Losing My Mother and Grandmother in 48 Hours

* For regular readers of my blog, due to the circumstances surrounding the past week, I am taking a short break from my lighthearted tone and speaking straight from the heart about the pain of losing a parent (and grandparent). If you're the type to skip tearjerkers like "Terms of Endearment," you might want to skip this entry.

I'm sorry for your losses.

Those words burned into my head as I sat stunned and alone in the bathroom, reading a text message minutes after Grandma had passed away, who had followed my mother into death 48 hours apart. I remember being blown away that it said losses. As in, more than one loss. That can't be common. But it was reality. I'll rewind the clock to 1:00 pm on the afternoon of Saturday, April 14th, to fully explain the devastation that was this particular weekend.

Sonia had taken Antonio to the store as I sat home and put Nate down for a nap on an otherwise pedestrian Saturday afternoon, with thoughts of Antonio's 3rd birthday party the following weekend starting to crowd my brain. I noticed my Grandma Helen calling on my cell, and instantly I worried. While we did talk often, when she called me, there was always a reason for it. Turns out she hadn't heard from my mother. And while she was certainly concerned (my mother would call Grandma every morning religiously), she wasn't in panic mode yet. "Maybe she went out and her phone died," I suggested. But regardless, after several more calls to Mom and 45 minutes had gone by, I promised I would stop by her condo "just to check." To save time, I showered before Sonia got home. I remember the water beating on my forehead and wondering if I could be facing a worst case scenario and how I'd handle it. Being a pessimist, I always thought worst case. After getting dressed, I waited by the door and when Sonia showed up with Antonio, I was off, trying not to show my nerves in front of them, kissing them goodbye and forcing a smile.

That was the last normal moment I remember. 

Before I was even in my car, my sister Nicole texted me that she was on her way to Mom's as well. I had the key to get in, but her and my brother-in-law Mike wound up getting there first. And then, as I drove down Route 23 and came to a red light, I got a text from my sister I'll never forget. 

"Her car is here," it said. And that's when I knew this was going to be the worst day of my life. 

I pushed the gas pedal to the floor and was there within minutes, anxiously creeping closer to the entrance to Mom's condo complex. Mike and I went in as Nicole waited outside with her kids in the car. I fumbled with the keys to open Mom's door, taking a good 10 seconds to finally turn them. I remember that when I finally did turn them, I looked at Mike nervously as if to say, "Get ready. This could change everything."

Then we walked in. And I knew instantly. We found her in the living room, her ringing phone laying beside her. And there was crying, and screaming, and a whole lot of pacing and shaking. Then Mike called 911. And then I had to break the news to my sister and wife. I called Sonia (my wife) while I was still in the condo. I could barely get the words out as I sobbed. All I could say was, "She's gone." Thankfully, both kids were asleep and weren't there to see her reaction, but hearing her grief over the phone will still go down as one the top five terrible moments from the entire experience. 

Telling Nicole was a task I believed fell on my shoulders. So I walked wearily outside. She was standing outside her car nervously asking what happened. I must've been so visibly shaken, she knew right away. I uttered something like, "It was probably a heart attack." I'll never forget my nephew Tyler sticking his head curiously out the car window, wondering why his mother was so upset. Thankfully, he didn't get it and literally laughed instead. The innocence of children during this ordeal will be a running theme. Thank God for them. They force us to be stronger than we ever could be otherwise.

After a few more calls were made, the cops and medical examiner showed up, asking me information about Mom, while resting a consoling hand on my back. Then, the most difficult thing we'd all collectively have to do was imminent- telling Grandma that her only child had passed away.  All of her calls to us went unanswered. We knew we couldn't break the news over the phone, but felt terrible ignoring her desperate calls. It felt like a race against the clock. An excruciating 90 minutes later, the medical examiner was done and we were free to go. The four of us (Sonia included) reluctantly made our way to Grandma's. I wanted to get there before she found out another way. But I also secretly hoped she would put two and two together. The idea of facing her and delivering this message was downright frightening. After knocking on her door to no answer, we finally used the key. And there she was, approaching us, totally confused. She'd taken her hearing aid out and didn't hear us knocking. I was in the front, as if leading the charge into a haunted house. And it was just awful. She made sounds that didn't even sound like her. Her screams echoed through the halls as we led her to the nearest chair. After she sobbed through some questions about how we found Mom, she complained of a sharp pain in her forehead, took a Tylenol, and just sort of fell asleep. We thought nothing of the sharp pain. After all, we all had headaches. We even heard her snoring. Thank God, we all thought. She's resting and not awake to feel the pain.

Mom's cousin Lucille showed up to stay with Grandma overnight. So the four of us all went home to be with our kids and create the facade that everything was fine. My biggest concern was that Antonio would be affected by our grief. It was my biggest challenge but also my main source of strength. Later that night, Sonia took Antonio aside and told him Grandma had gone to heaven. Surely, he didn't really understand what it meant. But he smiled and continued playing with his Buzz Lightyear.

I was so mentally drained that I fell asleep rather quickly that night. But I hadn't felt that unhinged since the night of 9/11.  I'm not comparing this experience to that, but my body reacted to both the same way, right down to waking up in the middle of the night shaking, feeling as if I was having a panic attack.

Waking up Sunday morning was a harsh dose of reality. No sooner did I open my eyes when I found myself crying. Looking back, I know exactly why. Waking up meant it was real. And it was still happening. It was 8:15 AM. I turned on my phone. There was a text message from my sister. 

"Call me. Grandma had a stroke."

Frankly, I wasn't surprised. As close as Grandma was to Mom, how could she not have a major physical reaction to her death? I threw on pants and left for the hospital, Sonia dressing Nate who'd just woken up. I hadn't even left yet when I heard that the stroke caused hemorrhaging in the brain. There was nothing they could do. Regardless, I joined Mike in the ER and sat vigil next to Grandma, my sister and wife staying home to keep life as normal as possible for our kids.True to form, Sonia still managed to come to the hospital to be there for me as much as she could. Having my in-laws to help with my kids proved to be invaluable that day, and truthfully every day during this process.

A priest stopped into the room and everyone there- Me, Sonia, Mike, Mom's best friend Maryann, Mom's cousin Lucille all held hands as we said the Our Father around Grandma's bed. I felt like that was when I said goodbye to her.

 Mom (left) and Grandma (right) at Grandma's 80th birthday party. As the picture indicates, they were inseparable.

Soon after, I was approached regarding placing Grandma in the hospital's hospice center. Amazingly, because of my Mom passing the day before, I was now Power of Attorney and the decision-maker. I realized at that point how rare this succession of events was. This was the point which everyone was asking me how I was managing to get through this. I answered, quite simply, "because I had to."

We put Grandma into hospice care on Sunday afternoon at 5:00 PM.  Monday morning at 11:00, I received a call that she wouldn't last much longer. Ten minutes later, as my father and I opened our respective car doors to leave to be with her, I received another call that she'd died. I walked inside and quietly announced the news to whatever family was there. People started hugging me and I noticed Antonio, standing frozen halfway down the stairs. I smiled and told him we were playing some kind of hugging game and ran upstairs to grab him. It was the best I could think to do at the time. Luckily, he smiled and I don't think he thought anything of it.

Over the next three days, support poured in. Text messages, cards, flowers, phone calls from out of state (and even country), fruit baskets, you name it.  Family and friends alike stopped by at scattered hours just to offer a hug and an ear to listen. We planned a double wake/funeral for both to take place on Thursday and Friday. And on Tuesday night, while putting Nate to sleep, I fed him his bottle in one hand and wrote the eulogy in my iPhone with the other hand. The transcript of it is below:

Ever since that harrowing 48 hour stretch where we lost two amazing women and the matriarchs of our family, six words keep coming back to me. Together in life. Together in death. And there's something strangely fitting and even beautiful that Mom and Grandma went together. Two people who simply couldn't exist without the other. And they went everywhere together. Even into heaven. And if I know them, they've already etched out a space next to each other up there as well. Alongside my grandfather who's already asking Grandma to "make him a plate." I won't talk for long but wanted to share a brief story about each that I think embodies their spirit.

I was about six at the time when mom was on a ladder outside, cleaning the big window in our living room that faced the street (I should note that this was the last time such a thing happened). Suddenly, the ladder started shaking and in a heap of shrubbery and foliage, she crashed to the ground. It doesn't sound funny but I promise you it was hysterical. Afterward, mom said she was in a lot of pain. But as soon as she looked up and saw my sister's elephant slippers making their way down the stairs, she found herself smiling. Laughter through pain. And with that in mind, a couple of years ago, my sister and brother-in-law invited the family over for St Patrick's Day. Never one to miss a party , Mom and Grandma were of course there an hour before the start time, enjoying food and drink. Grandma wanted to go downstairs but tripped, falling down an entire flight of stairs at age 82. My wife and I got there several minutes later and she was sitting at the dining room table, with an ice pack on her wrist, but looking otherwise unaffected. After hearing what happened, I questioned her sanity. I said, "You're an 82 year old woman who just fell down the stairs who just had heart surgery and whose arm is blowing up like a balloon. You have to go to the hospital NOW." She looked at me in all seriousness and said "but I'm not done with my gin and tonic yet." That fall may have broken her arm. But never her spirit. That's the blood that ran through both of them.

And speaking of heaven, I will end on this note. A few years ago, my nephew Joe asked me if I'd be in heaven when he got old. And I realized that he was starting to understand the finality of death, and it rattled me. So, not wanting to lie to a sweet, innocent little kid, I looked him straight in the eye and said "Kid, not a chance. " 

On behalf of my sister Nicole, wife Sonia and brother-in-law Mike. Thank you for your unwavering support and love. God bless you all.

Later that day, I received an email from my Jewish friend Jason, who'd been at the funeral mass. He sent me possibly the nicest note I've ever received in my life. First, he included the definition of the word "mensch." And then went on to say I'd handled myself with class and sophistication and he was proud to call me a good friend. It was the first time I'd teared up since the wake.

We did something different at the repast and asked people to tell stories about Linda and Helen. And they did. Cousins, friends, even my father got up and said a few words. And we laughed, we cried, it was the full range of emotions. And afterward, all I heard was how perfect a sendoff it was. That made me happy.

The day after the funeral, we celebrated Antonio's 3rd birthday. Canceling it was never something I even considered. In fact, the party ended up being exactly what the family needed. We held it at a gym that specializes in bounce houses. So, kids and adults alike bounced to their heart's content, pegging each other with balls and breathing a sigh of relief as we saw the smiles on the faces of our children. Amidst the sadness, I will never forget that.

There is still plenty of healing to do, though. And I know it won't be easy when July comes and the day that would've been Mom's 60th birthday passes. But it's during these times that the real heroes in your life emerge. Like the best friend who cancels his plans to sit with you and talk over a beer on a Tuesday night. Like the family friend who becomes simply family. Like the father who drives an hour back and forth each way, every day to exemplify what a father is. Like the wife who is strong for you despite needing to be strong for her kids as well. There's a reason why people eventually laugh at wakes. They realize, despite the ones we've lost, the ones we're left with are pretty damn special.

Yesterday morning, I was preparing to return to work for the first time since all this transpired. After feeding Nate his bottle, I reached into his pack n' play to pull out some toys. Without having touched anything, I noticed a doggy toy with parts that light up. But only one part was lit. And it was flashing red. His heart. Love you too, Mom and Grandma. My life will never be the same without you, but as days go by, I get the feeling you're more with me than I thought.

Thank you all for your prayers and thoughts. We will continue to need them as we wade through the unpleasant tasks ahead.

And I promise, there will be plenty of laughter to come.

Much Love,

Joe DeProspero

jdeprospero@gmail.com

Buying Time - Baby Items I Love or Hate...But Mostly Hate

If you're an expecting parent, odds are you've been inundated with informative (read: fucking nosy) friends who each firmly believe that the baby accessories they chose to register for are by far the best of the bunch. Occasionally, their advice has merit. But generally speaking, they are only thinking of their own specified needs and not of yours, believe it or not. So today I thought I would go over some items that I find especially useful or especially a waste of my money, and I will do my best to relate this to the needs of any parent.

Item: Diaper Genie/Champ
Retail Price: $34.99
Verdict: Totally fucking useless

It seemed like a great idea to me as a new parent in 2009. A receptacle existing solely for the purpose of keeping the smell of shit from my nose? I'm on board! But what realistically happens is you put two or three "soiled diapers" in there and the room winds up smelling like a Woodstock porto-potty anyway. So what do you end doing? Leaving it in the baby's room as simply an overpriced garbage can.

It also makes a wonderful door-stopper.

Item: Wee-Blocker
Retail Price: $10
Verdict: Son still pisses in my face

Okay. If I could offer you just one piece of advice when registering for/picking out baby items in a store it would be this: Avoid anything that looks like a gimmick. There is no clearer example than the wee-blocker for boys. When I found out the baby was male, I giggled like an eight-year-old as I scanned the bar code for this item that apparently is placed on top of the baby's penis like the lid of a candle. But realistically? It's like trying to balance a cup of coffee on a dog's head. Translated another way, if the kid moves a single muscle, the worthless piece of cotton falls off. If this item was repackaged as a wee-condom, then we might be in business. But otherwise, it wasn't worth the initial juvenile chuckle.

Notice they don't show the exasperated face of the parent trying to change a diaper with one hand.

Item: Boppy Pillow
Retail Price: $30
Verdict: Simple idea that actually works

If you don't know what this is, it's a pillow shaped like a "U" that you position behind your child once they're old enough to sit up but not old enough not to fall over like a drunken idiot. The sucky thing about this (or any other baby item, really) is that there's a supplemental item you also need to buy to accompany it- a slip sheet cover ($10.99). We got a brown one, so it looks like a big turd is wrapped around Nate's waist when he sits in it. But it allows me to actually direct my eyes towards other things (like my dinner), which has been scarce since I became a dad. For that reason alone, I give it an A. See also: Bumbo Seat

Item: Travel Wipe Warmer
Retail Price: $19.99
Verdict: Are you fucking kidding me?

I don't own one of these, but I don't have to own it to tell you that it's a complete waste of an Andrew Jackson. I realize it may sound hypocritical for me to say that I do use a bottle warmer for my son but am against a wipe warmer, considering both items regulate temperature. But put simply, cold formula can upset a child's stomach and keep them up at night. A cold wipe can only teach your child to be a man (even if they're a girl....especially if they're a girl) and to stop being such a pussy.

Item: Jogging Stroller
Retail Price: General Range of $140 - $450
Verdict: I'll let you know once I actually use it

It's a cute idea. You want to maintain your body weight and actually get to exercise despite having kids in tow. But it's not realistic. I have a hard enough time running while not trying to maneuver an easily frightened baby on wheels. And plus, it feels like you're pushing a crying wheelbarrow.

Seconds later, the baby was thrown face first into an oncoming rollerblader.

Item: Fisher Price Jumperoo- Rainforest
Retail Price: $89.99
Verdict: Buys you precious time when you'll want to kill yourself

A few things get accomplished here. For one, your kid gets to bounce around. And even at 32, I can think of no other activity so immediately gratifying. It also introduces them to the rain forest while simultaneously creating a window for you to iron your clothes and shovel a handful of Cheerios into your mouth before work. For one day, it's not worth the nearly $100 you'd have to drop. But over the course of time, it pays for itself. Trust me. Again, remember the bouncing.


Item: ERGObaby Heart2Heart Organic Infant Insert
Retail Price: $37.99
Verdict: N/A

I've never actually seen or used it, but I'm including it because it looks like a giant vagina that you drop your child into.

Talk about returning to your roots!

Those are just a handful of items I have strong opinions on, but there's tons more. For instance, I do believe it's entirely possible to carry a diaper bag as a man and still maintain a fraction of your balls. Just make sure it has a sports team, pirates, fire or skulls on it. Skulls make anything more masculine. Also, a bottle dry rack, pack n' play, stroller, car seat, diapers, creams, wipes, burp cloths, bibs, socks, clothes, hats, gloves, receiving blankets, rectal thermometer, mobile, crib, dresser, tiny nail clippers, high chair, bouncy seat, nap nanny, activity gym. Get all that shit too.

Yeah, no.

Good luck conning your family into buying the most expensive crap.

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
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My Awful Experience Teaching My Son to Ice Skate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
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A Typical Morning...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
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Bottled Anger: Seven Ways People Have Annoyed Me in Parenthood

Due to my younger son's persistently invasive reflux, I've had less sleep and more back-aches than I'd like. So, expect this blog entry to be especially hostile. Instead of focusing on my actual children, today I'll be talking about how others in my life have reacted to my fatherhood. Particularly the ones who have reacted poorly. So yeah, let's get into that.

I Googled "Annoyed Man + Middle Aged" and this is what it yielded

For starters, when you walk into that delivery room, you're essentially signing a contract that reads:

I understand that from this point forward any of my personal interests, needs, wants or desires will be of no importance. I will never sleep more than six hours in a given night until I'm 50, my shirts will never be clean beyond the first five minutes I have them on, and any lingering curiosities about life I have will mean nothing once the afterbirth has made its grand appearance.

Of course, I never signed such a document, so I assumed everything would be okay. But it's not, is it? They say your life is never the same once you have a child, and this time the cliche is actually true. It's not all bad, mind you, but there's certainly plenty of bad (enough to fill this blog, anyway!). I'm not sure everyone fully understands the frustrations parents face, not only from our children, but from all of you! So, here is a list of the most aggravating things people have done to me since I became a dad.

1. Never asking me to do anything. Ever.

Okay, I'll admit that my social calendar has plenty of blackout dates now, but for Christ's sake, throw me a bone once in a while! A happy hour, a bachelor party, even to help you move a piano up a flight of stairs. Anything! My conceiving a child in no way impairs my ability to intake alcohol (in fact, it increases it) and it certainly does not mean I want to be home every single night for the rest of eternity scrubbing a vomit-stained carpet. Help a brother out!

2. Visiting with balloons when my first was born and forgetting where I lived for the second

Being a second child myself, I'm especially sensitive to this. We may have been born second, but that doesn't inherently make us inferior to the first, like movies! I saw approximately a 32% drop-off in visitors from kid #1 to kid #2. And I'm not talking gifts, I'm talking either stopping by to acknowledge the child's arrival on earth or a simple phone call to say congratulations. Why is one kid drive-worthy while the other one gets relegated to an "attaboy" text message or worse- no acknowledgment at all? If you ever star in a Broadway musical, I'm totally leaving during intermission.

3. Saying I look tired every time I see you

I literally have slept eight hours in one night twice since 2009. That's a seriously fucked up statistic. How could I NOT look tired with that situation going on? Saying I look tired implies with megaphone-like volumes that I look awful. What's sad is I still manage to look better than you. Sad for you, not me.

4. Giving my kid clothes that would have fit him last year or will fit him when he's 13

Let me fill you in on a little secret. Those numbers on the tags of children's clothes, they're kind of a guide. As in, a sized 3T shirt might have a chance of fitting my son when he's 3. So that's why it's frustrating when my kid is 2 and you're giving him clothes that say 12 months on the tag. My kids are special, but they cannot time travel quite yet, and I have a feeling they're only going to get larger, not smaller. For those of you who have gone the other way and gotten them stuff that's more likely to fit me, your offense isn't as bad, but it's still sort of a weird thing to do.

5. Scheduling a party at night and expecting me to bring the kids

When I do actually get invited to something, this is always what happens. And only people without kids (or have kids that are vampires) would expect me to be at their house with a child after 7 pm. And really, asking a kid to be anywhere but bed at 10 pm is like asking an adult to be at a party that starts at 3 am. RSVPing "no" for this one, but thanks.

6. Referring to either of my kids as "your little one"

How more obvious can you be that you don't remember my son's name? Not only is it insulting to what I thought was a close friendship we had, but being a man and hearing the words "your little one" make me feel totally inadequate.

7. Saying you need a vacation

Starving people in Africa need food. Humans need oxygen to breathe. You are single, have a moderately stressful job, get monthly massages, just came back from a trip to Barbados where the locals fed you mixed berries while exfoliating your body on a yacht, you have a trust fund, a live-in maid and are one of the first investors in Apple stock...You sleep nine uninterrupted hours a night, have flawless relationships with your parents and have no known restrictions on your overall happiness. Yet you NEED a vacation. Get the fuck over yourself and gift your miles to a parent for Christmas. Trust me when I say that the need to escape reality exists much stronger for us than it does for you. Although, I am all in favor of you leaving the country.


There's more, I'm sure, but this is enough for one entry. If you fall into any of the above categories, I'm sorry for being so honest. But I'm nothing if not forward. As always, post this to your social networking site of choice if you enjoyed it. And follow these posts!

Be strong,

Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
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Buy my book on Kindle for $5 here!

Taming the Tantrum: Dealing with a Pain in the Ass Child

When you look at an iconic leader such as Vince Lombardi or Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., what's often overlooked is that they weren't just hatched from eggs as the people they are. Their parents conceived them, fed them, clothed them, and more often than not had a tremendous impact on the people they turned out to be. But can you imagine being mom to a young, upstart Martin Luther King? He wakes you up at 3 am on a Tuesday and announces, "I had a dream!" Your first reaction would not be to erect a statue in his honor. In fact, you'd probably say, "Who fucking cares?" and usher him back into his big-boy bed.

The point I'm trying desperately to make is that strong-minded adults were once incredibly annoying children. Now I'm not saying this applies directly to me. However, I will say that if Antonio doesn't grow up to be a man of strong conviction, those nights he absolutely insisted on changing his pajamas three times (before ultimately deciding on the first pair) will not at all seem worth the aggravation and screaming.

And if you're a parent who has never suffered the indignity of standing helplessly by as your child flails on the floor of Toys R' Us because you didn't let him carry five Buzz Lightyears simultaneously while drinking a juice box and eating a granola bar, then I'm happy for you. But if you're like me and have a child who has a fit if you so much as make eye contact with him when he's in a shitty mood, I think you'll relate to this more than you'd like.

From my experience, there are a series of questions you need to ask yourself when your kid starts doing a war chant/rain dance and becomes intolerably inconsolable.

You better be a model fucking citizen in high school, kid

1. Are you in public?

Being in public vs. the privacy on your own home is the difference between wordlessly pulling your screaming kid to the side while whispering strong threats into their ears and a full-on shitstorm of anger, ending in a police visit. Potentially the most difficult thing to pull off as a parent is disciplining your child without looking like a heartless asshole.

2. Does he/she have a point?

Seriously. I consider this. If I promised chocolate and gave celery, I deserve the tantrum. Kick me in the balls and get it over with. I shouldn't have been so misleading.

3. Are other parents watching me?

There is nothing worse than being watched by other people with kids while you're seriously considering violence against your own. You just KNOW they're judging you. The right move is to bottle the anger until your company leaves. They'll actually think you're level-headed, and you'll get your revenge in private.

4. Will I follow through on my promise of pain?

I can't tell you how many times I've threatened Antonio with something only to have Sonia remind me, "Joe, no bluffing. Only say it if you're gonna follow through." And she's absolutely right. But I found out the hard way one morning. Antonio was sitting way too close to the TV and flat out refused to move back an inch. Then, I said it. "Hey, if you don't move back, I'm throwing you in the shower!" I should note that this had been threatened once before and the idea terrorized him. Surely, he'd cringe at my stern warning. But nothing. I dragged him up the stairs (as my mother-in-law watched, mind you) literally kicking and screaming. I gave him one last fleeting chance to repent, but he was too busy convulsing. So in the shower he went! Neither of us could believe I'd followed through on a promise. But now I always have that as a viable threat in my back pocket. Score!

5. How badly can I punish him/her without feeling like an awful person?

This really is the most important question, when all is said and done. Some parents are perfectly okay with water-boarding their kids while others flinch at the thought of denying them a brownie sundae. I tend to float somewhere in the middle. I couldn't fathom truly hurting my children but refuse to be seen as a passive douche by letting my kid dump a bowl of Cheerios and milk over the head of a house guest. So I handle Antonio's freak-outs with a series of punishment levels.

The first and least severe is the time out. Frankly, I think this punishment technique is kind of bullshit, but it works half the time. I put him in a room by himself and leave, telling him not to move a muscle. This generally doesn't go over well (and he moves plenty of muscles), but at least he knows he's being punished. The next level is a time out with a closed-door kicker. If I put him in a room and close the door, woah boy! He knows I mean business. Unfortunately, this more often than not results in serious damage to the door, though. The next level of this disciplinary gauntlet is the dreaded shower. I swear, you'd think my son was a hippie by the sheer terror in his eyes when that water starts running. But like I said, if it works, it works.

I'm sure this isn't the last blog I'll be writing about taming the tantrum, as I'll constantly be learning new random reasons Antonio (and ultimately Nate) will find to explode in a fit of rage (one of Antonio's worst fits resulted from me moving his step stool from one side of the fridge to the other without consulting him first). In the meantime, feel free to share your stories with me! I'd love to compile a "Worst of" list of tantrums and the drastically different manner in which each parent handled it. If nothing else, it'll help me feel better about myself. But isn't that what this blog is about anyway?

As always, pass this along to your friends if you think they'd enjoy. I often hear parents say that they relate to my writing. What's even awesomer is people without kids seem to enjoy it even more!

Thanks guys,

Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
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Buy the Kindle version of my book for only $5 here!

Pros and Mostly Cons of Going From One to Two Kids

Back in October of 2010, when I found out I was having a second child while my first was a mere 18 months old, I had several immediate thoughts that came rushing to my brain like anxious yentas to a Jersey Housewives book signing. Here were those thoughts, in order (sort of):

1. Can my wife out-run me if I make a dash for the door?

2. How the hell is this possible? It took us 12 months to have Antonio and now 12 minutes for this?!

3. Oh my God, our families will think we're irresponsible idiots.

4. Okay, it wasn't 12 minutes, but on a difficulty scale, Antonio was Mike Tyson and this new baby was Glass Joe.

5. Oh shit, her parents (who already watch my one son) will move back to Ecuador now. That'll make splitting time between the families on holidays (and dropping them off before work) way more difficult.

6. I wonder if they sell a garter belt/suit of armor/condom combo on eBay. Pfft, of course they do.

7. If this isn't a girl, I'm fucked!

8. If this IS a girl, I'm fucked!

9. This is supposed to be a joyous event, but since I look like I'm constipated right now, doing a cartwheel would come across as forced.

10. Having Lady Gaga on in the background feels totally weird and inappropriate for this moment.

11. I'm hungry.

12. I need to eat as much as I can before the new baby comes!

That's the last thing I remember thinking. Then I felt dizzy and needed to sit down for a while. My genitalia then retreated into my abdomen and refused to come out until I coaxed it out months later with a Coldwater Creek catalog.

They may be fighting. But at least they're out of my hair.

Nathaniel James was born on June 14, 2011. In ways, it was more surreal than Antonio's birth. In an instant, we went from outnumbering the children to the odds being even. It was like a back-alley knife fight we suddenly felt like we could lose, only cuter and with balloons. And almost immediately, it became apparent that our lives were over. I mean not OVER over, but kind of over. At least for the next decade.

It's relatively easy to pawn off one child on your parents. It's like asking them to watch your dog. Not a major commitment. But two? You might as well be asking them to drive you to the airport at 5 am through downtown Harlem. Get the fuck outta here, they might say.

But despite all of this, having two also has its perks. Here are some I've realized:

* When you're the only adult and desperately need to use the bathroom, put the older one in charge of the younger one and go do your thing. It's a solid lesson in project management. Well, we hope it turns out solid, anyway.

* Instant hand-me-downs. Normally, when you get baby clothes given to you from someone else, you have to wonder what those weird brown stains are near the crotch lining. But when you're handing down to yourself, you already know where the stains are from. It's a little less gross.

* When we ultimately form a band, the singer and guitarist don't have to be the same person.

* Tug of wars are more fair now.

* If one of the two starts failing in school, he can serve as the bad example to the other.

* One word: shoveling

* Two words: bunk beds

* Three words: competitive board games


In short, having two can be an enormous pain in the balls. At any given moment, there's a good chance one of them is crying while the other one is shitting. They make restaurant visits feel like excursions to Antarctica, and if they don't get along?! Well then, fuck me. I'm even more screwed than I thought! Overall, though, it's an experience that fills my heart with happiness on a daily basis. It just sucks that my wallet isn't quite as full.

Any other topic you'd like me to cover? Well let me know! I also welcome questions from readers, which I will turn into an "Answering Reader Questions" blog. Nothing too personal or gross. And by that I don't mean not to send me anything too personal or gross. I mean there is nothing you can send me that will be too personal or gross. Bring it on!

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
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