The Mourning Papers: An Introduction

Nearly everyone I’ve spoken to about my intent to write this book thinks it’s a bad idea. Or, at best, a weird idea. When you tell people who know your writing history that you’re working on a new book, their face lights up. They’re quite visibly impressed. Tell them you’re working on a book about death, and you get a frozen brow and an underwhelmed, “Oh…well, that sounds interesting.” One of my close friends wasn’t quite so diplomatic. When I told him I was breaking ground on a new book that would tell the personal stories of people who’ve endured a significant death in their lives, he scoffed and said, “That sounds like a terrible idea, man. Why don’t you write a comedy? People like comedies.” Needless to say, this particular friend is not my target audience. But if you’re a fan of irony, I will tell you that his is one of the stories I will eventually tell in this book.

It’s profoundly fascinating what happens when you ask someone to talk about the most painful experience of their lives. More often than not, they’d secretly been wanting to talk about it for years. It’s been inhabiting space in their mind, causing them to contort their body to step around it. They know it’s impossible to get rid of this thing, but they also don’t want to look at it and address it head-on. That all changes today. Because as my sage 91-year-old grandmother would say, “What the hell’s the point of ignoring it? Won’t change a damn thing.” It should be noted, grandma will also appear in this book.

I was thinking to myself recently, “What would help me if I were going through a significant loss?” I mean, aside from the typical clichés and the platitudes that are dropped in your lap at the funeral. What would actually help ease the pain of tremendous loss? The answer continually came back as, “knowing I’m not alone.” But how could I know that?

What I then did was connect with various people with whom I share some kind of connection. A friend, an ex-coworker, a friend of an ex-coworker. And I met with each of them to discuss a life-altering loss they’d experienced. I wanted to know how they handled their immediate grief, and more importantly, the lingering grief that hangs around like an albatross years and years later. And I wanted an eclectic mix of stories. Cancer, accidents, suicide, old age, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, children, friends who were like family. And I wanted this mix so that no matter what type of loss you might be going through, you can pick up a copy of “The Mourning Papers” and know that, despite your pain, someone else in this universe is going through something similar. Misery loves company. But so does healing.

When I was 13, a classmate of mine named Jaclyn died in a car accident en route to a dance competition. She was the prettiest, most popular girl in school. And not the stereotypically self-centered, unapproachable most popular girl type. She was completely unpretentious. A hardcore Indiana Pacers fan, an aspiring singer, a truly good kid. Her death was unfathomable, and it opened many of our eyes to how fleeting life was. I still shake my head thinking about that day. It was a profoundly sad time. And looking back, I believe it was this accident that triggered my fascination with death – how quickly it can sneak up on us, how devastating it is for those left behind. But also, the ways in which we all manage to triumphantly emerge on the other side of it, smiling through tears.

In life, there’s this unsaid rule that we’re supposed to start acting like a normal human again about a week or so after suffering a loss. The calls typically stop, the flowers wilt, and naturally, the support system you had a week earlier, has returned to their normal routines. Let’s be honest, we’ve all done it at some point. We pay our respects, offer up a hug and an available shoulder on which to cry, and then we turn away. After all, we think, (insert person’s name) probably doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, anyway. It’s how we justify our behavior towards this person in the aftermath of his or her most damaging experience. We shrug off their grief as a “no-fly zone,” avoiding the topic altogether so neither of you has to be feel uncomfortable. Again, that changes today.

You might find it contradictory that I am fascinated by death, but I don’t watch the news. After all, the news is filled to the brim with tragedy. But the major difference is that the news only tells us the first chapter. And the first chapter is only the beginning. There are layers upon layers of depth to each of these stories that we never hear. Because we take the information we’re given and move on.

However, what if we didn’t move on? What if we tapped these people on the shoulder, escorted them to a quiet room, and asked them to share the sordid details of a life-altering loss they’d endured? Maybe it’ll surprise you to hear this, and maybe it won’t. But the people I “tapped on the shoulder” to be part of this collection of stories all said some version of the same thing: It was cathartic to finally talk about this again.

So, even though there are many who believe this book is a “weird” idea - and many who ignore it like one might ignore a nightly news broadcast they assume is riddled with only sadness. I proudly present this series of stories. Stories about loss, stories about the physical and emotional ways we react to loss, and most prominently, the love and badass strength that shines through in the end.

Shouting Into the Abyss: Can You Find Your Voice without Losing Your Heart?

It’s been a long time since I’ve written much of anything that hadn’t already been approved by editors. Too long, in fact. For months now, I’ve lived and died by the approval, or disapproval, of someone who would pay me for my work. But I’m realizing that there is still tremendous value and release in writing, you know, for the love of writing itself. Quite a concept, I know. But I've been losing sight of it.

So, my hope is that I’ll start writing more regularly. About life. About my fears. About my triumphs. About anything that doesn’t necessarily fit under the umbrella of “something that might earn me money somewhere.” And what I want to talk about today is exactly that – trying to actually earn money while doing what I love, and about seeking approval for my passions.

How is your book doing?

Since I finally released my first parenting book last month, it’s the question I’m often asked. And let me be clear that I appreciate the interest. When you’ve spent literally years working on something and dumping your time and heart into it, you want to know that people are consuming it, enjoying it, invested in its success. But if I’m being honest, it makes me pause every time I’m asked. Because the truth is that I’ve sold 31 copies. I’ve been joking that I’ve already paid off my mortgage and bought a yacht. But there’s a bit of sadness in my voice. Because deep down, it’s not a joke. My goal is to one day have my writing actually earn enough money to support my family. And when I’m promoting the book entirely by myself, with no publishing house and its marketing tools behind it, that goal is so far I can’t even see it. At the risk of making this a “poor me” post, it’s a problem many of us face, not just me. The difference is that not everyone is transparent enough to discuss it in a public space. But then again, I’ve always been a bit of a camera hog.

For anyone who considers themselves creative, there’s a certain percentage of energy that goes into the creation of the “thing,” and then another percentage that goes into getting it to the rest of the world. In my experience, it works generally the same even if it’s an album, a painting, a podcast, book, etc. You spill yourself into the creating of it, stand back and analyze it for a while, then at some point you decide you’re done. Then it’s time to send your baby into the universe. It’s scary. Because you’re putting it out there. Your words, your art, your ideas, whatever it is. You’re putting something you exclusively created into the hands of a judging public. But regardless of your trepidation, you release it. Because you know there’s a chance, albeit a small one, that what you’ve done might just be the most incredible piece of art ever created.

Most of the time (read: all of the time) what you’ve created is good, but won’t reach the audience size you have in your head. So, what you’re left with, to use the baby comparison again, is a child with a world of potential who is never truly recognized for it. Surely, you love them just the same. But it feels like a great injustice.  You want the world to love it as much as you do. Doesn’t always work that way. So, we have to sit there and accept it, while still pushing forward with unrelenting passion. It’s exhausting, frankly. Although, we have little choice but to wince through the process, graciously accepting half-hearted hugs along the way.

I have a friend who routinely challenges me. When I conclude a creative project, he always asks the same question.

What were you hoping to get out of this?

Most of the time, I have to be honest, I’m not sure. I just know that finally letting go of that project often feels unsettling. I’m left with two simple words that settle in my brain like an unwanted house guest.

Now what?

For many years, I performed in rock bands, locally, and it always amazed me how some of those bands (and friends’ bands) would disassemble so soon after completing an album. We all worked so hard on this, I would think. Why are we walking away from it? Looking back, it makes more sense than I realized. After all that effort and time away from our families, friends, other interests, etc., we’d realized the outcome didn’t match our expectations. Clearly, that realization was too much for some to handle.

These days, not much has changed. A month ago, I wrote and co-produced a series of comedy video shorts about parenting. Mostly, they were met with indifference. I don’t know what I expected – instant fame and a spot on Jimmy Fallon or something? But for me and my writing partner, it deflated us completely. We still haven’t restarted production on new episodes.

Maybe all those times I (or others) walked away from a project that wasn’t yielding benefits, it was for the best. After all, it saved us from having to endure months or years more of that same, empty feeling. But maybe my “challenger” friend is right. Maybe we need to stop seeking justification and approval from those around us, and simply do. If only it were as easy as that.

So, am I alone on this island? I imagine not. Feel free to share your thoughts (and strategies) around pursuing a dream that seems increasingly less attainable. And let’s see if we can’t help each other push our babies out into the universe with more satisfaction and less expectation.

-jdp

Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero

Keeping Your Hat On: The Maddening Life of a Loyal Sports Fan

Ryan Fitzpatrick threw a pass intended for Eric Decker to the back of the end zone. Had Decker caught the pass, the Jets would've gone ahead 24-22 and potentially won the game, sending the star-crossed team to the playoffs. That pass was intercepted. The crowd went wild. It was the beginning of the end of the hopes for a team that, heading into the game, had established significant momentum, leaving their often disappointed fan-base to believe that that elusive championship was within reach. It wasn't to be, of course.

Me (left) and Mike. My smile would indicate this was taken BEFORE the game.

As a die-hard Jet fan, disappointment is a way of life. Like a relative who manages to ruin every holiday, they let you down...but you can't leave them behind. No matter what, they're a part of you. And you love them. No matter how many times they've indirectly placed a glass of bourbon in your hand, they're also capable of delivering emotional highs that few others can.

I like to attend one game per season. I live 20 minutes from MetLife Stadium, so home games are convenient. However, upon seeing the schedule at the start the season, one game jumped off the page. January 3rd, vs. the Buffalo Bills, in Buffalo. The final game on the Jets' calendar,and one that could carry some serious significance. My Buffalo-raised brother-in-law was more than happy to join me (and root for the other team), and so we committed to going, both of us knowing we could be setting ourselves up for one of the greatest (or most terrible) moments of our fandoms, ending with one long, sad ride home for one of us. But I couldn't help myself. I knew the risk, but the potential reward outweighed it. Or so I thought...

After the first Fitzpatrick interception, I could literally feel the air leaving me, as if I were a balloon with a hole in it, gradually deflating. And since we were in Buffalo, I was surrounded by thousands of boisterous, celebrating Bills fans who knew full well the misery that was being thrust upon us. They've been there many times themselves. Two more interceptions later, the game was sealed. Jets lose, their season and playoff hopes unceremoniously crushed in a moment. I ripped the Jet hat off my head in disgust, the only visible sign of my allegiance. But then, as I stood there, in stunned silence amidst high-fiving Bills fans, I realized something. And I put my hat back on and made my way toward the exit. No matter the outcome, my spots had not changed. And being teased by droves of Buffalo fans on my way out was simply part of the deal.

After the Jet loss was official, I found myself shoulder to shoulder with a fellow New York fan. And he looked over at me and solemnly said, "It's just a game. I don't know why I get so worked up over it." He was likely in his mid 50s...and he had tears welled up in his eyes. That hit me hard. Because so, so many of us are that guy. We're miserable about a game and we can't explain the reason. But I think I'm closer to understanding why than ever before.

When you truly commit yourself to a sports franchise and establish a fandom, what eventually happens is both wonderful and sad. We buy clothing with their logo on it, sometimes literally erect a flag outside our home declaring our commitment. Hell, some of us dedicate an entire room in the house to our undying love for the team. We wear our allegiance like a skin, and sometimes that skin protects us...and sometimes it gets cut and we bleed from it. But why do we do it? Why do we put ourselves in vulnerable situations where the outcome is completely out of our control? I think it's more simple than most of us think.

Professional sports are an inescapable part of our culture, so it would make sense that many of us develop some level of interest in it. But a good percentage of us go all-in, And I think it's because we're all actively, in some way or another, establishing our personal brand, our identity. And it feels good to do it. Something intangible resonates with us, and we find ourselves casually rooting for a particular team. Then gradually watching entire games, listening to post-games shows, buying merchandise. We're hooked. And there's no turning back. And we stay on the proverbial horse. Because we're waiting for that one magical moment when all of that commitment will pay itself off, when we can raise our flag and wave it in victory - that moment when we can unequivocally pronounce that our brand is stronger than your brand, if even for a day.

But losing the big game? We find ourselves frustrated, angry, and often depressed. Because we realize the emotional energy we put into it yielded nothing more than a hangover and countless taunting text messages from friends. It's maddening. But it's what happens when you care so deeply.

So, I'll keep my hat on. Because as disgusted as I was to slink out of that stadium, face frozen in stunned disbelief, staring at the ground, to hide my allegiance and personal brand would be the greatest disgust of all.

Go Jets.
Joe DeProspero
@JoeDeProspero

Blurred Lines: The Plight of the Glasses-Wearer

Yeah, yeah, I know. First world problems and all that. There are people in this world who suffer far greater fates than a foggy lens. And those subjects are better tackled by writers exponentially more intelligent than I. But me? I wear glasses. It’s what I know. And it’s a lifestyle marred with overlooked inconveniences and comical setbacks. Because of a medical condition, I am not able to wear contact lenses. Bear that in mind while reading this piece.

There are times when I’m out in public, at a bar, coffee shop, etc. when some stranger rubs me the wrong way and I have to bite my tongue. Because my insurance won’t pay for a new pair of frames should I get punched in the face. And with my astigmatism it’d be like putting a down payment on a small car.

Aside from the obvious setbacks that come along with the lifestyle, here are some situations where it’s nearly unbearable to be a glasses-wearer.

Picking out a Halloween costume

Dressing up like a goon and collecting candy bars cemented October 31^st as my favorite day of the year as a kid. But every year it was the same, tired problem. Which costume can I pull off despite my glasses being on my face? Elvis Costello? Buddy Holly? The cast of “Revenge of the Nerds?” None were attractive options for a 9-year-old already being pushed into lockers. I instead opted for the horror genre. And to be clear, my Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees years were marred with intermittent pouting as I strolled down Maplewood Ave. in hopes of looking like a prolific murderer, instead looking like a hockey goalie who ran out of disposable contact lenses before the game.

Having a beach/pool day

There is no embarrassment-free option here. Either you wear your glasses/prescription sunglasses into the water and walk around with water spots on them all day (or risk losing them in the ocean, which I’ve done) or you leave them with your clothes and towel, hoping you don’t drown or miss the diving board.

Watching TV in  bed

In the first house we owned after my wife and I got married, the only practical place we could position the television in the bedroom was to the left of the bed on top of the dresser. This meant, of course, that in order to watch it, we’d need to lay on our sides and rest our cheeks on the pillows. Now, take a pair of frames and try accomplishing this with glasses on. Eventually, we decided that Jay Leno wasn’t worth the frustration and bailed on the TV entirely.

 Playing ANY sport

Basketball, baseball, ultimate Frisbee, air hockey…if you can think of it, I have probably had my glasses knocked off my face playing it. And inevitably, I wind up looking like Kurt Rambis (not a good thing, ever).

The incomparable Mr. Rambis

Being on webcam

Every time I appear on a webcam, the producer asks me to remove my glasses, as the light from my computer screen reflects off of them, making it almost impossible to see my eyes. But when I take my glasses off, not only can I not see my notes, but I can’t focus on a single thing and end up looking, quite literally, blind to the viewers. Not a good look for me.

Pillow fights
 I know this is random, but you’re at a serious disadvantage in any fight as a glasses-wearer, and that goes double for pillow fights.

Doing anything in the sexual realm

You start making out and your lenses immediately steam up and/or become an obstruction. So you take them off. Then you spend the rest of the sex squinting to make sure you’re grabbing for the right things and that you’re even with the right person. Subsequently, glasses-wearers are 15 times more likely to accidentally cheat on their spouses with a vacuum cleaner.

Having your picture taken

Everyone wants me to be remembered in photographs as a non-glasses-wearer. I know this because I can’t be in front of a camera without being shamed into taking mine off.  “Hey, do you mind taking your glasses off?” “Joe, take those babies off. You know the drill!” But this is part of my face, a distinguishing characteristic of my appearance. It’d be like asking Cindy Crawford to remove that mole on her cheek. You know the one. Kindly place it into your pocket and put it back later, Cindy. This next shot’s going on Facebook!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go look for my glasses that inevitably will be sitting on top of my head.

Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero or email me at jdeprospero@gmail.com. 

Getting Kicked Out of Class...a Good Thing?

Last night, Sonia and I met with the boys' teachers for parent conferences. The principal sat in on these meetings. Antonio had recently gotten into trouble for being disruptive during one of the class lessons. He was flat out ejected from the room. It wasn't anything serious, just a silly kid being a silly kid. But still, I wasn't looking forward to this being brought up during the conference, knowing I might get defensive and look like "that parent" who defends his child's crappy behavior.

The principal caught me completely off guard with her response to it...

As Antonio's teacher gingerly brought it up, my heart beat a little faster. Then, out of nowhere, the principal interjected...

"Good for him," she said with a grin. "It's one thing if you're constantly getting in trouble, but if you've never been thrown out of a room before, I would think you're being too passive. And you're not pushing boundaries. Besides, it's how you learn lessons."

While this certainly fit in perfectly with the narrative I'd already created in my head about how I didn't think this one incident "was a big deal," it was refreshing to hear someone in her position recognize the upside of an act normally so identified with "bad."

It immediately took me back to the one time I was tossed from class. I was a Junior in high school, and the gym teacher was a massive douchebag. Everyone knew it. But on that particular day, I wasn't willing to tolerate it. He was condescending with me, so I gave it right back to him. The entire class laughed at his expense; he was far from pleased. I was sent to the office and spoke with the Vice Principal, who, without saying so, made it clear to me that he was painfully aware of said gym teacher's douchebaggery. I was given one day of detention and placed in a different class for the remainder of the semester. Considering it was the only time I was ever ousted, my parents were fine with it. Apparently, they too subscribed to the good principal's theory on the passive student.

Here's hoping Antonio's days of being thrown out like Wally Backman are few and far between. But truth be told, I'd rather he was a hard-working student who crossed boundaries once in a while than the wallflower who never tried anything different.

Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero.

What I Want My Kids to Know About Selfies

This blog has nothing to do with my children. But I'm trying to shoe-horn them in here because this is still technically a parenting blog.

Anyway, this is what I want my kids (and pretty much everyone on the planet) to know about selfies.


Just fucking stop. It's enough. You are surrounded by able-bodied humans who can help. Introduce yourself to them and learn the power of socialization.

Sorry, but I get very JJ Watt about selfies. For starters, they are absurdly stupid. I have never once looked at one and thought, "Awwww, Cute selfie!" I tend to think, "Well, there's someone with awkwardly short arms who needs a friend." People who routinely take pictures of themselves are usually the same people who don't wipe the pee off the toilet seat. There's a connection there somewhere.

The problem I have with this trend is two-fold.

For one, it's just flat out ego-maniacal. It says to the world, "I need to take a picture of myself, and I simply can't be bothered waiting for a friend to take it for me." Nobody needs a daily reminder of your face. Unless you're growing the world's longest beard. That's the one exception. Or potentially if you're obscenely attractive. You're probably not. Don't worry, neither am I. 

But also, this speaks to a much larger problem in our culture. We're becoming so consumed with social media, we've forgotten entirely how to be social. When I see two dolts posing in front of an outstretched arm, I walk up to them and ask if they'd like help. In fact, i insist on it. Because a picture is an opportunity to do more than plaster your image on Instagram. It's an excuse to meet the person standing next to you. Unfortunately, it's also an opportunity to prove you're a self-centered ignoramus. 


The choice is ours.

And because I know at least one of you will bring this up...there was a dark day in my history when even I succumbed to the pressure...but I was a much younger, sillier man back then...

The next time you're thinking of taking one yourself, remember how fucking ridiculous I look in this picture from 2011.


Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero.

The Moment You Realize You're About to Be a Parent...Again

Apparently, maintaining active blogs for both Parents Magazine and Huffington Post isn't enough responsibility for me. So, I've decided to resurrect my original parent blog, mostly for short-form content I either have very little material for, or don't think is good enough for Parents Mag or HuffPo. I hope you're ready for some brief mediocrity!

Earlier this year, my wife and I found out we were expecting our third child. Well, she found out first. Women always do. Then they pick the perfect, most sentimental way to scare the ever-loving shit out of you. That same week, we found out that my cousin, Christina was expecting her first child. Two pregnant ladies! Their due dates were within a day of each other. It was pretty adorable. See below.

 I know you're already envisioning that scene in Father of the Bride Part 2 where Steve Martin is racing between the two delivery rooms. Not that that would happen here, because it'd be really strange and creepy if I was present for the birthing of my cousin's baby. But still, it's a convenient reference. It wasn't meant to be, though. Christina's water broke on December 26th, nearly two months early. There was obvious concern, but the baby is doing fine. I know because we visited him on New Year's Day.

Baby Daniel lay there in that little clear plastic purgatory they put preemies in. His turkey-like legs refusing to go straight, his eyes puffy and practically unpeelable. He was perfect, and the joy in the room was palpable, for the newly branded mom and dad. That's when it hit me. I gazed over at Sonia's belly and realized, "There is a baby of exactly the size of baby Daniel in there. And she's currently plotting the demise of my social life and credit score."

I feel like I go through this mental exercise whenever Sonia is pregnant. But a new baby is a new baby. They keep you up at night, they spit on you. They are like villainous frat brothers. They have no relent. No remorse. So I started asking myself if I had gas in the tank. Could I go back to the 3 a.m. feedings and making sure she doesn't suffocate in her own blanket? Could we still manage to get out every once in a while to catch a movie or just to speak to one another without interruption? I mean, probably not. We'll both likely need to be committed. It's inevitable. But still..after knowing that any order that existed in our home is likely on its last legs...after knowing that my blood pressure is likely going to shoot up higher than a nervous bomb tester...I still want to love this baby with everything I have. And I will. And if I'm lucky, when the time comes, she'll feed me and wipe my butt when I need it, too,

I can do this.

I probably can't do this.

Follow me on Twitter here.

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
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