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
Follow me on Twitter!

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