident and he should focus more on curing his unsightly acne and get over it." Okay, I didn't say that. But I did mention the scuffle. And it's one of those father-son moments I won't forget. He put his hand on my shoulder and his eyes met mine. With pronounced seriousness, he said, "I don't want you starting fights, but if you get pushed, you push back. Do you hear me?" Oh, I totally heard him. At least the part where he said it was okay for me to push people, anyway.

Fast forward 20 years and I hear that my 2 1/2 year old son, Antonio got into a scuffle of his own at school. I didn't immediately worry, as there's only so much damage kids can do with finger paints. But I'll admit that it got my attention in a hurry. All of a sudden, I was thrust into a new level of parenting- the level that's not just about wiping his ass and hunting for stray boogers with a Q-Tip, but the level where you have to actually mold them into a functioning member of civil society. This level is fucking frightening, folks.

So the way I heard it was that Antonio and one of his "friends" (or as friendly you can be with someone who you just intermittently share blank stares with) got into some sort of argument that neither could explain, because, well, their memories are as reliable as Drew Barrymore's in that 50 First Dates movie. But what I also heard is that Antonio threw the first punch (read: errant slap). Then, later, after everything had settled down, he went up to the kid again and attempted to take him out with a chair! And, not that I would ever wish harm on the other kid in question, but my first thought was, "Holy shit, my kid's a bad-ass!" Before you judge me, consider the fact that I was a timid kid who, while I wasn't the bully's prime target, I would get railed on when the more prominent nerds were home sick with black eyes. My son, who is shy by nature, trying a move that would make Joe Pesci's character from Goodfellas cry foul, at least displayed an ability to be assertive. When asked about the incident by his Grandfather, Antonio matter-of-factly replied, "Yeah, I hit him first," without once taking his eyes off the television. I'm pretty sure I'm raising the next Boston Strangler.

For the 10th time, it's a European satchel, not a fanny pack!

To those parents reading this with a slack jaw, I assure you that I gave Antonio a nice, clear talking to about this whole thing. I had him look at me in the eyes (because that's what you do when you're being parental) and told him nobody likes an asshole. Just kidding, I gave him a high-five. Kidding again! I did what any good parent would do. I told him that Santa was watching. Then I opened my eyes wide and nodded solemnly to indicate that Santa was a vengeful bastard who wouldn't think twice before urinating down our chimney while cackling like a madman. He seemed to buy it. I can only hope this tactic works when he's shoving kids into lockers in high school.

To those of you who continue to support my various writing projects, I thank you kindly. The greatest compliment you can pay me is forwarding my blog (and in the future, the link to buy my book) to your friends. I had a reader of mine tell me I have "a gift" the other day. I'm not sure how lucid she was when she said it, but hey, I'll take it.

Till next time, be strong and stay sane!

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
My Podcast (Halloween episode just posted!): www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com
Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero

Migraines Get You Out of Work, Not Parenting

My older son, Antonio just doesn't quite get the fact that he's supposed to be the one of our two kids cooperating now. We figured once the new baby was born, he'd fall dutifully into his new role as older brother, changing diapers, preparing his own meals and sleeping the exact number of hours we needed him to without complaint or question. Hasn't quite been the case, though. In fact, I'm pretty sure he's just fucking with us at this point.

The kid is merciless. Last night, I had what felt like the start of a migraine headache. And speaking generally, of course, the last thing I need when such a headache starts to form is the unsympathetic presence of a randomly screaming two-year-old. But does he get that? Noooooooooo. As I lay cringing on my bed like a kicked puppy, my son showed as much compassion for me as a tiger would for a crippled fawn, jumping on the bed, pleading for me to get up and play with him. I felt like a defeated boxer, but instead of suffering from too many right hooks and jabs, it was from too much Fresh Beat Band and Umi God damn zoomi.

I took Excedrin Migraine, which helped pull me through, as I ultimately ended up putting Antonio to bed. Now, once the books had been read, teeth had been brushed and patience had worn thin, the after dark aggravation started setting in. The first thing he does is display a completely irrational indecisiveness with the color of his M&M nightlight. You see, he has a nightlight which is an M&M holding a lamp post. The cool thing about it is it changes colors! The shitty thing about it is it changes colors! It's a mixed bag, because I find myself marveling at the technology, but later annoyed that Antonio now has the option to change his mind 15 fucking times about what color he wants the lamp post to be. And every single time, he winds up settling on purple anyway, despite entertaining every other color in the spectrum. It's like watching Sonia order off a menu.

After the crucial nightlight decision is made, he continues the indecisiveness by first crawling into his bed, then 30 seconds later, crawling out of bed and laying down on top of me on the floor. Then he goes back to bed within a minute. This goes on for about ten minutes, until I put my foot down and tell him he can't do it anymore. Then it goes on another 20 minutes after that.

Assuming my efforts would be rewarded with an undisturbed night of sleep is clearly ridiculous, as Antonio decides that if he's not sleeping at 1:30 AM, then no one is. He starts whining from his bed, as I reluctantly decipher that he's calling for daddy. Although, I lie and tell Sonia that he may have said "mommy." Not only am I an awful liar, but "mommy" and "daddy" are cruelly nowhere near each other phonetically. I bite the bullet and tend to the boy. No sooner did I drag myself out of bed and straddled his security gate does he fall back to sleep again. This happened three times between 1:30 and 6:30. I would almost rather he woke me up to punch me in the face. At least then I would have served a purpose.

Nate followed this up by waking up at 4:45, which is tragically half an hour before Sonia's alarm wakes her up for work. Having mercy on my pitiful, tired soul, Sonia feeds Nate and loses the precious last half hour of her slumber, successfully thwarting my sons' collective efforts to ensure I never enter REM sleep. Unfortunately, though, this duel is far from over.

Pray for me.

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
My Podcast: www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com
Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero

Daddy Daycare: Not a Comedy

This blog has nothing to do with the movie. I wouldn't do that to you.

Before I start, I want to clarify that I intend to make somewhat of a left turn with this blog. Since its debut, I've mindfully taken one parental topic at a time (restaurant eating, losing sleep, going from one to two) but I am realizing that sooner or later I'll run out of topics to tackle. So the intent now is to use this blog space as somewhat of a daddy journal, detailing the daily struggles of raising children, rather than focusing on one topic per blog. That said, let's talk martyrdom.

This week started my family's new routine. The wife's maternity leave ended, which signaled not only the re-introduction of sleepless weeknights for yours truly, but also the absurdly over-confident belief that I can shower, iron my clothes, prepare my lunch, laugh at a YouTube video, cry at a YouTube video, sit and think of words that rhyme with "orange," be generally unproductive and eat a lazy breakfast while still managing to tend to the needs of two other totally helpless human beings (I include myself in that company). Nope, on Tuesday and Thursday nights, I now lay my clothes out, make my lunch and organize all the cargo into neat little piles (okay, Sonia does that) leaving only urination and teeth-brushing for the morning, if I even have time for that.

Of course, despite the fire being lit under my ass, I still slept through my alarm this morning, to the sounds of Nate stirring in his crib via the monitor on my night stand. I shot the covers off of me, bolted downstairs and dropped his bottle in the warmer. Now, I can't overemphasize how crucial the timing is here. If I bring him downstairs when the bottle hasn't been warmed up, I am facing at least ten minutes of red-faced hysteria, waking up Antonio in the process who will join the chorus of unhappiness with relative ease. The odd thing is, if I start heating the bottle without him seeing it, the hysteria is curbed for a few minutes, allowing me to change him without the guilt of feeling like I'm Casey Anthony. So this morning I managed to pull off the feat of doing just that. Then Antonio woke up at almost the exact time I needed him to before eating a light breakfast without even complaining, followed by a completely tearless, uneventful drop-off at the daycare center. Knowing how awful my luck usually is, I know the law of averages is bound to swiftly kick me in the ass next week and both my sons will refuse to eat while simultaneously shitting their pants right as I'm closing the garage door behind me. I mean, it just has to happen that way.

On top of the added stress of the two-kid daycare drop-offs (I'm still not sure how many of those should be hyphenated), the kids have been playing this other trick on me where they time it so that I'm putting them both down to sleep at night. I'm in Nate's room, as he sucks on the bottle nipple, drifting slowly into a deep sleep as I refresh Facebook for the 15th time. I hear Antonio climbing the stairs, slowly. It's like he knows I'm almost done. Then, the inevitable happens.

"He wants you," Sonia loudly whispers from behind the door. Fuck me.

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And share my story with others, if you would be so kind!

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
My Podcast: www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com
Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero

Driving Me Mad

This past weekend, I embarked on a rigorous journey. And no, it wasn't the Tough Mudder competition, nor did I attempt to sit through the entire third season of The View. In fact, if given the choice, I would rather watch an uninterrupted 24-hour Joy Behar marathon than go on another out-of-state car ride with my children, who as it turns out, are still fairly dependent on me.

My car in 10 years if we don't have a girl....kidding, my kids would never wear jean shorts

The trip was to Virginia to visit my wife's family. It was the first time we had both kids in the car for longer than 30 minutes. Every mildly stressful quick trip to the A&P had been leading up to this one potentially volatile shit-storm. I wish I could say that I wasn't being literal when I say that.

So we packed the car up with enough shit so that we appeared to be entering the witness protection program, left the house on Friday about two hours later than we expected to (standard issue at this point), and headed out into the land of fog and brake lights that was the NJ Turnpike. We quickly realized we might be facing a longer than expected commute down south, so we mapped out a time-line of prospective events. For the first 90 minutes of the trip, we'd play Toy Story to prevent Antonio from trying to bother us. Don't fucking judge me, okay?

After the movie, Antonio would peacefully drift to sleep, giving us a solid two hours with relative silence, save for the honking horns and hum of the engine. We had his lunch at the ready, we had snacks, we were totally prepared for anything he threw at us (literally). What we forgot was that we had another son in the car that couldn't give a shit about those plans.

About 20 minutes into the trip, both Antonio and Nate started in with a chorus of "Bahbahbahbahbahbah" and uncontrollable weeping, respectively. It was kind of like that scene in Dumb and Dumber where Lloyd Christmas asks, "Wanna hear the most annoying sound in the world?" Only this time, it was the two most annoying sounds in the world. Or at least North America. To add to this, Antonio unhooked his arm straps no less than 30 times, forcing Sonia to perch herself illegally on top of a suitcase between the two boys, feeding Nate a bottle with one hand and restraining Antonio like he was a mental patient with the other. Her ability to multitask is one of the many reasons I married her.

After making three separate stops (one to feed and change Nate, one to pee and one to save ourselves from cranial hemorrhaging after slamming our heads into the dashboard), we got through the torrential downpours to arrive in Virginia within approximately 7 1/2 hours. We exited the car like captive birds, gleefully if not exhaustively fluttering around. The only difference was we weren't afforded the luxury of flying away and shitting at will. In fact, if we did need to shit, odds are we'd have a baby bird squawking outside the bird's nest.

So once we were there, it got better. But much like herpes, it didn't stay better for very long. Antonio is at the age now where he feels that he can be particular about where and when he's going to sleep. Such balls on this kid! He took just over an hour to finally become unconscious. But not before asking for Sonia, then me, then Sonia again, then me again, then desperately trying to turn on the TV while sobbing and grabbing his crotch. It was as if we were thrust into an Abbott and Costello routine gone wrong. Either that or a litmus test for whether or not having offspring would suck away our happiness.

The next day, Antonio slept till 10:30. It was the latest he, and by default we, had slept in over a year. Later that day, we took him to the circus. It was easily the highlight of the trip, mainly because the following happened...

Thankfully, his seat on Aunt Andrea's lap was free of charge

The ride home was a bit less antagonizing than the ride there, aside from Antonio intentionally preventing Nate from staying asleep by talking way louder than he needed to (clearly, he got the jerk gene from his father). Overall, we traveled close to 14 hours in a 72 hour span, with the Molly Pitcher rest area and Cracker Barrel serving as our only solaces along the way. After all is said and done, this is what every parent goes through and surely my situation could be worse. My next trip could be via airplane!

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And as always, feel completely free to pass this along to others who'd enjoy it!

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
My Podcast (brand new episode up today): www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com
Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero

Sleep Deprivation Nation

As a writer (and human), I tend to do my best work when well rested. Unfortunately, dating back to April 21, 2009, I've had about four uninterrupted nights of sleep that eclipsed seven hours, forcing me to modify that theory to read "put the pen to the paper and hope my kids don't bump into my arm." So, in other words, don't expect coherence today, folks.

Whenever a non-parent picks my brain about being a dad, the first thing they always ask is, "How do you handle the sleepless nights?" And it's generally accompanied by a cringing facial expression, as if I'm about to poke them in the eye. In a word, they look nauseous. Being a compassionate person, I try to be as diplomatic (read: deceptive) as possible. "You get used to it," I'll say. shrugging my shoulders and grinning mildly. Thankfully, my parental poker face is second to none and they are rarely able to detect my inner college student screaming, "What the fuck is happening?! And why aren't we playing XBOX?!"

In a nutshell, having interrupted sleep is like getting kicked in the balls. No matter how much you're used to the feeling, it still sucks. And you do, to a certain extent, adapt. You have to. There is no choice but to learn to live with it. But even now, 2 1/2 years into my new sleeping regimen, I'm awoken by a whining child and feel absolutely horrified.

It never fails- I'll toss and turn for several minutes before peacefully drifting off into a slumber, the static of the baby monitor on the end table serving as the white noise backdrop. I suddenly find myself dreaming of my 6th grade math teacher giving me a haircut while Miles Davis serenades me with Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" on piano. Right as the second chorus is about to hit, the baby monitor erupts with a siren wail that is Antonio. I don't hear it, though. Over the past couple of years, I've developed my own internal censor, apparently, since Sonia is at least 10 feet away from said monitor and hears it before I do. I finally wake up to Sonia's footsteps, trailing into the next room. For a moment, I'm worried that she's leaving me. Then I realize what an odd time it is to make that decision. Then I hear the wailing on the monitor, followed by Sonia's comforting words. Without fail, Antonio replies to those words with an angry, "I want daddy!!!!!" Fuck my life. Why me? And why on the same day I stayed up late watching Sunday Night Football? None of these questions will ever get answered, though, as I'm left to sit in Antonio's little kid chair that my ass barely fits in, while Sonia happily resigns back to bed, leaving me to wonder why in the hell Miles Davis didn't stick to the trumpet.

Granted, not every middle of the night awakening is a lengthy one (sometimes my kids cry for me and fall asleep by the time I get there- annoying, yet relieving). But being loudly woken up every hour on the hour until 6 am isn't what I call a good nights sleep either. It's what I call fraternity hazing. However, I must commend Sonia on, more often than not, allowing me to sleep on weeknights while she feeds baby Nate (who so far has no preference on which parent's sleep he interrupts), while she's still on maternity leave. But starting in October, the party's over. Meaning, during the course of a night, I will have two children vying for my attention at ungodly hours like a pair of angry vampires. The only difference is they're not draining my blood, but instead my brain cells.

They say if you don't know what you're missing, you can't miss it. And truthfully, I don't even remember what it's like to sleep in till 11:00 am on a Saturday. Hell, even when I have time to myself on a weekend (which is scarce), I don't spend it on sleep. I suppose it's possible that I'm so used to being interrupted while unconscious that my body rejects rest. I'm estimating, in fact, that the next time I'll enter REM sleep is sometime around 2024, when both my kids are teenagers and hopefully moved on to annoying each other in the middle of the night instead of me. My goal is to put them in the same room by the time they're 4 and 2, respectively, and to train Antonio as an orderly. Hey, why waste a resource?

So, next time you're groggily peering your eyes open at 1:30 pm on a Sunday, hungover from all those Patron shots the night before, remember that it could always be worse. You could have a child hitting you in the face with a fly-swatter five hours earlier.

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And please share my story!

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero
My Podcast (new episode up): www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com

And Then There Were Two...

A friend of mine once told me (while grunting through the transport of both her children into a daycare center) that having one child is like having a pet. And I found that strange. I mean, sure, kids sometimes pee on the floor, hump your leg and bite the mailman in the groin, but otherwise, they can't be comparable to an animal, can they? Well, looking back at my time as a parent of only one, Antonio now seems like a docile German Shepherd. Oh, and for the record, conceiving number two was WAY easier than trying to drop a number two nowadays. Sorry, that's gross. Let's move on.

I've since realized the main reason for the pet comparison- feed them and give them a place to sleep, and you can go about your lives without completely losing your God damn mind. And they're a nice little companion, to boot. But what really drives home the whole pet thing is the numbers game. When you have one Labrador Retriever, you can totally leave him home to fend for himself while you assume a relatively normal and active social (read: sex) life. Same goes with one kid, although leaving him home alone with a saucer of water is generally frowned upon.

In a nutshell, going from one kid to two is like going from coffee to crack- it gets intense in a hurry. And in two week's time, I will be assuming the role of delivering both of them to daycare simultaneously. This has various ramifications, none of which are good for anyone. For starters, I'll have to develop a delivery plan. When I get to the center, do I take Antonio out of the car first and then Nate? If I do that, it's a race against time trying to finish before Antonio runs into oncoming traffic. If I take Nate out first, I'll have to place him in his seat on the ground and hope squirrels don't get at him. Tough call. And this doesn't even take into account the screaming and crying that will ultimately take place- from them and me!

The most significant change to my mornings is that I will need to take care of anything "me" related the night before. So, things I would normally do in the morning before I left for work- making my lunch, ironing my clothes, eating breakfast- will need to be done before I go to bed at night. I can only hope that cold Pop Tarts taste better served under moonlight.

Realistically, me at 8:00 AM in two weeks

So if it's not abundantly clear, I'm a bit of a basket case. And there are times when I'll be so stressed from trying to balance work, this blog, my podcast, talking to my wife, managing my fantasy football team, checking Facebook, wiping Antonio's orange fingerprints off my dress pants and aiming my urine to the waterless side of the toilet so as not to wake up the kids that I'll *gasp* forget something important. A couple of times I've used the line, "Sorry, in trying to keep up with my two kids, I forgot to groom my chest hair." And inevitably, someone will reply, "That's no excuse, Joe. People manage to do it all the time." And for the record, it's always people who don't have multiple children offering this sage advice. Some say don't judge a man until you've walked a mile in his shoes. Well I just say keep your fucking mouth shut, you naive ignoramus. Same message, really.

It's kind of like basketball. When you have one kid, you can double team him. When you have two, you play man-t0-man coverage. When you have more than two, you switch to a zone defense until you blow your brains out. With that philosophy in mind, I'm often asked by my wife to "pick my poison," or at least that's how I hear it- meaning, select which kid you want to be chained to for the night. And the decision I make depends largely on how lazy I'm feeling. If I've just had a double shot of espresso, I'll try my luck with Antonio and inevitably end up wrestling with him until I catch an inadvertent (or totally intentional) knee to the balls. If I'm feeling as unmotivated as I usually am, I'll choose Nate, where my only real job is to hold a bottle in place and occasionally make a ridiculous "goo goo, ga ga" face (required by law for any parent with an infant). Now that it's football season, I'll be choosing Nate more often than not on the weekends. Since he's not mobile yet, it's great, because I get to kill two birds with one stone- watching my favorite sport and still managing to pawn off my couch potato-ness as responsible parenting. It's a win-win.

Aside from the football-watching time it creates, having a non-speaking child has other benefits too. For instance, they are guaranteed never to verbally prefer the other parent over you. Just last night, I was tucking Antonio in, when I kissed him softly on the cheek, told him I loved him, only to have him smirk and say, "I want mommy." Are you fucking serious? I just told you I loved you! Let's hope he has better bedside manner once he starts dating. But really, Nate is at an age where he eats without complaining, watches what I'm watching on TV without argument, and most importantly, can't run to the bathroom unsupervised and throw my iPod in the toilet. However, once Nate turns one and realizes that his legs can get him places, Sonia and I will both need to waterproof our electronics, because that's a whole new world of scary shit.

Try not to be frightened by all this if you're a parent of one thinking of having a second. The wonderful thing is that my kids will grow up close and (hopefully) will form a bond they might not have if they were further apart in age. The not so wonderful thing is that by the time they've formed this bond I'll have already gone crazy and will be too medicated to enjoy it. But those, my friends, are the pitfalls of parenthood.

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And as always, thanks for reading. Feel free to share this on any social networking site you frequent as my ultimate goal is to be able to write for a living, with one kid under each arm. Hey, I can dream, can't I? Well, technically, my kids don't let me rest long enough to enter REM sleep and actually dream. Anyway, pray for my soul!

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero
My Podcast: www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com

Putting the Rant in Restaurant

I vaguely remember what it was like to eat at a restaurant before I had children. The details are rather foggy, but there are a few things that come back to me. I recall a glass of wine sitting peacefully within an arm's reach and having two free hands- one to hold my steak steady with a fork and one to cut said steak. I also remember rolling my eyes as some ill-mannered little prick at the booth next to me hurled a chicken wing across the table at his mother, disgusted at the lack of discipline this woman had instilled in her chicken-chucking children. Then, karma tap-danced on my soul with soccer cleats.

Nowadays, when Sonia and I are brave enough to cart a two-year-old and two-month-old to a public dining establishment, there is a series of bases to cover and consider that have absolutely nothing to do with what we're ordering off the menu (Boo to that). So here are the bullet points to note before I journey out to that authentic Australian joint, The Outback...

* Steak is out of the question

A filet mignon is a single man's meal. It requires two free hands and a good 20 minutes, neither of which I have. A burger is a possibility, but if I'm being realistic, the safest bet is a pasta dish, something that will yield edible leftovers because God knows I won't have time to focus on what I actually fucking ordered.

* At some point, there will be a person on my lap, who will likely be crying

For one reason or another, my older son refuses to stay stationary when we're eating out somewhere. I asked him why and the guy's like a vault, flat out refuses to answer. Because of this, he winds up either falling under the table or worse, introducing himself to the unfriendly codgers at the table next to us. Ultimately, I'm left with little choice but to hold him on my knee with one arm (as he struggles like Jodie Foster in The Accused) and try to salvage my meal with the other. Good thing I ordered pasta.

* Both my kids will need to be changed just as my fork reaches my lips

It's like they saved up all their piss and shit for that one moment. Like anyone else, sometimes my sons need to "clear some space" before they take in a big meal. But it seems like they always wait until we're in a restaurant with a crowded bathroom with a changing table the size of an iPad.

* I will need to apologize to a stranger

I hate apologizing for things. It's so demeaning. And even more so when it's to someone who probably doesn't deserve one and it wasn't even my fault to begin with. But when you're with kids in public, they're going to annoy some people (read: all the people). And unfortunately, it's my duty as a daddy to apologize for him (I can't wait until they're old enough to start doing this shit work for themselves). Most of the time, people smile and nod politely. Sometimes they don't even acknowledge my existence. So, in a way, it's like talking to my own kids.

* The majority of my time will be spent picking up utensils and crayons

Leaving some crayons and a piece of paper to prevent my kid from pissing off your other patrons is a stellar idea, save for the fact that he'll use them as projectiles at said patrons. And despite his uncanny ability to keep a whole box of crayons on the table when we're at home, for some reason three crayons in public is way too much for Antonio to manage, so my chewing is often disturbed by the antagonizing sound of Crayola hitting the carpet.

There's more sauce on this kid's face than I normally get to digest

* My restaurant preference means absolutely nothing

It used to be where I could pick and choose where I wanted to dine. Now? Whichever place is closest and "kid friendly" gets the nod. This is rarely ever Hooters.

There are a slew of other reasons why taking kids out to eat is a dreadful experience (the constant need to wipe their faces, they suddenly decide they don't like what was previously their favorite food), but I don't want to discourage even more people from procreating. Apparently, since the debut of this blog, Trojan stock has risen 34%.

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And as always, feel free to share with someone who can relate (post to your Facebook, Twitter, MySpace - yes, that last one is a joke).

Thanks for reading!


-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero
My Podcast is live Monday, 9/12 at 8 PM ET @ www.livestream.com/courtesyflush!

Start Spreading the Blues

My reckless sperm just created a baby- go buy me something!

When you're trying for a baby (read: strategically banging your spouse at the behest of a completely romantic fertility monitor), there are few things in life as exciting as telling your family and closest friends that you're finally expecting. You feel like you really accomplished something. You feel like a proud fifth grader who, after studying for hours (and drunk) was rewarded kindly with an A on his science test. The only difference is that in nine months time, the science test won't be waking you up at ungodly hours with no rational explanation at all.

My experiences "spreading the news" for kid #1 and #2 were as different as it gets, as were the plans to conceive them. With our first, Antonio, we tried for a while. We knew we were ready. At least my wife was. I'm still currently questioning if I am. I just knew I was ready for the conceiving part of the deal. So we tried and tried. But we didn't tell people we were (if it needs to be said, telling others you're "trying" for a baby is just plain gross). So, first to our parents, then to siblings, then to close friends, then to an apathetic Facebook community, we shared our news. It was exhilarating. Despite the palpable feeling of embarrassment that goes along with essentially telling someone "I had sex with your daughter/sister," it was a total joygasm. We knew the name, we had the room, it was high fives all around.

Our second (Nathan) was a tad different. For starters, it wasn't in any way planned. At all. Like, that time you wore two different colored shoes to work was more intentional than this. And also, we were already running short on room with just one kid. It'd be an understatement to say concern set in. Then, the next step was to share the news with family, which was fun....damentally awkward.

So, naturally, reactions ranged from stunned to downright angry as some believed it was too early to have baby #2. You would think we had told them our intent to shave the neighborhood squirrel population and use their fur as beards with the blank expressions we were met with. Some verbal reactions were as follows:

"I think it's too soon."
"At least you'll save money on boys' clothes."
"Better you than me."
"You need to start using rubbers."

While all of these statements are probably true, I didn't appreciate them at the time. Nor did I appreciate the significant downturn in visitors we had with our second. I'm sure plenty of you have experienced the same, but it felt like our first was Back to the Future (a classic, incomparable film) and our second was Back to the Future 2 (outstanding film, hurt only by the fact that it was preceded by a classic). Do I even need to bring up the third movie?

This probably explains why, as a second child, I've always felt generally unfulfilled. And it's not because I was treated second rate by my parents or because my greatest accomplishment in my youth was finishing third place in the rope climb, but it was because I was Back to the Future 2. Or worse, Caddyshack 2. Here's to all you sequels out there who never brought in the box office that the first film did!

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And feel free to share this like the plague!

Next topic: The joys of taking the kids out to eat!

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero
My Podcast: www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com