Advice to the Pre-Parent Me

I recently read a friend's blog where she wrote a letter to her 16-year-old self while in her 30s, as sort of a precautionary tale. At first, I thought it was melodramatic and weird. And almost immediately after that I realized that I'm both of those things. So, here is a series of advice I'd like to give to myself at 28, the year before I became a father for the first time.


Dear Me Four Years Ago,

For starters, shave that ridiculous excuse for a beard you've been trying to grow since 8th grade. It's not happening. Ever. Now that that's out of the way, here is a list of the things you should do before your son is born on April 21, 2009. In no particular order.

* Eat a meal. I mean REALLY eat it. Sit down by yourself, delicately place a napkin on your lap, take the time to cut your steak and inhale the enchanting aroma of the red wine reduction that is happily dancing into your nasal passage. Then, pour yourself a glass of red wine. Even use a decanter. Get fancy. It will absolutely be the last time you cut your meat, use a decanter, or eat a whole meal while it's still hot.

* Talk really loud. Once that baby comes, every sound your body makes will ultimately serve as a disturbance to their precious sleep patterns. So, just shout randomly whenever you can. It will be the last time you speak over a library whisper, aside from when shouting at said child.

* Watch a complete TV show or movie from start to finish. I mean this quite seriously. Take the longest movie you can stomach. Start it from the opening credits and don't stop it until someone is either married or dead or kissing Leo DiCaprio's cold hands in the Atlantic. Once your son is born, you will be forced to watch everything via DVR, in scattered 45-second increments that don't really even connect.

* Have a conversation with your wife. Once you're a dad, your chats will resemble this:

"So, what I wanted to..."- Joe

"Heyyyyyyy!"- Antonio

"Babe, daddy is saying something, wait your turn."- Sonia

"Nooooooo!"- Antonio

"I want to just...."- Joe

"Dahhhhh, dahhhhhhh, dahhhhhhhhh!"- Antonio

"Just try and shout it over him."- Sonia ( to Joe)

"Fuck this."- Joe (slumping into his chair)

* Get a haircut. Having a child bumps every single one of your priorities down a notch or two. Cut off as much of your hair as possible before the kid's born. Even consider electrolysis. You could use it, regardless of the lifestyle change.

* Take incredibly long dumps. For real. Grab a newspaper, iPad, or perhaps a Nintendo DS if you're feeling dexterous and place yourself on the bowl with no set end time. In fact, on April 20th, eat copious pieces of barbecued meat and wash them down with a case of beer. Then, just before Antonio is born, take your ceremonial "last shit." It will mark the end of the glory days when defecation was a form of relaxation. It will also be the last time you'll be able to take a crap without someone else in the room.

* Learn tae kwon do. Not only is there zero chance you'll get around to it when you're a parent, but it teaches you crucial self-defense techniques that, trust me, are going to come in handy soon.

* Walk into the soon-t0-be baby's room with the hardwood floors and intentionally step on all the panels that creak the loudest. Place brightly-colored stickers on said panels. THEN NEVER STEP ON THEM AGAIN.

* Get in shape. And by shape, I don't mean round. Do curls, squats, push-ups and plenty of cardio. Do enough to last you at least 20 years, because that's the next time you'll do any of those things again. Also, cancel your gym membership.

* Curse, pick your nose, talk with your mouth full, sit too close to the TV, leave urine on the toilet seat, put knives out and easily accessible on counter-tops, eat an entire donut in one bite, and send text messages while driving on a mountainside. Today, they're your quirks. Tomorrow, they're your bad example.

P.S. That iPad you just got. It won't be yours for much longer.

Sincerely,

Joe DeProspero, Parent of Two
jdeprospero@gmail.com

My book is still not available on e-readers, but will be soon. If you'd like a hard copy, physical book, you can pick it up here!

Thanks, as always, and send this to anyone who would enjoy a laugh (that's everyone).

Answering Five Absurdly Ridiculous Questions From Non-Parents

Blogs let you be as obnoxiously honest as you'd like to be. Here's an example of that.

Much like Motown sensation The Four Tops, I can't help myself. Whether I'm at a birthday party, Baptism, or even a bathroom stall, I frequently get questions from friends and bystanders alike regarding the struggles of parenthood. Some of them are better crafted than others. So, today I thought I'd go over some of the really awful ones that I had to answer politely at the time, but can answer truthfully in this here blog. Let's get started.





Question: Is it harder having two?

My Original In-Person Answer: Well, there are times when it's difficult. It really depends.

The Answer I Wanted to Give: Imagine you're being relentlessly flicked in the eye by a squirrel. Then imagine another squirrel starts relentlessly flicking your other eye. Then imagine while both said animals are flicking your eyes simultaneously, you need to get them dressed, fed and in the car to daycare. Then imagine those squirrels are children. How the hell could it NOT be harder?! Dumbest question ever.



Question: Who takes care of who?

My Original In-Person Answer: It varies based on the situation, really.

The Answer I Wanted to Give: Oh, isn't it obvious? I take care of Antonio and Sonia takes care of the baby. In fact, I haven't made physical contact with Nate since the doctor handed him to me straight from the womb, when she then snatched him away angrily. I weep at him through an invisible force field until my two year term is up. There is a clear, unyielding division of care. P.S. Are you fucking serious?


Question (regarding Nate): Is he sleeping at night?

My Original In-Person Answer: When I'm lucky! Ha!

The Answer I Wanted to Give: Why does everyone need to ask this question? No, he sleeps during the day. Everyday. he's a God damn vampire who feasts on the blood of the innocent. Of course he fucking sleeps at night. Just not the whole night.



Question: Can Antonio have some Kool Aid before bed?

My Original In-Person Answer: Thanks for offering, but I think milk is a better idea.

The Answer I Wanted to Give: Are you out of your fucking mind?! For starters, who still actually owns Kool Aid? Secondly, do you possess even a rudimentary understanding of the parts that make up such a beverage and the effects they have on a body? The answers to these questions, respectively, are absolutely, probably just you and apparently fucking not. Kool Aid will keep my child up till about 2 am. If you want to help, give me something that will knock him out for a while, like cyanide, so I can catch up on Words with Friends.



Question: Who does he look more like, you or Sonia?

My Original In-Person Answer: Antonio more like Sonia and Nate more like me, I think.

The Answer I Wanted to Give: Have you mistaken this face-to-face interaction with a conference call? How would I have further insight into the current appearance of my children than you, who is currently looking directly at me, my wife, and my two sons? You tell me! I spawn the kids, you analyze them. That's how this shit works.



Thanks for reading, as always. And feel free to share this with someone who'd enjoy it. Oh, and pick up my book! I'm currently in the process of converting the files to e-readers, but if you'd prefer the traditional hard copy, you can pick it up via Amazon!







-Joe DeProspero

jdeprospero@gmail.com


You can buy my debut fiction novel here!

Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero.

Shit My Son Does that Makes No Sense

No one ever said that kids are logical. And if anyone did say it, they're a lying imbecile. My two-year-old son, Antonio is a pants-shitting enigma. Just when you think you've figured out every nuance of his quirky personality, he changes the game and bites you. No, really, he bites you. Here are just a few examples of why, when it comes to parenting, we're left with more questions than answers.

A random list of shit my two-year-old son Antonio does that confuses the hell out of me:

* You'll go with him to the grocery store. You'll stand in the deli line and the perpetually miserable clerk/butcher will give a half-hearted grin while handing your son a sample piece of cheese. Your son will ride standing up in the carriage and have a general blast. Of course, when you bring this up at dinner later that night, he will vehemently deny any of that shit happened. He's like a mini Alzheimer's patient.

* When we turn on the TV, or hell, even open the cabinet, and ask what his preference is, he'll say "You pick." The first time I heard this, I thought, "Fantastic! If only my wife would say those words while picking out a movie to watch!" But I soon realized that this "you pick" option held as much validity as the Bermuda cruise I just won by clicking on an Internet ad. No sooner do I make my selection when he's squawking that he wants me to change it. He's finally satisfied, however, when I get to the show he originally wanted to begin with. I just have to be lucky enough to guess right the first time.

* He refuses to believe that the leafy green stuff is actually called lettuce. It's called "salad!" and this will be shouted with great conviction until I agree with him. He'll make a good lawyer, but he'll almost always be in contempt of court.

As long as he's eating it, is it worth mentioning to my kid that what he's eating isn't chicken?

* He gets all excited to see his neighborhood friend Anthony. Then, when we finally see him, he acts like we're at Home Depot, reviewing paint swatches. He incidentally did the same thing when he saw Santa. It's a big joygasm while we're literally 10 feet away, but within arm's length? Take away smile, insert awkward, blank stare.

* He insists he's ready to wear "big boy underpants." Then, literally the second I put them on him he pees in them.

* Whenever he doesn't want to eat dinner, he purses his lips angrily and mutters, "I don't want cauliflower!" Ummm, Antonio, that's a chicken nugget. Clearly, he's inherited my vision.

* When we go anywhere as a family, he takes his backpack and throws a crazy assortment of random, unrelated items inside- his shoes, a stuffed animal, a Christmas tree ornament, a lemon, one sock. He's like a portable lost-and-found.

* He gets insanely pissed if I touch his face, yet he colors and puts band aids, stickers and stamps on it. I guess his face, his rules? I can only pray that he doesn't grow to idolize Mike Tyson.

* This isn't all that illogical, but I find it funny. For the past five days, whenever Antonio wakes up from his nap, he rubs his eyes, looks around and curiously asks, "Is it Christmastime?" You bet your ass it is, son!


Somehow, a boatload of people read my last Santa blog. Me likey! Keep passing this onto your friends and I will continue to open my personal life to the public. Deal? Deal. And for those serious readers out there, my book will soon be available on e-readers! More info to come.

Happy holidays,

Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Buy my book at http://amzn.to/v2pZE2

Santa Claus is Comin' to Town...Unless You're a Jerk

Forrest Gump once said that "it's funny how some things you remember and some things you don't." I bring this up for two reasons. For one, it effectively ties into the point of this story. And two, Forrest was always quoting his mom. I figure it's about time someone credited him with one. So anyway, the moment I'll always remember is the first time I was introduced to the folkloric fatso himself, Santa Claus. I was about four and was told by my father that we were going to his office for "Bring your kids to work day." The idea already sounded dreadful to me. I much preferred "Bring your kids some undeserved new toys because I feel guilty for that week-long business trip day." But when I was bamboozled by the truth in that Santa himself would be in attendance, I momentarily wished that my father had been unemployed (looking back at the bike I got that year, I'm now glad he wasn't).

So, leading up to this grandiose meeting...

This is what I was told about Santa:

He is always watching me. Even in the bathroom when I take shits.

If I fuck up, he'll rain a shitstorm of stinginess down on my helpless, naive soul.

He's above the law and sneaks into my house at night, un-arrested.

I have to arrange a meal for his post break-in treat.

He gets really pissed if I don't finish my dinner.

He and my parents maintain some kind of deranged "touch point" relationship where Santa receives a detailed rundown of everything I did wrong that might affect my toy intake come December 25th.

If I don't listen, Santa will give my gifts to [insert sister's, cousin's, or neighborhood friend's name].


So needless to say, I was clamoring to meet this guy (read: I was scared shitless). I mean, who would want to meet Santa given that preface? Oh, I know this guy, he's a real spiteful prick and has high cholesterol and a penchant for revenge. Where do I sign up?!

Anyhow, if you couldn't guess, I flipped as soon as I was within spitting distance of this monster. Every spirited wink he threw my way was met with a desperate yelp as I literally needed to be restrained from running out the door into oncoming traffic. I still haven't forgiven dad for arranging that intro. I've forgiven him even less for taking a picture of the incident and laughing about it as it perennially sat on our mantle.

Years later, viewing Christmas from the lens of a 32-year-old father, I now understand why the song "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town" includes the lyric, "You better not pout." Santa Claus is in fact a well-constructed farce meant to scare the hell out of children and get them to fall in line and quit their fucking whining...and I think it's fantastic!

As much as I resented the frequent "Santa is watching" warnings as a kid, I now do the same to my own son in lieu of wielding a belt or a wooden spoon.

"Want that remote control Buzz Lightyear? Then I suggest eating those fucking carrots on your plate!" It's unimaginable leverage in a world where I'd otherwise be relegated to coming up with my own disciplinary actions.

Santa wants you to shut the fuck up.

If you're wondering how this "Santa is watching" strategy has been working in my house, I'd say it's effectively infected my older son's psyche. When he's overtired and having a tantrum, the name Santa means shit to Antonio as he convulses on the carpet in despair. But later on, when he's faintly sobbing, thinking more clearly about his own personal end game as he stares worriedly into the night sky? Fear of God, my friend. If you're a new parent, feel free to create a negative connotation of Santa in your child's mind. It might confuse him or her, but they won't be sticking their fingers in your dinner plate (or electrical socket) anytime soon. If you're Jewish, I'm sorry, but you're on your own.

I can't say if Santa is real or not, but the fear in my son's eyes when I threaten to have Santa crap all over his recreational dreams? Oh, that's fucking real. My only problem is stretching this strategy beyond the holiday season!

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And, if you haven't been beat over the head with the news already, my debut comedy fiction novel is available for purchase! It's a very exciting time for me as I'm finally starting to get my writing out there. This particular story is about an unfulfilled office worker who comes to a breaking point, walking out on his job, and runs into a series of socially awkward, psychologically damaging events. It's only $8. That's like two cups of coffee at Starbucks. Hell, it's less!

My Book: https://www.createspace.com/3717506

Thanks for your support, as always. And if you don't already, go ahead and "follow" this blog to ensure you never miss a post!

- Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com

When the Cat's Away: My Kid-Free Night in Baltimore

Recently, business took me out of the tri-state area for the first time in a year. The idea of it initially delighted me- an entire night without bathing, scolding, carrying or dressing a kicking and screaming child? Whatever will I do with myself? And ultimately, that ended up being the question and the problem...

It all started Wednesday morning with a car ride to the Newark, NJ train station. Since I rarely travel anywhere, I arrived at the station a whopping 2 1/2 hours before my departure time. So I sat and read a book. Now, if you've never been to Newark, NJ, how should I put this? Well, Disney World's slogan is "where magic happens." Newark's should be, "where tragic happens." The place is an unmitigated disaster. So after sitting and reading for nearly an hour, I got up and ordered a coffee and donut. It felt pretty good only to have to worry about my own ravenous appetite for American cuisine for once. But no sooner did the sugary coating touch my lips when I was approached by the man my father had always warned me about.

"Hey man," he whispered forcefully. "These other fools don't know nuttin'," he continued, waving his hands toward the rest of the waiting folks around me dismissively. He looked like a shorter version of Samuel L. Jackson. "Listen, I don't mean no disrespect..." Historically, any sentence starting with that phrase is like a warning sign that screams, "Run the other way! Fast!" Because, more often than not, disrespect is imminent. "I just got out of prison for murdering the man who raped my daughter." Clearly, I'd hit the jackpot.

As the words "rape" and "daughter" were enunciated into my ear as forcefully as a dagger through the heart of a Newark resident, my eyes desperately scanned the area for a policeman. I saw one, about 20 feet away. Then it occurred to me, what would I tell them? "Excuse me, officer, but a freshly released convict and/or seasoned local actor has passive aggressively threatened to murder me?" That would be like complaining to the zookeeper because the cow just mooed.

It was somewhere in the middle of his sales pitch when I stopped listening and started reaching into my pocket before he could even utter the word "money." Trying to do the hand-off as gracefully as possible was a failure as I ended up pulling out my license and Visa card with the singles I was coughing up to him. I'm sure he wouldn't have minded had I simply emptied my pocket into his. As I was folding the dollars to donate to his Jack Daniels fund, he sheepishly laughed and said, "I feel like a fuckin' bum." I can't possibly imagine why.

The surrounding beggars must've seen this as an opportunity as I was then targeted more often than Jerry Rice from that point forward. I couldn't help them. I'd given all my singles to the murderous father of a raped child. Pretty good excuse, I thought.

So after the two-hour train ride to Baltimore, I arrived at my hotel. I stared up at the building, cutting into the night sky. The next morning I would be taking a car service from the hotel to the office, so I decided to take a stroll and see if I could scan the area and maybe even spot the office. I took two steps to my right and looked up again. The hotel and my office were pretty close to each other, as it turned out. So close, in fact, that they were attached. They may have even shared a heating and cooling system. The hesitation in the operator's voice when I booked the car service was starting to make a whole lot more sense. Hey, at least I wouldn't face much traffic.

Soon thereafter, I sat down to the most awkward, boring dinner of my life. I went to this place called Kona Grill and sat by myself, as the waitress peered over at me sympathetically from time to time. Being so used to having to shovel food down my throat so I could tear the antique vase out of Antonio's mischievous hands, I had completely lost the ability to execute this foreign concept known as "savoring your food." In fact, indigestion set in before I even got the check, the sounds of nearby crowds joyfully giggling serving as the backdrop to my solitude. Sonia called as I was paying the bill. She put Antonio on to say goodnight.

"Hi!" Antonio shouted into the receiver.

"Hey, buddy! I miss you!" I yelled back.

"Hi!" Antonio shouted again, in the exact same timbre.

"You being a good boy for mommy? Are you all dressed in your Curious George PJs enjoying your milk and cookies?" I asked, trying to move the conversation forward.

"Hi!" I could see this was going nowhere, so I asked him to put mommy back on. Wanna guess what his response was to that?

As I stumbled around the hotel after dinner, I found myself desperately vying for the attention of other humans who might interact with me. I made some pedestrian remark on the elevator to a guy in his 50s about the weather. It was fucking pathetic. I felt like crying into a pillow. This feeling increased exponentially when I realized my team, the New York Jets were playing on the hotel bar TV screen, only to lose embarrassingly in the last minute of regulation. It was as if God himself was an event planner and organized this night just to kick me in the balls.

It's lonely without someone to bother the shit out of me

I went back to my room about 11:00 pm and realized immediately that I had no idea how to fall asleep by myself. I was used to either a wife and at least one child's needs to dictate when it was time to sleep. Alone? Damned if I knew. So I regressed to what I used to do when I was single. I put on a DVD I'd already seen a thousand times and checked my text messages every 30 seconds.

I turned on the TV and was instantly met with an advertisement for porn, with the promise that "the title NEVER appears on your hotel bill." But I just don't trust that. Sure, the title won't appear, but what will it say instead? MISC- IN-ROOM PORN ORDER- $29.95? No, thanks. I had absolutely no idea what to do with myself (after I'd ordered the movie, of course). I literally opened all the drawers in the bedside nightstand to see if there was a Bible I could read and ultimately settled on doing something I couldn't really do at home with my in-laws- I got naked and ironed. It was awesomely liberating.

Anyway, I slept a few hours and got to the office the next morning by 8:30. I met with a co-worker there who set me up with a laptop I needed. Having not allowed myself enough time to eat breakfast, I dug into my pocket as I approached the vending machine. I realized I had no cash. Why didn't I have cash? Well, because I'd given all of it to the murderous killer of a man who'd raped his invisible daughter! That's why! I sheepishly turned to my co-worker (who I'd just met a few minutes earlier) and told her about my problem. She shrugged her shoulders and went back to her desk. Thanks for the hospitality (and dollar), you dolt.

Hours later, I buried my face in a book at the train station and before long, I was back home in New Jersey, eagerly striding into the house to see my family, who were already eating dinner. Antonio greeted me with a big smile and hug. It was fantastic. I felt like I was in one of those "Soldiers Surprising Loved Ones" videos on YouTube, but minus the months away from home and noble occupation. Then, I met eyes with my youngest son, Nate. He was sitting in my mother-in-law's lap. I was expecting a wide-eyed grin, but instead he bawled uncontrollably. Sonia said it was because he realized he wasn't in my arms. Nice cover, wife. It was a more heartwarming story than what I assumed, that he had already forgotten me and thought I was a stranger.

Seconds later, Antonio was entrenched in watching Team Umizoomi, right back to ignoring me, while I changed a dirty diaper of Nate's that would make most third-world countries jealous. It was great to be home.

I realize this entry was a bit different from my past kid-heavy ones. But I felt it necessary to convey just how odd it feels to be on your own once you're used to literally not having an arm free. In the end, I prefer the chaos to the boredom.

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And as usual, feel free to share!

-Joe DeProspero

jdeprospero@gmail.com

Follow me on Twitter!

Once Upon a Time...

One of the most entertaining aspects of parenting is the ability to throw your parental partner in crime under the bus. And this can be done a number of ways. For instance, while changing your toddler's diaper and they mutter under their breath, "I want mommy," don't let that utterance slide! Use that as your opening to make someone else's life a little less pleasant and your life a little bit more. "Honey, he says he only wants you!" is all you'll need to say, and you can safely return to typing out the email to your fantasy football league or whatever pedestrian bullshit you choose (anything beats changing an overflowing shit diaper).

With this theory in mind, I was all set to pawn my older son Antonio off on my poor wife the other night, so I could take a shower and lay my clothes out for the next day (read: eat a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and Crunch bar from Antonio's trick-or-treat bag in the bathroom so no one judges me). It was about 9:20 PM when Sonia completely turned the tables of misfortune on me. Having just changed him into his pajamas and before I could determine an escape plan, she gives Antonio a hug and announces, quite officially, that "Daddy is going to tell you a bedtime story...about a magic umbrella!" With that, she disappeared behind the safety gate and down the stairs. I stared blankly at Antonio as he showed a glimmer of excitement about the aforementioned story, which I was now being forced to produce in a matter of minutes. Well played, wife.

So, I turned off the lights and tucked him in, hoping he'd forget about what Sonia just suggested. No sooner did I crouch down to kiss his forehead when he said in the cutest voice possible, "Daddy, I want you...tell me story." How the hell could I possibly say no to that? Well, I tried. I offered to read two of his favorite Elmo books. I even tried distracting him by putting on my best teddy bear voice and pretending I was one of his stuffed animals, insisting that "PJ Bear is so tired, he needs you to stop talking so he can sleep." Antonio never falls for that lame shit. Good for him.

When nothing else worked, I knew it was time to suck it up and do my best Peter Falk from Princess Bride impression. Antonio lay in his bed, tucked in and eagerly awaiting a masterpiece. So, I started...

"Once upon a time there was a little boy named....Toby. And Toby had a magic umbrella."

I froze at this point, awkwardly smiling, hoping he accepted this as the whole story and instantly enter REM sleep. He wasn't buying it. "And then what happen?" I knew I was fucked.

"He took his magic umbrella to school with him (at this point, I am struggling for what effective purpose a magic umbrella could have). He was....scared of the bigger kids at school, so he pressed a special button on his magic umbrella and FLOATED TO THE CEILING!"

With this line, I'd jumped fully clothed into the deep end, no turning back now!

"He stayed up there all day and everyone wondered where little Toby went! They were very worried." I had shit for a transition here and I was kinda tired so I just jumped to the end. "Then Toby floated back down to the ground and realized he had nothing to fear at all. He and the bigger children played together and Toby never used that silly magic umbrella again. The end."

I paused for reaction, expecting Antonio to red-pen the shit out of my improvised tale. Then, a smile came over his face, as he uttered, "Say again." That was when I realized that I was a fucking genius. And like most geniuses, I was a slave to my audience. I read that story five times in a row.

Toddlers will forgive a total lack of plot as long as you speak in a soft, soothing voice

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And as always, share this with others! I'm always happy to hear from readers who can relate to my stories and I'm always inwardly pleased to hear that you've struggled just as much as I have. They say misery loves company. It also likes getting emails!

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
My Podcast: www.courtesyflush.podomatic.com
Follow me on Twitter!

Halloween Has Never Been Scarier

When I was a kid, as soon as I smelled the first piece of firewood, wafting into my nasal passage from nearby chimneys, I became sexually aroused. It was surprising at first, then embarrassing later when it was discovered by classmates that the Charlie Brown Pez I was holding in my hand couldn't possibly be in two places at once. Just kidding, mom. But seriously, the month of October, culminating with a holiday that allowed me the luxury of not being my nerd self for an entire day was quite appealing to me. Every year, despite being a glasses-wearer, I'd strap on some mask over my frames and go trick-or-treating at the houses of the girls I had crushes on. It was my only real chance of being within arm's reach of them. Inevitably, their older brother would answer the door in some uninspired football jersey they called a costume and I'd begrudgingly accept my box of raisins and be on my way to the next house, remembering that my crushes were probably out themselves and that's why they didn't answer the door! This analysis went on for several hours until my mother would come running after me, insisting I wear my puffy winter coat and totally unsexy Freaky Freezies gloves. "But mom, can't you see I'm mackin' it to the ladies? I can't do that while wearing these gimmicky accessories!" But of course, she didn't listen. Regardless of my sexless childhood, though, I still managed to enjoy myself quite a bit, right up to the last time I trick-or-treated, at age 17, wearing a Michael Meyers mask and occasionally slumping so people would think I was just a tall fifth-grader. But anyway...

This year was my first Halloween as a father of two. I knew this because I waited until five minutes before leaving the house on Oct. 31st before looking for my costume. And, I have to say, it's a small miracle I found anything at all. Having just moved into a new house last month, it's entirely possible that during the move, I packed my werewolf costume with the Corningware. But just in the nick of time, I found the bin that contained said costume and Antonio's personalized trick-or-treat bag. Hell, I even found Nate's missing boot to complete his costume! Clearly, all proceedings would have been off had I not found all these things at exactly that minute. It was truly a magical moment.

Speaking of magic, for the first time in almost 60 years, we had accumulations of snow on Halloween! And if you don't believe me, check my Facebook news feed, which when it snows is more predictable than a Lifetime flick with an evil, mustached male lead. While this made for some memorable photo ops, it also made for the most dangerous Halloween ever, as we went against the wishes of the police department and dodged downed power lines and risked an electrifying death. Hey, if you can't be a law-defying imbecile on October 31st, when can you be one?

So, despite 3/4 of my neighborhood being out of town, without power or working doorbells, we still managed to pester enough residents to fill half of Antonio's bag (the benefit of being one of five trick-or-treaters in the county is you get the lion's share of the Reese's). And Nate, true to form, didn't make a sound, as he lay completely adorable in his Buzz Lightyear costume, 95% of which was covered up with a blanket (the other downside of it snowing on Halloween). Unfortunately, he's not old enough to grasp the concept of suffering for your art.

Since Antonio and Nate's daycare lost power too, their Halloween parade was postponed and rescheduled for this morning (Nov. 4). Being the dutiful father I am (and having a guiltier conscience than a Catholic nun) I took the morning off to attend said parade and videotape the festivities. I'd remembered that the parade started at 10, so I didn't have to rush them out, and was able to take my time getting them into their respective costumes, which alleviated what would normally be an unyielding panic-fest with me having to track down at least one of their shoes which fell off five minutes after I put it on while grunting "fucking hell" under my breath.

After triple checking to make sure I had all the kids' costume accessories, jackets, food and drinks, I was out the door with them at 9:30, aiming to arrive at day care no later than 9:45, with time to spare before the parade. I walked into the center and noticed no children were around, so I dropped their stuff off in their classrooms and carted them to the gym, where I heard some rumblings. Walking in, I saw the other kids recklessly running around in their costumes. Then, I spotted my sister, who has a son there. We chatted briefly until she casually mentioned, "Yeah, so the parade ended about five minutes ago." WHAT?! Apparently, the actual parade happened at 9:15. The 10:00 event I was remembering was the "after party." After party? What is this, the fucking Source Awards?!! So, thankfully, my sons are both young and naive enough to believe that meandering aimlessly around a gymnasium constitutes a parade, so the only real disappointment I had to deal with (aside from my own) was Sonia's, who now had no video footage of said 9:15 parade. Out of desperation, I tried getting Antonio to stand next to his classmates and take some pictures all in costume. But not only was the camera dead, but asking Antonio to cozy up to his classmates (one of which he nearly belted with a chair two weeks prior) is like asking Rain Man for a chest bump. So, it was a failure on every level. At least I was consistent.

Dejected and demoralized, I left day care and headed for work, aiming to make it just in time for an 11:00 meeting, as I stared into my rear view mirror to the empty seats, feeling like I'd let the boys down, even though they are certainly far more concerned with sticking foreign objects into their mouths. While feeling a bit depressed, I got a mail notification on my Blackberry. The meeting I was rushing to work for was just canceled. So, of the two events my morning revolved around, I attended neither. Then, later on, I found a dead chipmunk in my outdoor garbage can while throwing away a shit diaper. God, I swear sometimes I can hear you laughing at me.

Nate (left) and Antonio (not left) as Buzz and Woody from Toy Story. Facially, they are impersonating each other here...

Till next time, be strong and stay sane. And feel free to share this if you got a decent laugh at my unfortunate expense! Wheels are currently in motion for my debut fiction book, "The Boy in the Wrinkled Shirt" to be available for online purchase. If you enjoy my writing, the biggest compliment you can pay me is by, well, paying me! I mean, isn't that always the biggest compliment? But anyway, stay tuned! I promise it won't cost more than what you'd pay for a beer at Yankee Stadium.

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
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