My Awful Experience Teaching My Son to Ice Skate

They say those who can't do it, write about it. And that expression has never been more true than when I speak of ice skating. Frankly, it baffles me that there are actually people who consider this recreation. Till now, I've kept my disdain for this activity under wraps, believing that I would be seen as a fossil who'd lost his child-like spirit. But I fucking hate it. If given the choice between ice skating at Rockefeller Center and manually chopping down its Christmas tree with a dull butter knife, I'd seriously have to think about it.

So, you can imagine my surprise Saturday morning when I overheard Sonia joyously asking my almost 3-year-old son Antonio if he wants daddy to take him to endure this very activity. I'd never wanted him to have a tantrum of defiance so badly before, but he was totally for it! I was totally not. It was like asking Ray Charles for driving lessons.

For the remainder of Saturday morning, I lobbied for Sonia to take him. I complained of a sore back, I made sure I paid more attention to Nate to intentionally piss Antonio off. None of that worked, and by 1:00, I was packing Antonio into the car on our way to the Ice Vault, in Wayne. Fucking a.

We walked into the ominously large building and were immediately greeted by the rental station/ticket window. It reminded me of the first time I went skiing in 1998, the seasoned pros shushing past my clueless, inexperienced ass while I meekly tip-toed up to the cashier, hoping I wouldn't say anything stupid that might reveal my novice status. I tried (in vain) to approach the counter with confidence, asking for an adult size 10 skate, and sought counsel on what size I should get for Antonio.

I said, "He wears a size 9 shoe, so wouldn't that mean he's a 10 in ice skates?"

The snobby winter sport buff behind the counter mumbled, "No, he'd be a 9." I immediately realized how ludicrous my question must've sounded. But it turns out I was right! Antonio said the 9s were too tight- not that Sammy Snowshoe acknowledged the erroneous judgment call. Move to Vermont and listen to Phish albums. Dick.

I never realized what a fundamentally bad idea ice skating was until I was forced to teach it.

So, what I realized the hard way (is there any other way?) is that simultaneously putting ice skates on yourself and a rambunctious 3-year-old is akin to juggling chainsaws while boxing a kangaroo- it's seriously scary shit. If I put his on first, he'll start trying to leave while I'm desperately forcing my shell-shocked feet into my own. If I put mine on first, I'll have to awkwardly kneel while struggling through the process of ensuring his shoestrings are looped around each one of those 27 hooks. I decided to go the awkward route. Pain and discomfort immediately ensued to form a formidable duo, wreaking havoc on my brittle soul.

Now...if you need to be reminded how out of shape you are, lace up a pair of ice skates (which, regardless of what size they are never feel like they fit). I've never, in my life, felt comfortable on ice skates. Probably because I've never, in my life, been in shape. It is an intense, totally un-fun physical workout for a part of my body that calls cushion-y Pumas home. No sooner did I hit the ice when my feet are screaming for mercy. Six-year-old girls are effortlessly gliding past me as I valiantly grab the railing on the side of the rink while holding an even more unbalanced Antonio under my other arm. Not even a minute on the ice and I'm grunting like I'm Fat Bastard dropping a wintry mix into a toilet bowl. Despite how transparent my unhappiness is, I still manage to squeak out an "Isn't this awesome?!" to Antonio. He actually nods! It was clearly time for me to plant the hate seed in his impressionable mind.

Fifteen minutes into my Clark Griswold impression and we're not even halfway around the rink, as I whispered disparaging remarks like "I don't blame you if you want to go home" and "wow, this is so much less exciting than the couch." And the overall delay was partly due to my inability to carry a 30-pound human across a frozen surface and partly because I had no motivation to circumnavigate said rink, aside from another lap (and no one, Antonio included, wanted that). So, the first chance my reluctant yet accommodating son got he shouted, "There's a door!" while pointing to the nearby penalty box. I can't be sure whether he wanted off the ice because of his own inabilities or to avoid being dragged recklessly across the ground like the tarp at Yankee stadium. Either way, I was happy to be done, despite the $27 I paid to be reminded I am not an athlete. I crumbled to the floor, looking up at an amazingly docile Antonio who gazed at me like he often does when he realizes I'm losing my shit.

Then, to my horror and surprise, he grinned and said, "I can come back here with Tyler!"

Here's hoping he develops a strong affinity for chess in the meantime.

Thanks for reading, as always. Pass along if you enjoyed!


-Joe DeProspero
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A Typical Morning...

I'm often asked what a typical morning is like for me as a parent (okay, no one really asked, but let's pretend they did). So, I figured I'd go through a standard morning in the DeProspero house.

For starters, the night before this typical morning I was woken up four times in the middle of the night. Once because Nate's reflux caused him to awaken screaming like a burn victim, twice because Antonio inexplicably called for me while pounding on his security gate because he prefers that I sleep next to his bed on the floor, like a dog, and is angered when he discovers I am sleeping comfortably on a mattress. And the fourth time is because I forgot to turn my Blackberry off and a totally unnecessary Facebook notification has caused my phone to vibrate violently on the nearby dresser before crashing to the floor. So, needless to say, I'm pretty fucking tired in the morning..

Despite the fact that I'm technically already awake multiple times in the AM hours, let's say that my morning starts when Sonia kisses me goodbye at about 6:45, when she leaves to catch her bus to NYC. When I hear the door close behind her downstairs, I take a deep breath, and then I don't breathe again until the kids are awake. Because it's almost like they have a sixth sense. They know I'm alone and helpless against their powers. So, even though my alarm isn't scheduled to go off until 7:15, Nate will start stirring in his crib at about 6:55. Yeah, thanks.

So after trying in vain to rock Nate back to sleep, I change and feed him a full hour before I normally would want to. This is especially unfortunate because by 7:30, I've completely run out of ways to entertain him, leaving me to dangle things in front of his face like the remote control, my phone, or his own sock in hopes that he'll become enthralled.

Then, Antonio will wake up. And holy shit, back up when this happens. It starts with hurried footsteps, and is followed by abrasive banging on the aforementioned security gate, coupled with frantic yelping. It's hard to distinguish what words he's saying, but I figure out that anything resembling an "m" word is "mommy." This spells disaster. So after he sees my face and not Sonia's, he begins maniacally hopping around his room, flailing his arms around like he's swatting mosquitoes from his face, while Nate rightfully stares at him like he's nuts. Antonio gets so worked up that he projectile vomits on his dresser. Instinctively, I wipe it off with my own sleeve. I can't very well wear that to work, so I end up swapping my vomit shirt for another shirt that doesn't necessarily match my pants, which I will only determine once I'm already at work.

Once his impression of an epileptic concludes, Antonio settles comfortably onto the couch as I have approximately five minutes before I need to be out the door. He then insists that he wants to watch Team Umizoomi. I know he's particular so I ask which one. "The one with the moon in it!" I ask him to elaborate and get the same reply. How the fuck am I supposed to track down such a vague-sounding episode? So, of course, I put on the wrong one and he gets pissed. He refuses to eat breakfast out of spite. Still not sure how that is supposed to hurt me, but anyway...

After the inevitable struggle where Antonio continually strips his jacket off because he doesn't want to go to school, I am left with little choice but to carry him around like a football so his arms don't swing into my face and legs don't swing into my balls. He never likes the position but my face and genitals are most gracious.

Naturally, Antonio and Nate simultaneously shit their pants the second I open the garage door to go outside. My awful conscience won't allow me to let it sit there. Add ten minutes onto the morning commute.

By the time we've gotten into the car and hit the road, Antonio has inexplicably changed moods for the sixth time after spotting a random toy he left in the back seat. Thank you, 3-year-old attention span. But that won't stop him from transitioning back to terror once it's time for me to drop him off. I try to ease his mind by calling Sonia, but he just stares at the phone like he suddenly doesn't know how to use it. So I drop poor Nate off, trip over Antonio who is unfortunately standing a few centimeters next to me. Then I point at a random object like a doorknob or a window and run the other way.

After both kids are safely weeping in their respective rooms, I scamper to my car where I notice I left Antonio's back pack on the passenger's seat! I then have to strategically maneuver through the daycare center like Woody from Toy Story, hoping no one notices me. It doesn't work quite as well as Pixar would leave you to believe.

So, after the chaos subsides, I take the lonely, unfettered drive to work, wondering what foreign substance is now caked onto my glasses frames as I peer into the rear view and notice how awful I look. I mess with my hair a little, but I still look awful. I limp into the office, yawning the entire way, when I realize I left Nate's baby monitor in my jacket pocket, so my in-laws won't have it for his afternoon nap. As I grunt to myself, I hear a young, single, vibrant co-worker declare that they need a vacation. I, then, declare that I need a shotgun.

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And please, share this with someone you like.

Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
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