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

A Parent Chaos: Show Me Something Good

I'll admit, I used to scoff at parents who would plop their toddler in front of a TV screen, blindly turn to the most accessible kid's show (whether it be on cable or DVD) and go about their business without even so much as a "Hey, Johnny, it's Barney time!" accompanied by a silly, wide-eyed grin. I mean, can't these people tear themselves from folding towels and wiping the residual pee off the toilet seat for five minutes to actually interact with their child? I would often ask myself that in my head. Then, I had children of my own. And I now feast on Nick Jr. like a crow on roadkill.



Current kid's shows are the exact definition of a mixed bag (read: shit bag). While they help you accomplish tasks around the house you otherwise couldn't (like walking farther than five feet from your kid without him or her screaming like a burn victim) , they are a far cry from Picture Pages and Sesame Street. Today, we've got The Fresh Beat Band, which, if I have to say it, is intolerably rage-inducing. The show involves four nauseatingly upbeat band members who, in a nutshell, always have an insanely simple task to complete that the white DJ kid manages to fuck up by being so annoying he distracts everyone else. Said DJ kid, Twist, is as likable on the show as a house fly at dinner. I guess I should've been more specific when I prayed that my kids would get into music.

"I can't believe they cast me as the God damn keyboardist and not the white dude," says Shout through gritted teeth.

Possibly the ruler of the roost in this new crop of kiddy crack programming is Yo Gabba Gabba! , which comes across less like a kid's show and more like a bad acid trip. From what I can tell, the show revolves around a black man wearing an orange leotard and any celebrity who happened to be in that city while they were filming that episode. Oh, and there are robots and bright colors. And every once in a while, as if the network put it in the show's contract, the robots will shout out "A, B, C!" or some other vague scholastic reference, so Nickelodeon can pawn it off as educational. Brilliant. I'd say more about this program but my wife turns it off when it's on. And when my wife isn't there, I'm usually too busy playing Words with Friends anyway.



Sesame Street had (and still has) character. Actually, plenty of characters. I always celebrate internally when Antonio tells me he wants to watch "Sess-Me Street" instead of Ni Hao, Kai Lan. Not that Ni Hao is so awful, but I'd rather my son learn the alphabet while I get to appreciate the adult-accessible inside jokes Grover makes than sit through 23 minutes of melodrama because Tolee the talking koala needs his precious fucking ego stroked because he finished last in a foot-race. So, if your kid is at the age where he or she is starting to recognize the addictions of being a couch potato, I highly suggest you guide them in your own selfish direction. That's part of being a parent, after all.



Don't get me wrong; there are a handful of kid's shows that actually provide valuable lessons to children. Dora the Explorer, for example, encourages viewers to help her get from one place to another by using a map- which would be totally useful if in 16 years, when our kids are actually driving maps still existed. Go, Diego, Go! spun off of Dora (it's the Frasier of the cartoon world) and involves Dora's cousin, Diego, running through the rain forest and helping animals in peril. While it provides decent lessons in offering assistance to those in need, it also encourages kids to run into the woods with a pet jaguar (not a great lesson).



No need to panic if you're considering having kids and now worry about losing your precious TV time to your toddler. It's going to happen, so the sooner you release control, the easier it'll be. Kind of like a colonoscopy. Only difference is during a colonoscopy, you're fortunate enough to be unconscious.



Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And feel free to share this with someone who can relate. Thanks to those who have already! Glad you're enjoying the telling of my little journey.



-Joe DeProspero

jdeprospero@gmail.com

Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero

My Podcast: www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com