Paintball and Camping: A Recipe for Pain and Discomfort

When I told people I was going camping and playing paintball for the first time this past weekend, it was received with eager eyes and a healthy dose of "can't wait to read the blog!" I was surprised at first, but then I realized something. My life, and especially my shortcomings, makes people laugh. Now that I fully understand that, it makes sense that friends and family would voraciously anticipate my involvement in activities where plenty could go wrong. But seeing as this was the bachelor party for my wife's cousin's fiance and he's a really nice dude, I decided to partake. Here's how it went...

We were to arrive at the paintball site at 8:00 on Saturday morning. Seemed a bit early for pain, but there was little I could do to fight that fact. I drove in with two of my wife's cousins, Jorge and Diego. We had a hard time finding the entrance to the place as we drove down Weaver Rd. in West Milford, NJ. And as we found ourselves at the end of the street, we knew we'd somehow passed it up.

"That one long driveway back there seemingly leading to nowhere, that couldn't have been it, right?" Diego asked.

"Dude, there was a big sign out front that said, 'Keep Out. No Trespassing.' I certainly hope not!" I answered.

So, of course that was the place.

We pulled in and were greeted by even more ominous signs.

Private Property

Speed Limit:  5  (the number in front of 5 clearly was eliminated with the help of White Out)

Trespassers will be prosecuted

At this point, I started interpreting "prosecuted" to mean either "shot in the face" or "raped in the face." Seeing a security checkpoint up ahead did little to calm those fears.  Luckily, we were spared. But I still have no earthly idea how an entity that's technically a business makes a profit posting such signs.

Soon it was time to start the games. To say that I was a little apprehensive would be an understatement. Considering I manage to injure myself while helping my son change into his pajamas, the likelihood of a very painful (and humiliating) incident were quite high. I went to Modell's and bought a cup (not one you drink from) specifically for the event. It had it on as soon as I woke up that morning. I was as ready as I was going to be.

Our "session leader" was this overly vulgar strawberry blonde named Candy. She made at .least 38 sexual analogies when explaining how to protect yourself and use your gun. She later went into detail about  how to cook bear meat.  I felt like I'd been stereotyped by a stereotype.

The whistle blew and I ducked behind a thick tree. I heard other guys on my team whispering strategies to one another. I had exactly one strategy: don't die. And for those who've never tried paintball, know that it very much feels like you're at war, in a real battlefield. I was sort of hoping it would be Disney-themed, with Mickey Mouse faces painted on the guns. But this was as far from my regular environment of Nickelodeon and ice cream cones as I could get. I contemplated faking an injury, but even if I did that, walking back to base camp would almost ensure a real one. So I peered my head out from behind the tree, only to be tagged instantly with a bullet (paintball going 190 miles per hour) in the collarbone. And...it wasn't so bad! It felt like someone had lightly snapped a rubber band on my chest. I raised my arm to indicate I was hit and hustled back to base camp. While I was relieved the pain was minimal, I now had to sit and wait (with mask on) until EVERY SINGLE PERSON was eliminated and back at the base. I must've sweated out 20 pounds. Having my fogged up prescription sunglasses on UNDER the mask didn't help either. I'd already decided this paintball thing wasn't something I'd do again...and we had two more hours of it.

In games 2 and 3, my fears came to fruition. In both instances, my gun jammed. And in both instances, I was shot in the head. And yes, it hurt. What made matters worse was the second time I was shot in the head, I fell, landed on a rock, then was shot twice more while I tried to get up. For the remainder of the games, I curled up in a fetal position behind a wall. So, if that's something you like to do, you should definitely try paintball.

For the last event, the bachelor, Fernando was to "run the gauntlet." And if I didn't already question his sanity, I certainly do now. This involved 13 of us lining up in a row, Fernando running at full speed through the woods, and us shooting him as many times as possible. It yielded this result:

And this was just a fraction of the total damage.

Afterwards, we all sat around and surveyed the damage. One guy excitedly asked, "Wait, who was the guy who got shot in the head, fell down, then got shot a few more times?!" Yup, that was me. "Oh man, you got pounded!" Indeed I did.

So, in summary, if you enjoy wearing heavy camouflage gear and a mask you can't take off, hiding behind trees and having objects shot at you the speed of a race car, you should definitely try paintball. 

The group then went to lunch before heading off to the camp site. I pretended I forgot my bag home, allowing me to shower, see the kids, and not get eaten by bugs for a few hours before I made an appearance outdoors.

Compared to sweating while getting shot, going camping for the first time was a walk in the park. Sure, driving through the campgrounds and seeing broken down trailers and oddly decorated cabins was pretty unsettling, but I didn't have to wear a mask and get shot at anymore. At least I hoped I didn't.

After a few drinks, I got brave and decided to jump over the fire. People looked surprised, saying I'd be an idiot to do it while wearing flip flops. So, that guaranteed I was doing it.

The new poster in my bedroom.

After somehow clearing the fire and rocks, I had some more to drink, noticed there was a music shortage and attached my iPhone to the player and put on Nine Inch Nails. A few minutes later, I'd forgotten about my playlist responsibilities and frantically ran back to make a change once the Fresh Beat Band disastrously followed. And I learned a valuable lesson: Don't drink and DJ. My kids, they're always with me, one way or another.

As I made my way to the tent at 1 a.m., I felt a fair amount of pride in knowing that I'd faced two fears and hurdled a fire that day. It felt good. I felt inspired to conquer the world. Then I realized someone else was using my pillow and I didn't have the heart to wake him up. And of course, I woke up the next morning with a ruthless hangover. Such is life.

Hangover and all, I got home the next morning at 8:45 a.m. My four-year-old was waiting on the top of the stairs, and he looked sad. He met me halfway and we hugged. When I asked him if he'd missed me, he solemnly nodded his head and wrapped his arms around my neck. Suddenly, the paintball wounds (and my throbbing headache) didn't hurt anymore.

Thanks for reading, as always. I've only just begun.

Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here.

The California Trip

I've never been a calm traveler. From as early as age 8 when I took my first trip to Disney in Orlando, I've been a tentative, anxious flyer. It comes from being the son of a mother who had anxiety issues and a father who formed an ulcer in his mid-30s. Bottom line, I'm a worrier. If you've read any sentence I've ever constructed, you likely know this.

The night before our flight, my typically calm father-in-law (who was joining us on our trip) noticed that my anxiety level was peaking. So he leaned in and said, "Hey, don't worry. If we die, we die." Which is easy to say when you're in your 70s! I, however, wanted to live. Breaking Bad starts up again in August! So, I did my best to remain calm despite every inclination to think otherwise.

The morning of our flight, we got to the airport almost exactly two hours before our scheduled departure, which gave us just enough time to suffer through the security checkpoint and have my wife's breasts fondled by a guard because she'd brought containers of squeezable fruit that weren't transparent. It's cool, though. The guard was a woman. It was actually kind of nice, for me.

We reached our gate an hour before boarding time. And like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, there it was...a bar that was opening. My wife, in-laws and two sons were all sitting either drinking coffee or eating bagels when I saw my opening.

"I'm gonna go get a sandwich for the plane," I said.

Of course, by sandwich I meant Jack Daniels with rocks. It was 8:55 am, and even the bartender looked impressed. I overheard the hippie guy next to me say he was on the next flight to Los Angeles. So I decided to make a friend. Turns out he grew up in Jersey but had lived in LA for close to 20 years. After hearing that I had two small children flying with me, he instantly bought me a shot of Jack, while jokingly stating that he hoped my kids weren't sitting anywhere near him. He wasn't really joking, of course.

I ended up getting back to my family 25 minutes, one glass of Jack on the rocks and one shot of Jack later. I was carrying the sandwich. Hey, it was a long line. It turns out that what I drank was the perfect amount of alcohol to settle my nerves and effectively make me a more efficient parent to my sons. I was laughing with them, pointing at the little houses that were visible from the window seat, etc. Midway into the flight, my friend from the bar came stumbling down the aisle, wearing a drunken grin and holding a tiny airplane-sized bottle of Jack...which he gave to me! I was flattered, but more importantly, I was still thirsty. While I opened the bottle, the guy joked with my wife, played peekaboo with my kids and at one point, stood there awkwardly while nobody said a word. Then, he picked up my younger son Nate and joked that he wanted to take him back to his own seat. Even as drunk as I was, I raised an eyebrow. And just as he was about to make an awkward situation even more awkward, the stewardess came over and told him he needed to go back to his seat in first class. He looked sad and lonely. I felt sorry for him until I realized he was going back to his seat in first class. And until the tiny bottle of Jack gave me a massive headache.

It looked so inviting. Most catastrophes do.

By bringing two car seats on the plane as checked items, we saved ourselves nearly $200 on rental car fees. Having to carry them from baggage claim to the shuttle bus to the rental car? That's when I needed that tiny Jack bottle the most. Even if you use one of those luggage carts, the car seats are awkwardly shaped and force you to hold them in place in tandem while pushing forward. It's like trying to give someone a high-five while both of you are skydiving. It's just uncomfortable. And it gets even more uncomfortable when you rip your jeans at the crotch while trying to snap the car seat into the rental minivan, which happened, of course. I wouldn't have it any other way. And apparently, neither would my jeans.

Arriving in California was surreal. I always envisioned my first trip to Los Angeles would be as a single man pursuing an acting and/or writing career. But instead, I was living the antithesis of that. At least I didn't have to fit a screenplay into my pocket.

Going to Disneyland was about as terrifyingly expensive and magical as you'd imagine. In fact, I literally shielded my eyes away from the total price on my credit card receipt. I eventually did see it, though. It was scary...$369 for my family. Want to hear something even scarier? Nate's admission was free! And speaking of scary, we should've done some research before taking our sons on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Either this attraction is drastically different from the one in Orlando or I'm not fully remembering it correctly, because it definitely wasn't suitable for an almost two-year-old. There were three pretty significant belly drops, which left Nate screaming for mercy and Sonia did her best to cover his eyes. There were also houses on fire, eerily real-looking puppets shooting each other, and a dramatization of "wenches" being purchased as wives. I felt like DYFS would be waiting when we exited the ride.

We later got this shot to make up for it. You can tell the boys were still thinking of the wenches, though. And so was I.

We'd planned to go to the San Diego Zoo on a different day. But it closed earlier than we thought it did. The only good thing about that is it allowed me to check something off my to-do list.

                      It was quite good, but if you've had Five Guys Burgers, you're not missing much.

Since our hotel room had two full beds, Sonia and I took one and we put Antonio and Nate in the other. It was the first time they'd slept in the same bed. Considering Antonio kicks in his sleep and Nate turns his body sideways, this was the perfect plan, we thought. On the second night of the trip, we were awoken by the sound of Nate crying. Sonia found him on the floor. Apparently, he'd rolled off the foot of the bed. Sonia brought him to our room, which angered Antonio for some reason. So, we made a clean swap, with me staying with Antonio and Sonia staying with Nate, consoling them for entirely different reasons. About 15 minutes later, everyone had fallen back asleep, until a loud thud woke us up. I looked to my left and noticed I was alone. Then, the crying started. This time, Antonio had rolled off the bed. I held back from laughing until I ensured he wasn't seriously injured. He didn't see the humor in it, though. After that, we started putting couch cushions around the perimeter of the bed every night. Of course, neither of my sons fell once we did that.

The Hollywood Walk is about as touristy as you might imagine. Sure, there's the appeal of finding the star of a celebrity you actually care about, checking out the hand and footprints of the Marx Brothers, etc. The real show is when the aggressive street performer dressed as Batman photobombs your family picture and insists on a tip. Or the random group of mostly Asians marching by, preaching the words of Jesus.

 

They're a persistent, whacky group, those Californians.

The original purpose of traveling to California was to attend the wedding of Sonia's cousin who I hadn't met. Three days removed from the trip, I still haven't met him. Whenever he was around my table, I was taking a piss. Whenever I was at the table, he was getting married. I felt like Steve Martin in Father of the Bride. The only difference was nobody knew or cared who I was. At least I got to eat.

While the wedding was pretty fantastic, it was adult-only. To accommodate people like me who'd have nowhere else to dump our kids, professional babysitters were on site. They facilitated activities like face-painting, crafts, movies, etc. And having them in the same building was extremely convenient. Turns out it was TOO convenient. Being the guilty parents we are, Sonia and I felt this incessant need to check up on them, even though we knew they were with their cousins and having a blast. Just goes to show no matter how close you are to your kids, you always worry about them. Even if you're paying people so you don't have to!

                                                 Taken at the welcome reception. 1912.

While going through the security checkpoint on the way home, we were informed that our cans of Double Espresso Shots from Starbucks weren't allowed to pass. So, we did what any rational adults with two tired children and a double stroller would do. We each held one of our kid's hands while downing the drink in 10 seconds. And later I wondered why the two Xanax I swallowed didn't work.

In the end, I didn't get to do some of the things I wanted to do for myself (Iron Sheik Roast at the Comedy Store, visiting with local friends, stalking Lemmy from Motorhead at the Rainbow Bar in LA), but it hardly mattered. As a parent, I understand that sacrificing my own personal desires is part of the gig. At least when my kids were awake. Regardless, the Santa Monica Pier was heavenly, I got 657 pictures of myself in front of the Hollywood sign, and I finally understand why the Red Hot Chili Peppers write about it so much.

Till next time, California.

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here.
My comedy fiction book is available for Kindle here.

Five Truths Parents Won't Like Hearing

Nobody likes hearing the complete truth. Sure, we thrive on hearing the portion of the truth that includes our strengths, skills, and how spot-on our Jay Leno impression is. But nobody actually wants to hear the whole truth. If the truth were a TV show, no store would ever sell the complete series on DVD, because nobody in their right mind would buy it. They'd purchase individual episodes in the iTunes store. I think this analogy is exhausting itself, so let's move on.

I avoid the truth even more so since I became a parent, especially since it typically involves such notes as: you gave your kid too much apple juice and now he's got explosive diarrhea. But there comes a time when the curtains must get pulled back, when the very facts we've been avoiding since we procreated must rise to the surface and ruin a perfectly good Wednesday. Here they are, in no particular order.

1. Your kid might not be cute

This is potentially the hardest pill to swallow. But small children are just as likely to be unattractive as the rest of us, saved only by the fact that they are tiny (tiny is mistakenly perceived as cute). I'm not saying your child is hideous, but I'm simply asking you to accept the possibility that everyone you know is lying to you about their adorableness. And if they aren't cute, don't worry. It's likely they'll grow out of it. And if they don't, at least they'll make a very good accountant.

2. Your sex life is comatose

Okay, so maybe I lied about truth #1 being the hardest pill to swallow. Because this one clearly trumps it, because good luck making anything in the bedroom happen with the fear of a tip-toeing toddler sneaking in mid-thrust. So speaking of hard, plan not to be for the next several years. If you're a guy, that is. If you're a woman, be as hard as you like. At least somebody will be.

3. You will never catch up on sleep...ever

I used to be naive enough to believe that those stretches of days where I'd get two hours of total sleep per night would be outweighed weeks later when both my kids were sleeping (as the expression goes) like babies. But that never happens. They just keep waking you up when you're utterly exhausted. It's like legal fraternity hazing.

4. Your kid is going to use curse words

Despite our best efforts to shelter our innocent children from the seedy, dark corners of the English language, they're going to use the language and sculpt it as they see fit (and whether you like it or not). The best we can do is to teach them the right context and setting in which to use them. I'm not saying to sit them down for a Joe Pesci movie marathon at age 3, but as they get older and these words find ways to their ears, don't be foolish enough to think your child is waiting until they get their driver's license to let the four-letter words fly. In fact, between ages 11 and 17, they will likely do more to prepare for what they'll be shouting in traffic than for the actual driving part.

5. Someone out there could do a better job of raising your kids

I accepted this truth before I even had kids. I knew from the start that I wasn't born with a great deal of patience, intellect, savvy, disciplinary skills. You know, the foundation for any respectable parent. So, you could likely throw a dart out the window and hit someone better suited to be a guardian than me. They could tie a double knot faster than me. They could give my kid a better answer for "What does your daddy do for a living?" They might even feed my kids healthier diets, taking the extra time and money to buy only organic, scouring the Internet for product recalls and sending them to the best schools in the tri-state area. But this is the truth we all should be okay with. Because there's a reason your kid needs you and not the perfect parent (who's totally fictional, of course). It's the same reason we need Bob Dylan and not Michael Bolton. It's because, quite simply, heart outweighs technical ability.

If this list has done nothing else, I hope it has proven an overarching truth...that we're never alone as parents.

Hang in there.

Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Staff Writer, www.DoctorsEtcetera.com
Follow me on Twitter here.

Five Reasons I've Already Run Out of Patience with My Kids

There. I said it. I have absolutely no patience with my very own children. I've officially run out. I mean, I used to have some. When my older son had just turned two and started taking an active interest in Nickelodeon, I would bite my lip as he complained when I put on the very show he, himself, had requested. But it's gotten way out of control. Here are some examples of ways in which my sons have pushed my patience to the point of extinction.

1. Random Anger

He's been better about it, but Antonio has had a tendency in the past to knock down his younger brother Nate for no discernible reason. Naturally, I defend poor Nate, yanking his big brother away. For reasons known only to him, Nate then proceeds to swing wildly at ME! Makes a lot of sense, right? Well, I'm done protecting the kid. Maybe he's developed Stockholm Syndrome, where you develop affection for your captor and defend them. Whatever the case is, he's on his own.

2. Unnecessary Wardrobe Changes

As recent as this morning, my four-year-old son (that's young) insisted on changing his socks because these other socks he picked out "go with my outfit better." Did I really just fucking hear that?

3. Dropping a Phone on My Face

No, really. He dropped a phone on my face. Antonio think it's hilarious when I'm lying down next to him, mindlessly scanning my iPhone, when I lose my grip and it lands unceremoniously on my forehead. Can't blame the kid for laughing. I look like a complete tool when it happens. But last night I learned what happens when my son takes the action into his own hands. Literally. He stood on his bed with my phone in hand, giggling menacingly, before intentionally dropping the phone, making a perfect landing with the edge of it on the bridge of my nose. And, if it needs to be said, I fucking lost it.Then he got embarrassed and he fucking lost it. We were both fucking losing it and then my wife came and told us to shut up.

4. From Obsessed Stalker to Silent Treatment

The only thing worse than when my kids won't leave me alone is when they refuse to acknowledge my existence. There's simply no happy medium. They either act like Alicia Silverstone in The Crush or a disinterested cat. All within the span of three minutes. So what I'm trying to tell you is my children act like a disinterested Alicia Silverstone.

5. The Most Annoying Sound in the World

Remember that scene in Dumb and Dumber where Jim Carrey asks, "Wanna hear the most annoying sound in the world?" Well, my son makes that sound. Every. Single. Day. My wife always reminds me, "Now that they know it bothers you, they'll do it even more." I don't comprehend why my dissatisfaction with something would encourage its continuance. But I've come to realize that's a major bullet point of parenting: these kids are out to destroy us.

Thanks for reading, and feel free to send along some of your own grievances!

Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here. I post quite often.

The Dentist Visit: How My Son Surprised Me

As a parent, there are certain rites of passage you must undergo to retain your citizenship in parentville. It starts early and continues until you die. Changing a diaper, getting peed on, apologizing to a stranger, getting punched in the throat, helping with homework, missing your show because Yo Gabba Gabba had clogged the DVR storage, etc. But maybe above all others, I have been dreading the dentist visit. My four-year-old had already been to the dentist once. My wife took him since I had "meetings" at work. Truthfully, I don't know if I really did or not. I probably made it up. I just knew I wasn't ready mentally to be a hostage negotiator yet, which is essentially the comparable skill that is required of the job. I never studied such a thing in school.

So you can imagine my apprehension yesterday morning as I approached Antonio on the couch, widening my stance so he couldn't escape, before escorting him forcefully to the car. It was like kicking Lindsay Lohan out of a New York City nightclub, minus the drugs, but pretty much everything else was the same. I mean, the kid begged with such desperation, you'd think I was bringing him to be dropped into a volcano, or to see a Kevin James film.

After about ten minutes of struggle, I was able to strap Antonio into his car seat and was on the road to the dentist's office. I had mercy on him and let him sit in the car for a few minutes before heading in, which in retrospect probably only made it worse.

By the time we'd reached the door to the office, he had managed to calm himself down to a respectable in-public level, now only whispering his discontent to me rather than frantically yelping it. I assumed, of course, this was merely the calm before the proverbial storm. But I tried my best to head in the direction of serenity, directing his attention to the TV nearby that was playing an episode of Dora the Explorer. Seemed to be working. Then, the exact thing I feared that could push his panic into overdrive happened. Some other kid started screaming like he'd just been set on fire. And as Antonio's name was called and we made our way to the hygeniest's chair, I worried that the screaming would be contagious. Here's a sample of it.

Random kid screaming

I was convinced that I was in for it. Hell, the screaming even made ME start to panic! But miraculously, he was fine. Better than fine, he was an absolute angel! He didn't flinch, he cooperated fully, opening mouth wider when asked and staying focused on the Disney Jr. playing on the overhead TV. He was so centered and calm I wondered for the first time if he was actually my son. Then, after walking out of the office and immediately asking for the donut I promised him, I was reminded he was all DeProspero.

 

How do I reward my son for having no cavities? By giving him one.

And all was right with the world.

Thanks for reading.

Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here.

My First Time Hosting a Sleepover (Videos Included)

So, it worked out that I'm writing this blog about having my nephew over for his first sleepover at our house directly after my recent piece about having a third kid. It was like we wanted to test the waters and see how it would feel to be outnumbered. Here's how it went...

 Giving them cupcakes got them to sit. But it backfired later.

Before I even go into the night, I'll preface this by saying that my five-year-old nephew Tyler is seemingly tireless. As in, he doesn't tire. He's a terrific kid and Antonio worships him, but I had some concern that we just wouldn't be able to keep up and that we'd end up leaving one of our own sons babbling in our wake as we hopelessly chased after him. Well, that sort of happened. But it was me babbling in everyone else's wake.

No sooner had Tyler walked in the door when he and Antonio had set up their sleeping bags, side by side, both boys giggling with glee. It was as adorable as it was menacingly frightening. Over the course of the next several hours, I played the role of peacemaker (Antonio and Tyler argued and made up about 17 times), monster (apparently, I make a good monster for children in that I get into character, am easy to run away from, and my glasses make me completely nonthreatening), and finally, bedtime storyteller. Here's a little taste of what putting these boys to bed was like, as they laid next to each other (in sleeping bags) in Antonio's bed...

(Antonio had just mentioned his bedside toy clock and how accurate it was, to which Tyler doubted its accuracy)

Video: Talking in the dark

This conversation went on for at least another 45 minutes, which also involved Tyler's improvised version of "Rock a Bye Baby" that included the lyrics, "You're cuter than me. I love you up in the tree." I'm pleased someone in the family has inherited my penchant for songwriting.

Naturally, after eating cupcakes, popcorn, watching a movie, riding bikes, punching me in the back, they were absolutely wired and stayed up pretty late. I did my best to pretend I was sleeping, but they saw right through it. In fact, they just laughed at me. I'm used to that. Especially from children who I'm supposed to be in charge of.

Both boys were up at 6:01 am the next morning. And I finally understood how my parents felt when my sister and I would relentlessly pester them on Christmas morning at a comparable time to open presents. As adults we realize that doing anything prior to 7:30 am is for institutionalized crazy people. Or exuberant children. I fall into neither of those categories.

The next morning, at 9:00 am (that's eastern time, by the way), Antonio's weekly soccer practice started. Considering the festivities of the night before, Antonio got approximately three hours less sleep than he normally does. So you can imagine his ambition to participate in a sport early the next morning was about as strong for him as it was for me. He stood idly by as other kids scampered past him, much like my Black Lab did after it had been spayed. After a while, even the coaches gave up on him. But not Tyler. He had some words of encouragement to get Antonio motivated...kinda.

Video: Tyler motivates Antonio to play soccer

Danny Tanner would be proud.

So, with about ten minutes left in practice, Antonio just started walking to the car, like he was a bad-guy wrestler leaving mid-match. It was the first time in my life that I was happy to see him give up on something.

After both boys peed in the emergency potty we keep in the car, we met Sonia and Nate for a late breakfast, before dropping Tyler off where he immediately left for hockey practice. Two days later, I still don't think he's stopped to sit for a minute. I've scheduled an appointment at the local spa.

If you enjoyed this, please share.

Thanks for reading.

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here.

The Case For and Against Having a Third Kid

Don't worry, anyone who watches my already existing children. Sonia isn't pregnant, as far as I know. I've just been noticing a significant amount of chatter lately regarding whether I should throw caution (and any semblance of sanity or a social life) to the wind and have a third child. And there seems to be two distinct schools of thought around this. Not surprisingly, both are built around the fact that my life would effectively be over.

 I had to use this GIF, because no photos exist of three actual children cooperating at the same time

CASE FOR IT (All things I've actually heard from people who have three or more children):

* Dude, once you have two, you might as well have eight.

Now, this is how I generally feel about cookies, but I'm not completely convinced it is also applicable to offspring. I believe the thinking here is that, if you're already wired to deal with more than one kid punching you in the groin, then what's another one?

* All children are a blessing.

Now, this is the crazy nonsense that the Duggar family might tell you. And trust me, I don't believe it. Most children are an absolute burden, as evidenced by pretty much any show on television. This does nothing to sway me toward the dark side. In fact, it does the opposite.

* But don't you want to have a girl?

Sure. I'd love to have a girl.  I'd also love to walk through a mall without being approached by a man holding a remote control airplane and a chloroform-soaked towel. But some things are out of our control, aren't they?

* Come on, join the "three kid club!"

This isn't even a point. It's just people whose lives are over who want mine to be over too. #miserylovescompany



CASE AGAINST IT

* Are you an idiot?

A legitimate question I've been asked by my male friends when this subject comes up. And I have an answer. Yes. Absolutely.

* They will outnumber you guys.

Probably the best case against having a third. I mean, if you were in a tag team match, you certainly wouldn't welcome a third member on the other team, right? But if that third team member would occasionally hug you? Then you might actually consider it.

* You can't afford another child.

Kids are money-suckers. I'll give you that. But if you put one on a street corner with an acoustic and an open guitar case? They become money MAKERS. Just an idea.

* Two is more than enough.

This coming from someone with 14 tattoos, seven earrings, and absolutely no responsibilities aside from ensuring your DVR storage space is under 90% full. But tattoos, earrings and DVRs don't crap on your hands. So....okay, fair point.


Ultimately, having children at all seems downright moronic most of the time. They demand our time, money, attention and guidance 24 hours a day and rarely ever reciprocate. But I'd be interested to hear from my readers, parents or not, about your thoughts on the topic.

Should having a third child be punishable by law?

Should having any children be punishable by law?

Let's discuss.

P.S. My writing is now featured in the recently released "Parenting Gag Reel" book! Several other comedic authors are included and you can pick up the paperback here or e-book here. I'm plugging along on my parenting book as well, refining the guest editorials section and it's all starting to come together. Stay tuned!

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here.

When Your Son Realizes Yours is Bigger Than His

We're surrounded mostly by people who, at their core, are out simply to get their point across, to tell their most interesting story, to get the biggest laugh. But not kids. Kids have no agenda. They just tell the truth, no matter the consequence or how offensive it might be to others.

"Hey, son, I put you to bed tonight. Let's get your PJs on." 

"No, I don't want you. Go away." 

This kind of thing happens. Regularly. At some point, you simply develop a thick skin or just cry by yourself in the bathroom. I've done both.

But the joyous upside of this uncensored honesty is that your kids will also tell you positive things that adults normally would not. 

"Daddy, your penis is much bigger than mine," my son will say, as I relieve myself while he's brushing his teeth.

"Why yes, it is, son," I reply. And then he'll stand next to me in front of the toilet and insist that we "cross streams." Thankfully, I know that he gets that expression from me. I'd be a bit concerned if I didn't know where he'd heard it.  

My four-year-old also notices that my wife's breasts are, thankfully, bigger than mine. But the fact that he even acknowledges I have any at all indicates brownies are out of the question for a few days. And he's completely infatuated with "private parts" already...especially his own. No impromptu dance party is complete without an appearance by his butt-crack and he constantly threatens (and often delivers) to "poke me in the balls." Much like when watching a Kevin James film, I've learned to turn my body away from him. Self preservation is key.

Should I be concerned, though? Will my constant affirmation that my penis is larger than my son's ultimately yield resentment? Well, I can't say for sure, but I definitely intend to keep doing it.

Be good to each other.

 

-Joe DeProspero

jdeprospero@gmail.com

Follow me on Twitter by clicking here. 

Check out more of my comedy writing at Doctors Etcetera.

 

Reflecting On a Sad Anniversary

I've been on the fence about even writing this blog for over a month now. I don't want people seeing this show up in their news feed and rolling their eyes thinking, "Here comes Joe with another piece of writing about how hard his life is." And frankly, I don't consider my life to be all that difficult. Surely, there are obstacles, but overall, I'm quite blessed. I just tend to let things fester in my brain before they ultimately are forced out by way of alcohol and I end up sharing too much. But today, completely sober (at least so far), here are my honest thoughts about what the last year has been like for me (it's cheaper than therapy).

One year ago, on April 14, 2012, I walked into my mother's condo to find her dead. No warning. And no time to brace for it. Not a day goes by that I don't think of that horrific image, her laying there next to a vacuum, cell phone continually ringing. I'd never discovered a dead body before. It was surreal and still feels like a dreadful dream. It makes me shake even to write about it. Thoughts came rushing into my head faster than I could process them. This couldn't be happening. She was only 59 years old. She'll never see her grandchildren grow up. But life is like that. It doesn't happen the way you expect or were prepared for. Then came the funeral, the emptying of her condo, and everything else unpleasant that comes with it. Oh, and breaking the news to my Grandmother only to have her die from a massive stroke. I still don't think I've completely processed everything. But one thing that does bother me is when people say, "At least she (Grandma) didn't suffer." The last thing that happened before the stroke was finding out her only child was dead. So please don't tell me she didn't suffer. She suffered in ways no one with a heart like hers ever should. At least it wasn't prolonged. That's more accurate.

So I'd love to be able to tell you that it's gotten easier over time. But I'm not there yet. Whatever "there" is. Sure, there are days when I'm entrenched in playing with my sons, laughing with my wife and mindlessly scanning my Twitter feed for PimpBillClinton tweets where I feel normal again. I've even gotten to the point where I can mention Mom in the past tense without feeling completely unhinged. But, being honest, I've realized that there's no timeline for healing. And I've also realized that people go on with their lives and assume you're fine if you don't shout in their ear with a megaphone that you're not. So, if you're around me and I get distant, seem to shut down socially and "get weird," there's a decent chance it's because of this.Simply asking, "How are you?" isn't a bad idea either. But I think most people are afraid of the answer or are simply too consumed with other things to even ask. It's human nature, I guess.

The hospice where my Grandmother died offered group counseling services after her death, which I was able to participate in free of charge through her insurance. It was the strangest experience. I went twice. There was this large, hairy male in his 50s that looked like Hagrid from Harry Potter who went on ten minute diatribes about his 85-year-old mother passing months earlier. Part of me wanted to punch him in the face for being so melodramatic despite his mother living a long life. Then I realized, 59 or 85, losing a parent is losing a parent. I still think he talked too much, though. Then there was a family of three Spanish boys, aged 15 to 21. They'd lost their mother recently too. Their father was there. At one point, when asked how he was dealing with the loss, he said with voice cracking, "I'm trying my best. I know I'm not Mom and I can't give them that. But I am trying." His frustration was obvious. And I wanted to offer a hug just because I sympathized with his situation. He was forced into a role where he simply had to be strong despite his sadness. That's the role that's been hardest for me, personally.

Something else that's been hard is seeing some people around me constantly mistreat or take their parents for granted. I suppose it's easy to take those closest to you for granted, but I'll admit to feeling more than my share of angst watching people argue, bicker with and treat their mothers as nothing more than a burden. I can only dream of seeing my mother grow old enough to become an unbearable nag.

I have a close friend who also lost his mother. And he told me, "You start thinking about life in two halves, 'before Mom' and 'after Mom'." I couldn't quite grasp the concept until now. But it's exactly what I do. I can think of a family party, a movie release, a song playing on the radio, a shirt I bought, and I can tell you whether it was before or after Mom's death. That's the profound effect a good mother has on you, for better or worse. 

So, if you've recently lost a parent or someone incredibly close to you, I hope this doesn't make you worry that it'll "never get better." Things do, in a way, get "better." But (as analyzed on an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm), better doesn't necessarily mean "all the way" better. Just better. And next year, maybe better still. It's still heartbreaking every single day. But we adapt. We have to. For my kids I have to. For my wife I have to. And that's what I tell myself every night before I go to sleep.

If you've still got one, give your mother a hug today. You'll never look back thinking you did too much of that.

Peace and understanding,
Joe
jdeprospero@gmail.com

When a Stranger Criticizes Your Parenting

Well, it finally happened. It took three years, 10 months and 28 days, but it happened. I was publicly called out on my parenting techniques by a complete and total stranger. And it happened in church, of all places. So, if you're a frequent reader of this blog who's aware of my fiery passion, you can already imagine how this transpired.

First off, I hate taking my kids to church. As a man of little patience and a vigorous propensity towards frustration, having to keep the behaviors of two small children in check for a straight hour is no easy task. And while I think the idea of getting your kids used to routinely behaving in such a noise-restrictive environment is a noble one, it often feels like a complete waste of time and energy. This past Sunday put my wife and I to the test.

As usual, we arrived about eight minutes into the mass, just as the priest was beginning his homily. We ducked into the "Cry Room"- area of the church behind glass that's supposed to be used exclusively by families with small children. I say "supposed to be" because at least half of the chairs in the room are taken by either adults with bearded teenage children or adults with no children at all. Despite my rising anger over this fact, we begrudgingly squeezed past those very rule-breakers to get to the only three unused seats, with me holding a restless Nate on my lap.

 You can find anything on the Internet. Even a picture of a kid actually behaving in church.

It wasn't long before both boys lost interest in the priest's message, which filtered into our special room via wall-mounted speakers. In fact, it took about 90 seconds. Into Antonio's book-bag they went, pulling out a handful of books and a toy car for each of them. I couldn't blame them for being bored. I get bored half the time and I'm not three years old. So the boys both moved to an open area where they pushed their cars on the carpet like little boys tend to do. But since I refuse to be seen as irresponsible, I got up from my seat when I saw Nate start to wander near the other parishioners. Learning from the bad examples of others, when I can avoid it, I don't allow my kids to inconvenience or bother people. As a parent, I believe it is my duty. So, I stopped Nate in his tracks and pointed him away from any possible physical contact with an annoyable stranger. Then, suddenly, a man leaned over and whispered to me.

"You know this isn't a daycare center, right?" he asked sternly, pointing to the sign on the nearby wall.

I was so stunned I just stared at him for seven seconds. It might not sound like a long time, but ask someone to let you stare at them for that long and ask how it feels. It was excruciatingly awkward. Then he repeated himself, thinking I didn't hear him.

"Are you being serious right now?" was all I could get out at first. Being as temperamental as I am, I'm always so close to my boiling point that my brain practically short-circuited. "I'm doing the best I can. Have you ever tried keeping two toddlers entertained during an hour mass?" I continued, before pointing out the very first bullet on the very sign he pointed out to me. "And this is a room exclusively for the use of families with small children. So what are you doing here? Where are your children?" I asked in full voice. I could tell he didn't expect me to respond with such angst, as he put his hands up as if to say, "Oh boy, what have I started?"

Moments later, he got up and left. Still heated, I looked at my wife (who was trying to calm me down to prevent this from coming to blows) and said, "Good!" loud enough for everyone in the room to hear me. And like most of us do when we're arguing a point, I looked around desperately for supporters, but everyone was looking at me like I was wearing a ski mask, walking into a bank. I shouldn't have been surprised, though. Generally speaking, when there's an uncomfortable moment happening in public, people tend to avoid participating in it at all costs. Can't blame them. But I would've appreciated a high-five.

So, at the end of the day, I was still fuming about what had happened. But above all else, I felt like I'd taken a stand for all the children who get dragged to church on a weekly basis who are simply too young to understand the concept of religion and exist solely to be entertained. And I also believe that I stood up for tolerance...which is a principle of the Catholic church, right?

Have any of you gotten into an uncomfortable conversation because of the unsolicited opinions of a stranger, or even a family member? I'd like to hear about this and to keep this conversation going.

Thanks for reading, and feel free to share it with someone who'd like it.

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-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here.
Watch my video here.

The Art of Deception: Teaching Our Kids to Lie Effectively

I know what you're thinking. The second you saw the title of this blog you said to yourself, "Pfft, that's ridiculous. I would NEVER teach my kids to lie." But you have. Or you will. Trust me on this. Today, we'll go over the little ways we teach our children that lying is acceptable...under the right circumstances.

Clearly, most of us don't have children with the intent of raising them to be deceitful cretins. But let's face it; despite our best efforts to keep them honest, we've all been guilty of at least one of the following deeds:

The Nap Illusion

This is really only applicable if you have multiple children. But if you do, then you're familiar with the nap illusion. Your younger child is still on a daily nap schedule, but your older one is past that phase. He's all like, "Sleeping? Ain't nobody got time for that!" However, your younger one won't go to sleep if he sees his older sibling awake and having fun. So what do you do? You create the nap illusion. I did this last weekend. I whispered to my son, Antonio, "Lay down and pretend you're going to sleep, too." He smiled menacingly and did just that. But not before doing his best to sell the illusion.


"Don't worry, Nate. I'm taking a nap and I'm definitely not going to stay up and play with those Legos that are on the floor over there." #subtle

Making Mom Happy

When we're hustling to get out the door for a party, getting the kids dressed, ready, fed, happy and not hitting you is no easy feat while we're trying to get ready ourselves.  So if you're a guy who's married to a woman, she will regularly ask you to "approve" her outfit. And if she doesn't believe you, she may get so desperate that she asks your child. So, I try to be ahead of this and coach my son to "tell Mommy that you think her color scheme is appropriate and seasonal. No matter what she's wearing, say exactly that." Naturally, he doesn't say that at all and we end up being late to the party and everyone is crying.

CYA

Picture this. You're driving two children to a farm to go apple-picking. It's October, so there's only so long you can avoid doing such a thing. Your wife is out of town so it's all on you to get the kids dressed and to assemble the perfect amount of snacks and drinks for your voyage. You arrive at the farm and go to take them out of their car seats. But you realize something odd. Your younger son appears to have already figured out how to unbuckle himself from his seat. You think, "Wow, my kid is so gifted and surprisingly strong.  I can't believe he..." And then you realize you never strapped him into his car seat to begin with! You look around for witnesses to this act of juvenile carelessness. Your older son is looking at you with a menacing grin. You beg him not to tell his mother. "What good would that do?" you even ask. You're desperate to maintain your otherwise average parental reputation. But I speak from personal experience (because this entire scenario happened to me) in saying that your kid won't care about your reputation and you'll end up looking like Casey Anthony.

Sure, I'll lie for you. For a price.

Ultimately, I guess I should be happy since 2/3 of the time, my child opts for the truth instead of honoring my wishes for a bold-faced lie. But I'm foolish enough to think that my children will make the distinction between what I say is okay to lie about and what their inner voice tells them is acceptable. And the real moral of this story is that your kids won't lie about the things you want them to lie about, so simply urge them to tell the truth, no matter what the consequence...which is likely what I should have been doing all along.

Thanks for reading, and feel free to share this with others.

Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here.
Buy my first book in paperback here.

Candid Thoughts On My Sons Playing with "Girl Toys"

When I was little, and the neighborhood kids were being punished, or if it was raining out, or if it was after dark, I played with my older sister. And it didn't matter what it was. House, Nintendo, Barbies...okay, especially Barbies. I was on board. I can just see most of my male friends reading this and gasping, but rest assured I enjoyed taking off Barbie's clothes and being disappointed that there were no nipples on her plastic boobs. Regardless, I did plenty of "girly" things growing up. I did my share of "boy stuff" too, like collecting GI Joe figures, obsessing over WWF, and getting mild erections over the aforementioned naked Barbies. But ultimately, my childhood was peppered with more than a decent helping of femininity. It didn't make me gay. It didn't make me "confused" about my sexual identity. I believe what it did make me is balanced (and in case you're wondering, my Barbie affinity has subsided drastically over time).

I suppose I have my parents to thank for either being open-minded about gender roles or simply too caught up in life to notice how often I played with dolls. But I find that as an adult with boys of my own now, Mom and Dad's example has rubbed off on me. For starters, my sons have a kitchen. They "make me coffee" in it, bake cupcakes in the toy oven and we hold regular "shopping sprees" where my older son gathers groceries in a shopping cart and comes to me with funny money to pay for them. Not exactly the kind of activities that fit into the boy stereotype. I suppose traditional male norms would dictate that I should stop this activity. But I'd rather my kids were happy than confined to a predetermined gender barrier. My older son's favorite color is purple. He also loves Legos, soccer, and punching me in the groin. Of those interests, there's really only one I'm looking to change.

 "I know Dad will be mad, but this one comes with a hair dryer and brush!"

I'm  not hoping to pat myself on the back here for being more progressive than the next father (As a parent of two, I believe I'm still learning on the job). But if you're a parent to a young boy and you find yourself taking dolls out of his hand or insisting that "boys don't cry," ask yourself if you're doing this for his benefit or yours.If you're only doing it based on your own preconceived notions, I can't honestly say that you're being the best parent you can be. After all, my parents enabled my creative freedom and now I'm writing in a public forum about how much I appreciate it. Wouldn't you want the same?

I'm a 33-year-old man who can recite every episode of The Golden Girls or every starter for the New York Jets. I'm into twisted Quentin Tarantino films, but I don't mind the occasional Hugh Grant romantic comedy. In fact, I like to think I embrace more than I reject in life. It is with this open mind that I aim to approach parenthood. My parenthood, anyway. So next time you use the words "that's for girls," remember the proper way to say it is, "that's for girls....or Joe." I'd rather be known for encouraging happiness and exploration than as "the jerk who ruined my childhood."

-Joe DeProspero
You can reach me at jdeprospero@gmail.com.
Or follow me on Twitter here.
Or boy my first book on Kindle here.
Or read some classic Golden Girls quotes here.

Explaining Why Batman is Only Kid-Friendly Sometimes

I recently purchased "The Dark Knight Rises" on DVD. After watching half of it, I left the DVD cover on the coffee table. My three-year-old son, Antonio, innocently picked it up and asked if he could watch some of it.

"No, honey. This is too scary for you," I answered, with a chuckle.

"But..it's Batman," he said, pointing to the cover graphic, eyebrows frozen in disbelief. I looked down at his feet and noticed the Batman logo adorned on his sneakers. So then the question was....how do I explain to my son that certain characters or programs are watchable depending on circumstance?

What I ultimately did was explain that there was a "Kid Batman" and an "Adult Batman." But truthfully, I think he saw right through the bullshit. How could I explain it so he'd understand, though?

"Well, you see, the 'Adult Batman' has lots of melancholy and dying and 'Kid Batman' is basically just Batman and Robin doing donuts in the Batmobile." That's how I'd like to explain it, but realistically can't, or won't. That would be crazy. I mean, it would be crazy, right?

These are the kinds of things we are forced to say as parents. A Kid Batman and an Adult Batman. I'm not even sure if I should capitalize "kid" and "adult" here, but it feels like I should. But seriously, imagine if there were different versions of other characters. Like what if Big Bird starred in a movie opposite a murderous lunatic who cut the faces off its victims? How would we differentiate? And imagine the looks on their faces if we accidentally put the wrong one on during a playdate.

Realistically, there was only ever one Batman movie that was arguably suitable for children. Don't pretend you don't know which one I'm talking about. It was "Batman and Robin." Clooney was Batman, Schwarzenegger was Mr. Freeze and there were nipples in the bat suit. Since this is the most cartoonish of all the Batman films, I considered allowing my son to watch this one first, to "ease him" into the series. But I also don't want to ruin the franchise right off the bat (pardon the pun). I'd almost rather him watch one that will give him nightmares. At least he'll still have respect for the series.

California citizens saw this movie, and voted for him anyway

As parents, we're faced with difficult decisions every day. But I'm always surprised by the ones that seemingly come out of nowhere. I count this among them. So, fellow parents, how would you describe the difference between Adult Batman and Kid Batman?

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 His upcoming, uncensored parenting book is due out Spring/Summer of 2013.

Deciding to Let Your Children Into Your Bed

You have no idea how many times I checked to make sure I included the word "Your" before "Children" in the title of this blog.

Every parent has an opinion on this, one way or the other. And practically every parent has been in this situation at least once. It's 2:34 AM. Your five-year-old daughter comes barging into your room unannounced. You can't see or hear her, as she's standing silently in the dark. Afraid it may be a ghost, you hold your breath and peer into the darkness for visual confirmation one way or the other. You can't see her, of course, until she's within arms length, frighteningly staring at you with a blank expression. At that point, a ghost would've scared you less.

The decision then becomes "Am I willing to sacrifice what could be a substantial chunk of crucial sleep time to train my daughter to only sleep in her own bed?" And for those reading this who aren't parents and have already decided that they'd put their foot down and wouldn't allow their kid into their bed, I urge you just once to set your alarm to go off at 2:30 AM. Then walk to the kitchen and pick up a carton of milk. Next, decide whether you want to take the carton of milk into bed with you or repeat incessantly (to the carton) for 90 minutes that milk belongs in the refrigerator, not in mommy and daddy's bed. I draw this comparison because trying to reason with a five-year-old is almost exactly like reasoning with a carton of milk.

If you haven't figured it out already, I opt for sleep over teaching an over-arching lesson to a three and one-year-old at ungodly hours of the night/morning. I mean, I've tried to resist. Sonia and I have told Antonio, "Only come to our bed if you're sick or had a bad dream." So, naturally, the very next time when he rolls in, I ask what happened, and he grumbles, "I had a nightmare and my belly hurts." Kid's no idiot. Within minutes, he's positioned himself horizontal, his feet in my face and his head on Sonia's stomach. At least one of us was comfortable.

Ultimately, we're trying to strike a balance with our sons. If we're both flat out exhausted, there's no struggle at all and Antonio's in between us before we even realize it.Then there are times when we stand our ground and usher him back to his own bed and are successful in thwarting his efforts. And hey, there are also times when I welcome the company! When Sonia was out of town, I heard creaks in the floor boards when the kids were both sleeping and I was sitting down. I practically begged Antonio to sleep with me! It reminded me a lot of my high school days. Except replace children with every girl I ever met.

Whatever you decide to do, though, I don't judge, and I suggest you don't either. If my sons are 16 and 14 and still cuddling up next to me at 3 AM, you are well within your right to look down your nose. But until then, I'm clinging to my sleep like Rose clung to the floating door in Titanic. For without it, I would die.

Thanks for reading, and share with fellow parents who'd enjoy.

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here.

What Was I Thinking Taking Both Kids for Flu Shots?

If you were shopping in the fruit section of a grocery store, you'd use a bag to carry your apples around, right? And if there weren't any more bags left, you'd ask the store manager for one. And if somehow the manager didn't have any, you'd probably just go home without the apples, because no one in their right mind would carry more than their hands could handle, right? Well, apparently I don't subscribe to this philosophy, as I brought both my apples (kids) to the doctor at the same time to get flu shots.

When the pressure's on, I either shine or fail miserably. To make a sports analogy out of this, when I'm bowling and facing a 10th frame where I need to get two strikes to win, I will either get the two strikes or roll a gutter on my first ball, extinguishing all hope. No in between. And within the span of an hour with both boys, I display both types of behavior. When Sonia flew to Michigan for a funeral and left me in charge of our sons, there were moments of pure hell where I'm sure they questioned my parental abilities as much as I did (the dual bath, for instance). But then within an hour, I'd be reading them books, kissing them goodnight and successfully putting both to sleep simultaneously. And when those types of things happen, you feel like an unstoppable bad-ass.

So when my wife asked me to take both our boys to the pediatrician for their flu shots, I conjured up my inner bad-ass, took a deep breath and slung my anything-but-manly diaper bag over my shoulder and ventured forward. It's always slightly alarming to be the one person solely responsible for two children's well-being. You always expect the absolute worst. That way, you're prepared for as big a mess as possible. It's like bringing a portable toilet when you're watching a Lord of the Rings movie. Same concept.

In general, this whole flu shot visit was going quite well. Antonio and Nate were playing in the waiting room without fighting, and Antonio was still clinging to the praise bestowed upon him for not crying when he got his last shot. I'd even commissioned him to console Nate after he'd gotten his shot, instilling a trust in him that he was taking quite seriously. He was the rock here, and he knew it. Within ten minutes, the nurse called us into the smaller waiting room, and we were on our way. Everything up to this point was perfect.

 The "Before" Picture

Then, it happened. Things were going so well, I felt invincible. So I let my guard down. When it was time for the doctor to administer the shots, Nate was the one sitting closest to her. So I figured, "He's closest, do him first." As soon as the needle pierced his skin, the blood-curdling scream resonated in my sympathetic ears. I knew I'd done something stupid. No sooner was the Band-Aid stretched across Nate's thigh when Antonio frantically shook his head and darted in the opposite direction. Since he was already standing on the padded area with the butcher paper, he didn't have far to run. I then had the unenviable task of trying to prevent Antonio from escaping the room while consoling a traumatized Nate at the same time. I realized in that chaotic moment how idiotic that decision was. It was like having him watch Friday the 13th, then standing over his bed wearing a goalie mask. It also didn't help that the doctor giving the shot had the bedside manner of Ben Stein on downers, but I digress.

The next deed to overcome was somehow pulling Antonio's shirt off while he flailed his arms like E-Honda in Street Fighter. At this point, a backup nurse came in to hold a crying Nate while I held Antonio's arms AND legs down to get the shot in. I truly felt like an evil human being. Five minutes earlier, they were hugging and kissing me. Then suddenly I'm constricting their limbs and letting people stick needles in them. How could they not think I'm a jerk? I would.

There was this awkward in between period where I was trying to dress both boys at the same time, while both had tears streaming down their faces, with a look of fear mixed with unadulterated anger. The backup nurse was still reluctantly holding Nate as he wriggled away into my arms. Antonio, while fending off sobs, looked at me while sniffling and asked, "Now when do I get my sticker?" It was the cutest thing I'd ever seen in my life.

Before I knew it, both boys were smiling again. It truly is remarkable the effect a sticker (and the promise of ice cream) can have on kids.And for those wondering where the "after shot" was, I simply didn't have the heart (or the hand) to snap one.

Thanks for reading, and pass it along if you think others would enjoy.

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here!

Reluctant Justice: Disciplining Other People's Kids

Disclaimer: Your first instinct will be to assume that I'm talking about your kids in this blog, especially if our children spend any significant amount of time together. So if you're sitting there, allowing paranoia to creep into your psyche with each passing sentence, click on the following link for verification (I apologize in advance for the poor lighting, as I did this in my car at night):     https://vimeo.com/57212337


We've all awkwardly been there. Your perfectly angelic child is innocently strumming a kid-sized guitar, minded his own business, when his "friend" jumps off the couch and dropkicks him in the face. Best case scenario is the kid's parent pounces on them like a hawk, dutifully running down a laundry list of reasons why dropkicking your friends in the face is a bad thing. Next best case scenario is the kid's parents aren't there and you're free to lecture them as you see fit. This is always tricky as you have the luxury of being without the watchful eye of the respective parent, yet you have to be careful not to punish too harshly and find yourself on an episode of Judge Judy. The absolute worst case scenario is the kid's parent is there and does nothing. And this is when you learn a harsh, yet inevitable lesson: Jerks raise jerks.

 "You can't point at me! You're not my Dad!" (I know, that's the problem.)

Let me be clear about one thing before I go any further. My kids are both more than capable of being jerks. They practice on each other all the time. In fact, it's human nature to respond with anger when someone takes something that was perceived as "yours and only yours," (pretty sure this is how rap was born) even if that something wasn't taken with malicious intent. The key is to teach our children to become comfortable with compromise, with sacrificing. You'll find more often than not that the parents who don't hold their children responsible for being jerks were never held accountable by their own parents growing up. It's a viscious, jerky cycle.

But what do we do? How do we handle it when someone else's kid does something either to your kid or around your kid that you find completely reprehensible? The answer, naturally, isn't so easily determined (or else I wouldn't be asking it). Here are some options I've found most successful.

Shout in the general direction of all the kids and ask, "What is going on here?!"

It's safe to say that every kid there had something to do with that China set smashing on the floor, so don't single anyone out. Odds are another authority figure will piggy-back on your anger and blame the entire thing on their own kid. The downside of this method is it also frequently results in the awkwardness of the respective parent half-heartedly disciplining their kid because they'll look like a tool if they say nothing.

Danny Tanner It

You remember the scene. Full House's MVP Dad would pull one of his daughter's aside (when he really felt brave, he'd reel in Kimmy Gibbler, too) for a heart-to-heart about how badly they screwed up. It was brilliant if you think about it. Instead of raising his voice (and his blood pressure), he sent them to their room, made them think about it, then calmly explained what terrible human beings they were. Naturally, if you're doing this with a child other than your own, you'll need to tread lightly. But as long as you say what you're saying with a soothing tone (and a string section accompaniment), you lessen the risk of a fist fight with the other supposed adult in the room.

Falsely blame everything on your own kid

It sounds counterproductive, but I assure you it works most of the time. Most of us are decent enough to try to avoid the uncomfortableness of yelling at other people's children, so we instinctively place the blame on our own, even if they aren't the main culprit. It happens to me all the time. Antonio wants to play with his friend's ride-on car, said friend doesn't want to give Antonio a turn. Antonio then sulks and insists he wants nothing to do with him. At that point, I step in and remind Antonio that the car isn't his and he has to respect friend's decision (even though deep down I agreed that it was time to share). Almost every time, the parent steps in and yanks the kid out of the car, giving Antonio what he wants as his friend wails in his rear view mirror. Half the time you're the one yanking your kid out of the car kicking and screaming. It's never pleasant and almost every time, you think your kid's being less of a jerk than the other one.

Naturally, we all live under the guise that our child is better behaved than others. After all, they're a reflection of us and our disciplinary actions. If they suck then that means we suck. And frankly, a lot of us suck. And the rest have to simply deal with it.The sad fact is that, as parents, we're almost certain to lose at least one friend over the way we choose (or don't choose) to manage our kids' behavior when they're socializing. Ultimately,you'll end up spending more time with the parents of children who have similar disciplinary mindsets as you do, distancing yourself from the Mom who lets her daughter pour White Out all over your leather couch. But if said Mom is part of your family, you're screwed. And if that's the case, you better have a strong lower lip, because you'll be biting it more than you'd like!

Thanks for reading and pass it along to others who might enjoy.

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here!
#parenting

How Do I Refrain From Laughing in My Child's Face?

We laugh at what is funny. Our brains don't have a special filter that distinguishes what is appropriate to laugh at from what is not. If we see or hear something that we view as comical, our instinct is to react with smile, a giggle, a Santa-sized chuckle. At best, we're able to stifle the laughter at its onset, before anyone notices. At worst, we erupt in an unhinged volcano of hysterics, peeing ourselves and only calming down once the person we laughed at has slammed the door and refused to come out. I'm usually in the latter category.

 I'm sorry, I've just never heard "fork and knife" pronounced that way.

I remember when I was a kid how unwittingly angry I would get when my father would laugh at my expense. It was unnerving because, what could I do other than be furious and deal with it? Being 3/4 Italian and 1/4 Irish, having a bad temper was predetermined. But I had absolutely no idea what to do when it surfaced. Ultimately, what I wound up doing whenever Dad would have a hearty laugh at my expense was take all the toys in my room he'd personally purchased and place them neatly outside the door of my room (a monogrammed baseball bat he got me at Cooperstown was the clincher, I thought). It was my way of saying, "Screw you! I detach myself from any association with you or your gifts!" If you haven't guessed already, it completely backfired. He thought that was even funnier than what I had originally done and I had significantly less toys to play with while I sat, sulking in my now empty room. Clearly, it was a flawed plan. I still carry a deep-seeded belief that any laughter occurring within earshot is somehow about that Cooperstown bat.

Due to my mostly self-imposed psychological scarring, I'm especially careful not to do the same with my kids. And I've already seen signs of myself in both my sons. Antonio, especially, is sensitive to anyone having a joke on his dime. While I completely get it and sympathize with his plight, I won't lie - not laughing when someone does something idiotic is nearly impossible. For instance, back when we were potty-training him, we left Antonio in the bathroom by himself for about five minutes as he insisted on privacy and we granted his request. Suddenly, we heard grunting, then crying. He came stumbling out of the bathroom, his kiddy toilet seat strapped on his forehead like a hat, then sliding down around his throat like a necklace. It was one of the saddest, yet hilarious things I'd seen in my life. What made it worse was my wife tried yanking it off, only to have the embarrassment and pain worsen by the ridges digging into the backs of his ears. It reminded me of when I was nine and after seeing Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, convinced myself it was a good idea to follow a fictional character named Veruca Salt's example, shoving a wad of gum behind my ear (and into my hair). I'm sure my Grandmother was happy she'd been tasked with babysitting me that night. Needless to say, I muffled laughter until he was finally free from his germy purgatory. And he didn't want to talk to me for the rest of the night. Hey, would you want to face anyone if you'd just stuck your head in a toilet?

Here's footage of the ghastly deed: https://vimeo.com/57088377

At the end of the day, we won't always possess the restraint to hold it in when we should. But I think we owe it to our children to consider the potential complex we could be giving them. Don't get me wrong; if something's funny, I'm going to laugh. However, we should be kind enough to at least place a hand over our mouths or shove our faces into pillows. I've found that faking a coughing fit also works. Faking a heart attack works at first, then only angers both my son and wife later.

I hope you've enjoyed this edition of the blog. If you did, please share it with someone who'd enjoy. Picking up some serious speed on my forthcoming parent book so I'll be counting on all of you to sing my praises!

Stay tuned,
jdp
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here!

#parenting