A Parent Chaos: Don't Ask, Don't Tell

If you couldn't tell by my previous posts, I'm a big pet peeve guy. In short, I'm easily annoyable. But since I became a dad, the tolerance for those annoyances has decreased by no less than 45%. That's almost 50%! Aside from the obvious struggles that you face as a parent (maintaining nap schedules, staying relevant to your non-parent friends, shitting without interruption), there are certain things people will insist on telling or asking you. Every one of them eats away at my spirit in a special and unique way. Let's get to them.

* Is he walking yet?

He's two and a half, you dolt. He's been walking for like 700 straight days, at least five of them being with you. He probably finished ahead of you in the NYC marathon. He can do the moonwalk and cartwheels. Thanks for fucking noticing.

* Sleep when the baby sleeps!

People will tell you this like it's some kind of sage advice. They'll say something like, "Keeping up with the baby making you tired? Just sleep when the baby sleeps!" Oh, you mean when I actually have precious minutes to myself without a child screaming into my ear? That time is reserved for preparing dinner, catching up on DVR so you're less than 90% full, quick emotionless sex, and just staring blankly at the wall wondering what to do with yourself. If there's time after all that, then maybe I'll sleep. But those other things just seem so much more important to accomplish.


* Enjoy every minute; it goes by so fast!

Oh Christ, talk about a tall order. Every minute? Sometimes they pee in your face when you're changing their diaper. You try enjoying every minute of THAT. And it goes by so fast? Thanks for the warning, Father Time, but I'm pretty sure the clock runs at the same speed regardless of my enjoyment levels.

* I'm so tired from all the orgies and partying I partook in until 3 am last night.

If you don't feel sympathy after hearing about my late-night struggles with Antonio because he woke up projectile vomiting all over my Led Zeppelin t-shirt, you certainly cannot expect my sympathy because you're tired from doing blow with Skeet Ulrich on a school night. As a parent, there is nothing more infuriating than hearing a kid-less friend complain of exhaustion from too much fun.

* Wow! He's such a big baby!

So, my kid's fat. That's what you're saying. Got it. This is acceptable I guess before the child turns one. But after that, you're just rubbing it in. At that point, I'm already aware that my offspring needs to be put on the South Beach Diet. And by the way, you're a fatty too.

This isn't my son. I just googled "Fat Baby + Weird"

* Is it a boy or a girl?

It's wearing a green onesie, a Jets football jersey, a beer helmet, and it has a crew cut and a mustache. It's a boy.


Try not to think I'm a huge jerk for listing these quotes, as I'm sure everyone reading has said at least one of them before. And I suppose it's human nature to spout out a cliche every now and then. But that doesn't mean I have to like it. By the way, if you re-read this and pretend I was talking about a pet snake, it's even better.

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And share this with someone who can relate!

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
My Podcast: www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com

A Parent Chaos: The Worry-Free Plan

People will give you advice when you become a parent. And you won't have to ask for it. Whether it be regarding items you'll need to make your life easier, specific and weird breastfeeding techniques or ways to sneak sex with your spouse in so your napping kids won't catch on, some people feel compelled to share their wisdom (read: idiocy) with you. But what they don't tell you is how to thwart your parental responsibilities onto others with childish antics. And folks, that's what I'm here for.

Despite taking my parenthood quite seriously, I would go out of my mind if I shouldered every burden that it threw at me. And if I went out of my mind, my wife and kids would go out of their respective minds. And I really don't want that to happen. Would you?

So, instead I keep myself regular by using a series of well-planned, deflective tactics to ensure my sanity. For one, I figure out the poop schedule. Eventually, we all fall into patterns for when we eat and dispose of waste, and babies are no different. And I exploit it. I figure out a time range for when my sons might be releasing their meals into their diapers and make myself scarce during that time. In the rare instance where I'm in the same room as them when it happens, I simply say, "Hmmmm, does somebody smell something?" And then I wander outside to take the garbage out. Please note that this method is only successful when another adult is in the vicinity.

Another thing I do after putting Antonio down to sleep is I just sort of hang out for a while in the dark. The first 10 minutes or so I can justify since he whines when I leave right away, anyway. But after that, it's Blackberry time! I systematically point my smart phone away from the crib, so the light from it won't wake him up, and allow myself some quality "me" time while simultaneously soothing Antonio to sleep- I'm sure he can sense my calming presence in the chair next to his crib. Anyway, this hasn't worked lately, as Sonia's onto me and routinely whispers, "Hey! I know you're playing Word Mole in there! I need you to take the baby so I can pee!" through the closed door. It was fun while it lasted.

Probably the most reprehensible thing I've been guilty of doing is pretending to be asleep when either of my sons woke up at 3 am for a bottle feeding. Being a musician with a fairly keen sense of timing (I can rattle a tambourine like no other), I'm able to breathe in and out deeply in precise three-second increments. Couple that with an occasional grunt and it can be convincing as hell. You have to be careful not to sniffle, cough or tap your foot to keep the tempo, though. That's a dead giveaway that you're conscious and bottle-ready.

Smiling while "sleeping" is a clear tell. This guy's an amateur.

Clearly, I've been caught in the act more often than I've been successful, and rightfully so. But that doesn't mean it's not worth trying when you've had a real shitty day at work and your only salvation from the chaos is to pretend you're going to the bathroom and whip out your phone for a quick game of Brickbreaker. Just sayin'.

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And share this with others who'd enjoy!

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
My Podcast: www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com

A Parent Chaos: The Name Game

You don't need to be a parent to relate to the struggles and frustrations of having to name something. Pick any nameable entity- a doll, pet, even a southern body part, and odds are you spent a considerable amount of time deciding what you'd be shouting at it for the next several years (although, I sincerely hope you're not yelling at a doll or a penis). For my part, I've always been horrible at the name game. Having played in three bands and a songwriter for most of my life, you would think I had enough practice to give a "title" to my children. But, not so fast.

The first thing we should talk about is that everyone, and do I mean everyone, thinks their taste in baby names is superior to others. In general, people think their taste in just about everything is superior to others, and gasp at the thought of you giving your child a name that isn't on their exclusive list. And if you happen to be a parent in the midst of this struggle, remember just one thing- people are fucking morons.

Aside from your own indecisiveness, you also have to deal with the aforementioned skewed views of everyone in your life who thinks their opinion matters. First, you'll have those who just flat out don't like the name you selected.

"Dante? Really? You guys actually like that name?" Thanks for being tactful, Aunt Rose.

Then, you'll have those who don't like the name because it reminds them of someone who wronged them one time in 1973 in a totally insignificant way.

"Oh, please don't name her Francesca. I knew a receptionist named Francesca and she had a lisp and bad hair." Phew, thanks for the warning!

Naming my first son was easy. The family was sitting around one day, throwing out different combinations we liked. I think it was my dad who threw out Antonio Joseph, since we said we wanted to honor both grandfathers, if possible. And so it was. Everyone seemed to like it, and my overly white friends who were frightened of an ethnic name like Antonio called him AJ. Done deal.

Let me clarify that even though we named my first son after both grandfathers does not mean I condone sacrificing taste in the name of tribute. If your collective dads' names are Robert and Raul, don't name your poor son Raul Bobby. I'm sure they (Raul and Bobby) will understand if you opt for something that doesn't sound completely ridiculous. And your son will get his ass kicked a lot less. It's a win-win.

My second son, however. Different story. We made the mistake (which we would never do again) of telling family and friends alike what our name choices were. It was between Leo, Benjamin, and Nathan. There was exactly one person who was rallying for Nathan (me) and my campaign was running on fumes by the time we hit the delivery room. But I did have a glimmer of hope. Sonia liked Nathaniel, and she said she'd agree to that name if he looked like one. That's what I was banking on, the baby looking like a Nathaniel. I thought I was finished, mainly because I never believed anyone looked like a name. As it turned out, Sonia thought he did look like a Nathaniel! I got my name (kinda)! But there was one problem- I was the only one excited about it. Since we'd shared our group of names, people in the family had already started referring to him (while still in the womb) as Leo or Ben. We knew this announcement would go over like a Metallica sighting at a Napster convention.

Two days after he was born, when we came to the name decision, we finally made the phone calls we'd been dreading. The reaction was just about what we expected.

"Hmmmmmm, okay."

"Nawhat? I can't even pronounce that."

"Oh well." (my personal favorite)

It was a tough five minutes to get through. It felt like we were American Idol judges and were sending lackluster contestants home who hadn't made the cut to go to Hollywood. In the end, though, I'm happy we stuck to our guns, and suggest you do the same when it's your turn. You won't make everyone happy, but when will you ever? So make yourself happy. Just close the blinds before you do.

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And share this with someone who can relate!

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com

My Podcast: www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com

A Parent Chaos: Vacation Frustration

Having plenty of friends who don't have children, I constantly find myself in the middle of conversations where they are reminiscing about or anticipating a Hawaiian vacation, filled with tropical drinks and carefree frolics up some quaint path, enjoying the tranquility of the sea air while shamelessly sporting a loud, gaudy button-down shirt. And I just want to punch them in the face. With rings on.

I just returned from a trip to Cape May, NJ with my wife, two sons and my wife's family. And I will assure you of this: There were no tropical drinks, no carefree frolics, and certainly no tranquility or gaudy button-down shirts. Now don't get me wrong, I love my family and enjoy spending time with them. But this was no vacation. Dictionary.com defines vacation as: a period of suspension of work, study, or other activity, usually used for rest, recreation, or travel. Suspension of work used for rest and recreation? Ha! I've never worked harder. And the only thing resting was my libido.


The first thing, of course, to consider when planning a trip with children is the packing process. And it is a process. The items we brought for our beach vacation included the following: diapers, wipes, onesies, pack n' play, double stroller, baby tent, baby swing, nap nanny (big piece of foam they charge you over $100 for), and that's not including any of our stuff! The list necessary to encompass all of these things is longer than the list of names on Wilt Chamberlain's headboard.


One thing I will note before there are any misconceptions about my parental work ethic is that my wife is a much more patient, thorough parent than I am. She plans all of their meals, outfits and overall care yet I'm the one blogging about how hard it is. In related news, after Sonia's second c-section, I complained I had cramps after carrying her flowers to the car. Hey, cut me some slack, I'd just eaten a ham sandwich.


So, we left for Cape May last Sunday about two hours later than we thought we would. Some (most) of that was my fault. Rather than helping pack the kids' suitcases, I opted instead to sit and watch Toy Story 2 with Antonio, my older son. He's at the age now where I can pawn off watching movies I actually enjoy as "spending quality time with my son." Since we left late, we hit a storm on the way there. Well, technically three storms. One of which was the torrential downpour outside, one of which was Antonio valiantly trying to escape his car seat and leap out the window, and one of which was Nate helplessly screaming for a bottle like he was Kirstie Alley and we had him shackled to a desk with nothing but cucumbers and watercress. We got to Cape May after the rest of the family was already out to eat, so we drove to meet them. I dropped Sonia and the kids off at the front and searched for a spot. You'd think it was December 24th at the mall with the parking that was available to me. I ended up parking seven blocks away and stepping directly into a five-inch deep puddle upon my exit from the car. Since I left Sonia with both kids, I was also forced to carry her pink diaper bag with me seven blocks to the restaurant, kid toys intermittently going off with each frustrated step. Clearly, I sacrificed my dignity (not to mention dry shoes) for a few minutes to myself.


Later that night, I received a text message from my mother that read, "Now have a drink and enjoy yourself." It may or may not have been accompanied by a smiley face. Either way, I got a kick out of that. About 90 seconds after reading the text, Antonio head-butted me in the groin. Then, I helped unpack the kids' bags and prepped the baby's bathtub. After that, I tried urinating, which I hadn't done since about Exit 50 when Antonio started pounding on the bathroom door, saying something that resembled, "Come out, play with me!" Which I did, while hurriedly shaking the rest of the urine out and zipping up. Then I put Antonio to sleep, which consisted of the reading of two books, then three books, then a re-reading of the first book. Thankfully, I can still paraphrase like nobody's business and he's way too naive to catch on. Shortly thereafter, I sat on the couch to check on my Words with Friends games on the iPad. Unbeknownst to me, Sonia was still unpacking one of the kid's suitcases. Reluctantly, I stood back up and joined her. I'm still waiting for that drink.


What I haven't mentioned yet is that the day we left for this trip, Antonio was diagnosed with coxsackie virus. In a nutshell, it's a virus that involves painful blisters on your hands, feet and mouth and, of course, is contagious. Considering we were bringing a two month old and meeting my niece and nephews, this couldn't have happened at a better time! Score! And despite it being a virus mainly contracted by children, who do you think got it on the second day of the trip? Wait for it.....me. By the time I'd even sniffed the beach, I had five blisters ranging from my throat to my inner gums, rendering any scallop or crab cake that touched my lips completely unenjoyable and pointless. Sonia got some less antagonizing blisters on her feet. I would have gladly walked across hot coals for just one painless nibble of a lobster tail. And here I thought coxsackie was an STD!

Speaking of the beach, a hardship I face is my constant need for optometric crutches, aka glasses. Since I can't wear a contact in my left eye (don't ask), I'm forced to either walk around half-blind, leaving brightly colored landmarks to indicate where my stuff is OR wear my prescription sunglasses and pray that I'm smart enough not to lose them in the water. And now with my sons, I can't very well walk around without vision and risk holding the hand of some random Vietnamese kid for 45 minutes before I even realized something was awry. Regardless of that risk, Sonia (and pretty much everyone in my family) thought it was idiotic to head into the surf without at least a strap on my glasses. But, anyway, I threw caution to the wind and opted for the optics, choosing to wear my $300 special prescription lenses into the water. I noticed both my sons were covered- one by a tent and one by his cousins. So I figured I was free to play! I hopped gleefully onto the board and paddled out into the ocean. As I did, I noticed a big wave starting to swell. The last thing I remember hearing is my brother in law, Jim, yell to my seven-year-old nephew Nick, "This one's big, get under the water!" I then tried riding the wave and my sunglasses were ripped from my face as quickly as Kim Kardashian's panties by a marginally successful professional athlete. I emerged from the water shouting, "Help! Help!" like an old, frail lady whose purse had been stolen. Nearby swimmers showed mild to vague interest before returning to their normal, carefree lives three seconds later. To her credit, my wife did not say, "I told you so." Instead, she said, "I hope you learn from this mistake." It stung about 7% less.

Me, with my regular specs, apologizing to the ocean for not respecting its heartless powers

I woefully moped back to our umbrella, and then to the beach house, where I gave the surfer dudes my info "in case anything shows up." A bronzed, shaggy-haired gentleman I could barely see replied to me, "Bro, you're better off coming next year. That's when they'll wash up." Clever attempt at gaining repeat business, Dylan McKay. Somewhere in that ocean is a lobster who's sporting Oakleys and getting serious tail. Get it, tail?

If you haven't deduced this yet, I'm kind of a scatterbrain in my personal life. If you need proof, here's some. I also co-run a fantasy football league. My wife doesn't understand it, kind of in the same way I don't understand her interest in The Real Housewives of NJ. But that's life. So, in planning my fantasy football draft (where all 12 of us get together to select our fictional teams for the year), I accidentally planned it for the day we were coming home from Cape May. It was too late to change it by the time I realized. This meant we had to be diligent about packing the car early, eating breakfast and being on the road by no later than 11:00 AM, and hoping beyond hope there were no tractor-trailer accidents or, like, other cars on the road. Turns out, plenty of other cars were on the Parkway that afternoon- on a Sunday in the summer, who'd have thought?! So I wound up being late to my own fantasy football draft, making my picks over the phone, while cringing every time my son Nate started to stir, because that might mean us pulling over to feed him. Clearly, my priorities are as straight as Liberace.

The night before we left, the whole gang of us gathered at the very popular Lobster House, right near the entrance to Cape May. We waited nearly two hours for a table, but it was worth it because the food was sensational. At least that's what everyone told me, including my son who wolfed down a plate of chicken tenders and fries. Me? I wouldn't know. I winced through crab meat au gratin, the heat from the cheese stinging my blisters with each painful bite. But at least I finally got my drink. A strong Jack n' coke, which of course burned my blisters even more. But at least it numbed my soul.

Aside from the obvious niceties of being with my wife and both my sons on the beach for the first time all together, one little nugget made me laugh pretty hard. While at Lobster House, my inquisitive nephew Joe, who is almost 10, asked me if he'd still be alive when our country ran out of oil. I told him "probably not" and he let out a joyous "Awesome!" Gotta hand it to him. He put more thought into his future at age nine than I ever have.

Till next time, be strong and stay sane! And share this with someone who needs a laugh at my expense.





-Joe DeProspero

jdeprospero@gmail.com

My Podcast: www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com

A Parent Chaos: Guilt to Last

"Don't worry, son. I'll be back soon." "Up yours, dad!"

Of all the emotions you feel when you have children, one that stands tall above nearly all others is guilt. At least for me. And as they get older, the number of ways in which they can make you feel guilty increases exponentially. Sure, when they’re infants, they gaze in the general vicinity of your face and when you drop them off at your parents to go get hammered and black out with the boys and listen to George Michael, the guilt is minimal since they don’t know who the hell you are anyway. But once they obtain the ability to speak actual words, the first thing they’ll say is something along the lines of, “Don’t leave me!” or better yet, “Fuck you for existing for reasons other than to wipe my ass!” At least that’s what it feels like they’re saying.

I remember the first time I had to drop my older son, Antonio off at day care. He was about four months old and, despite having met the caregivers at the center and getting a good vibe from the staff, it felt like I was returning a dog to the pound. And being a pessimist, I was sure he’d be neglected, left face-first on the cold tile floor while other kids frolicked around him and used his back as a chess board (assuming they’d already honed the skill). In fact, after the initial drop-off, I literally ran out of the building, fending off sobs until I got to my car, when the waterworks really turned on full-force. Failing to remember I didn’t have tinted windows, I made eye contact with a toddler outside my door, who I’m sure asked his flustered mother why the man in the pink Polo shirt was openly weeping while AC/DC’s “Back in Black” roared through his substandard speaker system. It was sad on several levels. Especially for the kid outside my car who had me to look up to as a male figure.

Although incredibly disheartening and insanely embarrassing, this was nothing compared to what I’d encounter when Antonio was about a year old. Seemingly overnight, he went from not giving a shit that I was leaving to acting as if I was dropping him off with Casey Anthony. He would clutch my leg and shout indecipherable words through tears, as I tried to calmly explain that the ladies I was leaving him with (probably) wouldn’t kill him. Then, out of nowhere, one of the caregivers would say something like, “Hey, Antonio, want to see the school bus outside? It’s a magic bus!” And he’d just stop and be fine. It’s amazing how an exuberant vocal tone and just the right amount of bullshit will settle a child. What the fuck is a magic bus, anyway? Whatever it is, brilliant.

With the birth of my second son, Nate, I’m back to square one. Having the two of them together is always interesting (if not pants-shittingly frightening). Making sure Antonio doesn’t start coloring on the wall while simultaneously ensuring Nate doesn’t suffocate himself on his own blanket have created a new series of challenges I don’t recommend for anyone who likes being sane and keeping their hair. But at the same time, it’s nice to know both of them will go through this phase where they can’t bear the thought of me leaving them. If only any of my ex-girlfriends had reacted similarly to me exiting a room. *Sigh*

And if you’re wondering whether my children are Catholic or not, you need look no further than their pension for guilt. I was staying overnight in NYC for work one night a couple months back, and my wife called me frantically at 10 PM because Antonio refused to sleep without me there. Flat out refused. He staged such a hostile protest that he ultimately puked all over himself. I have to admit that I was flattered. My absence had never before elicited vomit. My presence, however…

So what I’ve come up with is a contingency plan. If and when my children start acting like they’ll throw a bitch fit when I leave them somewhere, I simply start to annoy them. Sing a song they don’t like, poke them in the ribs, dangle their pacifiers just centimeters away from their outstretched fingers. Anything to create a sense of relief when they no longer have to deal with my bat-shit crazy antics. You may call me crazy, but I don’t have to run out of daycare sobbing anymore.

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And share this with others you think will relate!

-jdp

jdeprospero@gmail.com

My Podcast: www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com

A Parent Chaos: The Confessions of a Clueless Dad

First off, let's properly eradicate any misconceptions right off the bat. Just because I have fathered two children does not mean I assume an "expert" title. Fornication does not equal maturation. People who live in Seattle might have more experience with rain, but that doesn't mean they can tell you with any degree of accuracy whether or not it'll downpour on your precious wedding day. So if you're looking for answers, I can assure you I have none. But what I do have is an unmatched ability to find humor in even the most serious situations (I once got thrown out of my fourth grade class for laughing at my teacher as she loudly lectured the class on the importance of being quiet). And trust me when I tell you that when my children, Antonio (2 years) and Nathaniel (7 weeks) entered my life, I found myself faced with a whole new world of serious. I found joy, too, mind you, but much like any musician worth his weight in record sales, I intend to share with you my struggles up front (then, just when I've got you where I want you, put out something cheery and poppy to make you wonder if I'm selling out). So, with that out of the way, I hope this blog becomes somewhat of an open forum for parents (and even people who observe parents) to share the absurdities and even the common every day happenings that they find extraordinary. That said, here's where my parenthood started, for people who need a back story (don't worry, I'll skip past the sex and get right to the delivery)...

It was April 21, 2009 at 9:55 pm. I know this because I flipped my phone open to check if I'd received any early congratulatory text messages. A common theme in my life is feeling under-appreciated and unnoticed, so it was with that overly self-absorbed thinking in mind that I winced when I was greeted with just the time. I sat uneasily in a rigid chair, waiting to be called into the operating room where my wife, Sonia was to give birth to our first son, Antonio via c-section. We knew his name would be Antonio. We'd known for months. It was surprisingly easy and juxtaposed perfectly by the naming of our second son, which we nearly pulled in a jury to help with (will get to that in a later edition). So I sat in this ungodly waiting room, tables and machines surrounding me. Then, the inevitable occurred. My head slung down to my knees and I conjured up that scene from "She's Having a Baby" where Kevin Bacon is left to wonder if his wife and unborn child were safe after having "complications." The emotive Kate Bush song "This Woman's Work" served as the backdrop. That was the last thought I had before my son was born. Imagining myself as Kevin Bacon, hoping my fictional family wasn't dying. If it isn't already abundantly clear, I'm a tad dramatic.

The nurse, doctor, (or janitor, for all I know) called me into the OR. The scrubs I had to wear over my feet made cute little squishy sounds with each step (what they really were squishing were my last good nights of sleep). I might as well have worn a beekeeper's mask with all the gear I was made to armor myself with. Before I could even breathe, I was positioned in a new chair, this time inches away from Sonia's prone head, a sheet separating us from her exposed guts. She asked me nervously to distract her. I said the first thing that came to mind. "I had a real hard time putting this mask on." Seriously, Joe? Not, "You are doing wonderfully, honey!" I complained about my God damn mouth guard. To a woman who was in labor 24 hours and was currently closer to me than to her own organs. Self absorption strikes again. And at the perfect time! Thankfully, she truly meant it when she asked me to talk about anything. She took the bait and started in with questions about the mask."Is the string in the back not long enough? Is it irritating your chin skin?" Man, she was desperate. It reminded me of dancing with my mother at my wedding. I knew she was about to lose it, and she asked me to tell her a joke."Ha, I can't think of one," I said, voice shaking. Can't think of one? I suck. Anyway, Antonio was born a little after 10:00 pm that night. My initial thought was, "Holy shit, I'm a father." And my immediate second thought was, "He looks fucking Chinese." Not that either of these things were a problem, but I had not envisioned myself fathering a Chinese baby. I just didn't think I was smart enough. As I went to snap a picture of him, I noticed Sonia's organs lying ominously on the operating table. One of them looked like a filet mignon. I briefly related to Jeffrey Dahmer. Then I was promptly escorted to the nursery, my poor wife still drugged and babbling in my rear view.

I won't soon forget the moment when the nurse wheeled Antonio past my parents and in-laws as I walked close behind, proudly. I hugged them one by one, which was odd since my father is not a hugger, but he's smart enough to follow a pattern when he sees one. My mother, amidst the congratulations, asked how Sonia was feeling. Dammit! I'd been hoping no one would ask me a direct question. "Good, she's good," I answered, my voice noticeably cracking from tears. I never cried in front of people. This was the one exception. This, and when I got kicked in the balls during gym class in high school. The nurse gave me an ice pack to hold there for the rest of the day. Talk about shining a spotlight on something. But anyway, over the next several days, I camped out in Sonia's hospital room while family stopped by and asked things like, "Do you feel any different?" What a filler question. When I got kicked in the balls I felt different. Sonia, she felt different from having her internal organs rearranged recklessly like the pillows on a futon. Me? I felt the same. It's like asking someone whose birthday it is if they feel any older. Ignoramuses.

Four days later, after the hospital passive aggressively showed us the door (we figured labeling our dinner the night before our "farewell meal" spelled the end of our stay), we came home to start our new life. And that, my friends, is where this blog will take us. You'll learn (as will my wife) my little tricks to get out of bottle feedings and diaper changes, the impossibly frustrating nights out at restaurants and how I inappropriately handle it, and of course, how I maintain my sanity while intermittently weeping in the bathroom with the faucet running.

I highly encourage fellow parents to contribute as "guest bloggers" here. I hope to someday have this blog transformed into this generation's next "What to Expect When You're Expecting" for dudes. So, if that's to happen, I'd like it to be collaborative! Kind of like a parental orgy, of sorts.

Till next time, be strong and stay sane.

-jdp

jdeprospero@gmail.com

My Podcast: http://www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com/

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