Good God: Bringing Two Toddlers to Church

I haven't finished a prayer since 2009. That's the year my first son was born. Nowadays, when I'm kneeling in church and looking to the sky and Antonio is poking me in the ribs for his fifth snack in three minutes, I opt to be succinct and say simply, "You already know." But that said, there are plenty of reasons not to bring small children to church, but one important reason to do it anyway.

 This kid isn't actually praying. He just fell asleep and his parents pushed his hands together.

A trip to church is never without incident (read; grumbled, frustrated curses until we enter the parking lot of holiness). In fact, of all the places you can bring your children, it's easily one of the most stressful. Planning to get out the door, for instance, must begin no later than 45 minutes before the smart time of mass. Any later than that, and you're sheepishly opening the back door, hoping the priest was proactive enough to spray some WB-40 on the hinges. So, naturally, that's what happens to us every single Sunday.

We make sure both kids have sufficient fluids and snacks (as if mass is taking place in the Sahara Desert) and pack noiseless toys into a backpack and run to the car. After we've done our worst to sneak in without anyone noticing we're late, we take our seats in the back room - otherwise known as "the cry room." There's even a sign on the door going into the room that states, "This room is reserved for parishioners with small children." But apparently, the text is too small for the half-asleep college students with sweat pants and Crocs to read.  Thanks, jerks.

At this point, the priest is already halfway through his homily, which I always guiltily believe is somehow related to the sins of tardiness (if such a thing is technically sinful). Thankfully, we're far enough away from the altar where the priest can't make judgmental eye contact with us.

No sooner do we sit down when Antonio is somehow starving and proceeds to eat everything in sight. It's borderline embarrassing, since not even the babies in the room are indulging in food and drink. But he still sits there, chomping on a granola bar, not giving a shit. Sonia tries to get Antonio interested by giving him a kid bible, but the whole, "a man was nailed to a cross and rose from the dead to save the rest of us jerks" is a bit of a dark story for a three-year-old who still pees himself occasionally. He winds up using it as a coloring book, anyway.

If it needs to be said, sitting in the cry room at church and trying to actually listen is like sitting in the front row at Sea World, trying to peacefully read a book. Translation: You feel like a badass actually trying to pull it off. But then an idiot when you fail.

All in all, there are Sundays when I feel like I'm completely wasting my time. But teaching my kids the skill of shutting the fuck up for a full hour can't possibly be a bad thing.

In closing, I'll say that I do feel kind of bad cursing in a post about church. But as long as I'm not on the holy Wi-Fi network, I figure I have carte blanche. 

Till next time, thanks for reading.

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Buy my first book for only $3 here.
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#parenting

A Concerted Effort: Taking My Son to See the Fresh Beat Band

Considering the attention span of a three-year-old, there isn't much we can count on mine being focused on for longer than 15 seconds. But one of the things he consistently comes back to is the lineup of shows on Nick, Jr. The infuriatingly peppy, carefree, and crappy Fresh Beat Band, for one.

Here's who they are, in case you're lucky enough to be a 22-year-old bachelor who has never heard the name. I apologize in advance.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ZVbigFntFc

We're here to make you sing, dance, and question your very reason for living!

So, we went ahead and bought tickets to an actual concert of said band. I think there was even a pre-sale, which implies that people were so eager to purchase tickets, that they went on sale before they went on sale. Says a ton about the current state of the music industry when we're clamoring to pre-order tickets to a concert of a fictitious band. I only wish the money I put down on it was phony too.

I dropped him off at school that day, prefacing the entire day with, "Mommy and I will pick you up early and then it's straight to the Fresh Beat show!" He was beyond thrilled. Hell, even I started getting excited just to see him experience something he'd waited so long to see.  In a word, I was eager. In another word, I was embarrassed. To be eager. After all, the original Marina wouldn't even be there! (That's an inside joke for my fellow Fresh Beat sufferers)

We picked him up around the time we said we would, and naturally hit an unacceptable amount of traffic on the Parkway heading to Toms River to the Pine Belt Arena, where as it turns out this concert was taking place in a high school gym (not an actual arena, which made me feel better about the music industry, but worse about the money I'd spent on each seat). We got there 10 minutes into the performance and I could already feel the vomit start to form. But I took solace in knowing that I was doing something for my son that was as charitable as it was commendable, allowing him to live out a dream, to see his heroes live and in the flesh. So instead of puking, I simply smiled to myself. I knew it was going to be money well spent. That was, until I actually looked at Antonio's face.

The above photo displays his expression for no less than 80% of the entire concert. Complete and utter indifference. He looked how I often look when I accidentally leave a documentary about the War of 1812 on and can't find the remote. We tried asking why he wasn't more excited, of course. But he gave us the silent treatment. A part of me was silently happy. Could it be that my spawn has come to his senses and realized how terrible and ghastly this music actually is? I soon came to find out that the culprit was food-related. Yup. Despite eating strawberries, a yogurt, a granola bar, and probably a 16-oz steak on the drive down, he started whining that he was hungry. So I took him to wait on the excruciatingly long food line. At this point it was during intermission so I figured I had the time to wait on it. So, after we finally got to the front of the line, I realize I hadn't seen a single person paying with credit card. I leaned in and reluctantly asked, "Are you cash only?" The cashier nodded disinterestedly. I literally took the bag of Sun Chips and slammed it on the counter like some kind of ogre. I may have even shouted an expletive as I stormed off, Antonio dragging behind me as he begged me for just a nibble. I started to hate myself.

Fortunately, Sonia emerged and had about two dollars in quarters, which was barely enough to cover the cost of the overpriced chips. So as Antonio went out of his way to kick, scream, and do everything in his power to show he didn't deserve happiness, we begrudgingly handed him the bag of chips. Of course, this process took so long that we missed the one fucking song he claimed he wanted to hear- "Just Like a Rock Star." He couldn't have given a shit less. He just wanted a God damn snack.

At long last, we finally made our way back to our seats, just so Antonio could softly sob while making sure I couldn't reach into his bag. Then, I saw something so foreign I knew I had to snap a shot of it with my camera. Yes, folks, this actually happened, during the last song of the performance, as the "arena" started to empty...

Yes, Antonio smiled. And for a couple of seconds, his face matched the excitement he had been oozing with over the last several months. And folks, it was that exact moment when I decided NOT to jump off a bridge and die a watery, painful death.

Till next time, be strong and stay sane.

Working hard on my upcoming parenting book. Stay tuned!


-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com

Buy my first book for only $3!
Follow me on Twitter!