I don't watch the news. I never have. When I do have five minutes to sit down at the end of a long, exhausting day, I tend to gravitate toward ESPN or the Palladia music channel. Why? Because I watch television to decompress, to forget my troubles, to have a carefree smile. The news simply reminds me that there are terrible people in the world, and it serves me no purpose to be reminded of that on a daily basis. Then the events of Friday happened, and I've avoided the news even more. Not as much for me, but for my 3 1/2 year old son, who I feel the need to shield from this horror.
The day of the shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary School, I was sitting at my desk at work, feeling a bit of regret for having passed on my company's holiday party taking place that night. Instead, I would be taking my kids to a nearby garden center for "Story Time with Santa." While I was certainly looking forward to seeing the wonder in my sons' eyes when Santa bound into the room, our holiday party was always something I enjoyed. "Is sacrificing this party worth it?" I asked myself. Then, my wife called me in tears, informing me of the tragedy that was unfolding. And the only plan that made any sense was being with my children. Immediately.
I've always been overly cautious. Even before I was a
father, I would peer at others on an airplane, or even a coffee shop,
and wonder if they harbored bad intentions. Unfortunately, the events of
9/11, Columbine, Virginia Tech, Newtown, etc. have only confirmed my
concerns. Put simply, there's evil out there. We just have to be
fortunate enough not to be around it when it rises to the surface. And the sad fact is that there will always be members of our society who will slip through the cracks, who will be mistreated as kids, have serious mental illnesses that will go undiagnosed, and could ultimately pose risks to the ones we love most.
I'm not foolish enough to believe that I have the answer to end these senseless acts of violence. However, I do intend to be especially diligent about what I do have control over. Here's a list of those things.
* Hugging and kissing my children even more
As parents, we're the first line of defense against our kids' actions, and more often than not, I believe what these soulless monsters who kill the innocent are missing is the love and attention of those closest to them. I tell my sons I love them no less than 20 times a day. It's what I feel and it's what I believe they need to hear. I'm not saying my hugs and affection will yield angelic, error-free members of society, but I think their chance of being good people starts with me and my wife.
* Not ignoring warning signs
Surely,we don't always have the luxury of getting these. But even as young as my older son is (3), one of his classmates playfully mentioned that he planned to bring his toy gun in. Thirty years ago, we might have laughed this off. And I'm sure it was harmless, that he was talking about a water gun or an imaginary gun for all I know. But I still alerted their teacher. As a father, I felt that it was my responsibility. In 2012 (or any year), you can never be too safe.
Naturally, there are other, more subtle warning signs, that are often overlooked. Like your brother or nephew distancing themselves from their friends, slipping into a deep depression, etc. We aren't always aware of these things, of course. But the other day, I texted a friend who was down on his luck just to remind him that someone loved him. Call me naive, but I do believe that small gesture can make the difference in someone's life. Again, I'm not pretending that a text message is the solution to school violence, but I do believe we all have a societal responsibility to simply look around our family and social circle and pick someone up when they've fallen. Spreading love can only help.
* Ensuring my children are as safe as they can be
The night of the Newtown shootings, I stepped into each of my sons' rooms at about midnight, and simply watched them sleep peacefully. Clearly, they were safe, resting comfortably in their beds. But the sense of helplessness that the Newton tragedy caused made it feel like two rooms away was too far. I imagine I'm not the only parent whose level of caution with their children has skyrocketed. I trust my sons with my family. I trust them with their teachers at school who are loving women with a security system in place. As they grow up, I'll need to learn to trust them with others. But I'll also need to ensure that whoever they are with, any friend's car they climb into, any house they sleep over is safe for them. It won't be easy, but being a parent rarely is.
I could talk about my own fears and concerns all day. And I certainly have my opinions on gun control. But assuming gun laws remain the same, and instead we are forced as citizens to be more diligent, we all need to do our part. Especially those of us trying to shield our precious children from the evils in the world they are far too young to face or even comprehend.
Spread love. Not hate.
-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Monday, December 10, 2012
What I Learned About Life and Loss in 2012
It's been said that the pen is mightier than the sword. I was just a boy when I heard it for the first time, but I remember being quite taken with it. The pen is mightier than the sword. Meaning, I assumed that anything you can put down on paper about your enemies is ultimately more "cutting" and enduring than harming them physically. But as I've gotten older, I translate the expression a bit differently. I've expanded it to reflect positivity as well. Because after the year I've had personally, writing is my refuge. Writing is my release. It is how I best communicate the crowds of thoughts, observations and grievances that get lodged in the out door of my brain. So, for those interested, I thought I'd share some of the things I've learned in calendar year 2012, a year that will likely be looked back on as the darkest and most challenging in my family's history.
In 2012, I learned that your life can change instantly, with no warning and whether you're ready or not. You've heard people say it, but until you've experienced it, there's no understanding. Losing my mother in April changed me for the rest of my life. She was only 59 and we'd already begun planning her 60th birthday party. I lost my grandmother the same weekend. The news of my mother's death killed her. I already had a small family. This made it exponentially smaller. The sadness was and is like nothing I could've ever imagined. There are glaring holes at every family gathering and as corny as it sounds, the even bigger hole is in my heart. For a while, when people asked how I was doing with it, I answered, "Taking it one day at a time." Then I moved onto, "I'm okay, I guess." I've run out of cliche answers. But I wouldn't say I'm okay. I still regularly cry about it and Mom is my first thought in the morning and last thought at night. And I not only dread my first Christmas and New Years without her, but the fact that it's likely neither of my children will remember her and how much she loved them breaks my heart every time I think of it.
I've also learned that people move on without you. The hardest moment in my life wasn't the funeral. At that point, I had boat loads of support. It was the Monday after the funeral, sitting at my desk at work while others laughed around me like nothing was wrong. It was months later when my three-year-old son Antonio curiously asked while on our way to school if Grandma was ever coming back. I've also learned that while some people have much larger hearts than I thought, sometimes the one you expect to support you is the first one to let you down. I've lost one of my best childhood friends this year. Sadly, I'm the only one of the two of us aware of it, though.
I've learned that my kids are worth it. I can't even tell you how many times I've come home from work, weary, worn out and downright miserable to have my two boys brighten my mood with simply a smile and hug, as I bury my face in their chests. At that point, the aggressive driver who cut me off and flipped me off or the rude office manager who treated me like a lesser life form don't matter at all.
I've learned that my wife is willing to tolerate me being an intolerant prick sometimes because she knows I'm going through a lot. She's been my rock. Everyone needs one. When they say "for better or worse," this is the "worse" part.
I've come to realize how losing someone so important makes you exponentially more grateful for those you still have. When I see my father playing with my kids and my sister's kids or I call my 86-year-old grandmother just to listen to how her hip is bothering her, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude and I hinge on every moment. It breaks my heart that Mom and Grandma won't be at the table on Christmas, but when Antonio gets giddy about seeing his cousins or his grandfather, I smile. Dad, Grandma, my sister, cousins, Aunts, etc. They're a window into my past.
I've learned that it's vitally important for me to have hobbies and interests. Without some combination of my podcast, parent blog, bowling, fantasy football or book project, I'd be a pretty miserable guy. It's hard for non-creative types to understand it, but if people like me aren't creating something, we don't feel useful.
When I look back at this year, I hope not just to remember the horrific scene of finding my mother's body or hearing my grandmother's screams when I broke the news, but I also hope to remember something Sonia told me. One night I was particularly down and she knew it. So she took my hand in hers and told me, "You're stronger than you think. And you're the man I think you are." I've learned that sometimes we need someone else to believe in us, even when we don't believe in ourselves.
It's been said that if I can get through that week in April, I can get through anything. And that's the kind of confidence I intend to carry into 2013 - as a husband, friend, and especially a father.
Here's to a happier 2013.
- Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
In 2012, I learned that your life can change instantly, with no warning and whether you're ready or not. You've heard people say it, but until you've experienced it, there's no understanding. Losing my mother in April changed me for the rest of my life. She was only 59 and we'd already begun planning her 60th birthday party. I lost my grandmother the same weekend. The news of my mother's death killed her. I already had a small family. This made it exponentially smaller. The sadness was and is like nothing I could've ever imagined. There are glaring holes at every family gathering and as corny as it sounds, the even bigger hole is in my heart. For a while, when people asked how I was doing with it, I answered, "Taking it one day at a time." Then I moved onto, "I'm okay, I guess." I've run out of cliche answers. But I wouldn't say I'm okay. I still regularly cry about it and Mom is my first thought in the morning and last thought at night. And I not only dread my first Christmas and New Years without her, but the fact that it's likely neither of my children will remember her and how much she loved them breaks my heart every time I think of it.
I've also learned that people move on without you. The hardest moment in my life wasn't the funeral. At that point, I had boat loads of support. It was the Monday after the funeral, sitting at my desk at work while others laughed around me like nothing was wrong. It was months later when my three-year-old son Antonio curiously asked while on our way to school if Grandma was ever coming back. I've also learned that while some people have much larger hearts than I thought, sometimes the one you expect to support you is the first one to let you down. I've lost one of my best childhood friends this year. Sadly, I'm the only one of the two of us aware of it, though.
I've learned that my kids are worth it. I can't even tell you how many times I've come home from work, weary, worn out and downright miserable to have my two boys brighten my mood with simply a smile and hug, as I bury my face in their chests. At that point, the aggressive driver who cut me off and flipped me off or the rude office manager who treated me like a lesser life form don't matter at all.
I've learned that my wife is willing to tolerate me being an intolerant prick sometimes because she knows I'm going through a lot. She's been my rock. Everyone needs one. When they say "for better or worse," this is the "worse" part.
I've come to realize how losing someone so important makes you exponentially more grateful for those you still have. When I see my father playing with my kids and my sister's kids or I call my 86-year-old grandmother just to listen to how her hip is bothering her, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude and I hinge on every moment. It breaks my heart that Mom and Grandma won't be at the table on Christmas, but when Antonio gets giddy about seeing his cousins or his grandfather, I smile. Dad, Grandma, my sister, cousins, Aunts, etc. They're a window into my past.
I've learned that it's vitally important for me to have hobbies and interests. Without some combination of my podcast, parent blog, bowling, fantasy football or book project, I'd be a pretty miserable guy. It's hard for non-creative types to understand it, but if people like me aren't creating something, we don't feel useful.
When I look back at this year, I hope not just to remember the horrific scene of finding my mother's body or hearing my grandmother's screams when I broke the news, but I also hope to remember something Sonia told me. One night I was particularly down and she knew it. So she took my hand in hers and told me, "You're stronger than you think. And you're the man I think you are." I've learned that sometimes we need someone else to believe in us, even when we don't believe in ourselves.
It's been said that if I can get through that week in April, I can get through anything. And that's the kind of confidence I intend to carry into 2013 - as a husband, friend, and especially a father.
Here's to a happier 2013.
- Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
How Do I Make Sure I'm Not Raising a Jerk?
Your kid is a spoiled brat. He gets everything he wants. Because of your lack of discipline and your overly lenient parenting, your child is quickly morphing from innocent boy to a full-blown sociopath, leaving a wasteland of broken hearts and gravy boats in his path. You are a tactless, careless sycophant and now your offspring is, too.
That is, verbatim, the speech I hear in my head every time I let my son get away with being destructive without the proper amount of consequence. It's always stated in an English accent too, which I never quite understood. Put simply, one of my main concerns as a father is that I'm either not disciplining my kids enough or I'm overreacting and doling out too much punishment. Ultimately, I will be held accountable for 50% of my kids' impact on society, for better or worse. So, I am continually questioning whether or not I'm doing the best job I can. I believe the easiest way to articulate the frustrations of disciplinary decisions is to describe a typical scenario and let you guys decide on your own how you'd handle it.
I arrive home from work at 6:35 PM on a Thursday night. Antonio is intently focused on building a castle of blocks and Nate is staring at the remote control like it were a Filet Mignon. I enthusiastically greet both of them and reach out to rub their heads playfully. Nate giggles. Antonio so much as blinks. In fact, he rarely provides a salutation when socially expected to give it. I try to force the issue, but only end up annoying him, being greeted instead with a dismissive wave and a grunt. The more I persist, the madder he grows. He goes as far as to push me away angrily. I decide to walk away. As I'm walking away, Nate does the unimaginable- he knocks over Antonio's block castle that he'd been working on for at least seven minutes. Before I can turn around, Antonio pushes Nate backward onto the hardwood floor, causing a painful thud, a volcano of tears and a pathetic siren-wail. As furious as I am with Antonio, though, I'll admit that I understand his frustration. I mean, that was one impressive castle.
So I find myself shouting, "Aw, Nate, why'd you....Antonio, why'd you....gahhhhhhh!!!!" I grab Antonio and put him in his room with the door closed. And I'm not sure why this is a punishment as all of his favorite toys are in there. But he flips out regardless, pounding on his door and knocking over and shattering a picture frame in the process. But how do I punish him for that? If I do, the tantrum will escalate and inevitably, all our dinners will get cold. And we all know steak doesn't heat up well. So I decide to let it slide, braving the storm and clutching Nate close to me for protection (mine, not his). Twenty minutes later, after finally calmed down, Antonio sits down to dinner and immediately spills his milk. He looks at me annoyed and insists, "I'm thirsty." I don't say a word and sop up the milk. Then, later before bed, when he least expected it (and when I even least expected it), I screamed at him to brush his teeth. He'd worn me down. And I was all out of logic.
As a parent, we need to pick our battles. But occasionally the battles pick us. I mean, was I not supposed to punish Antonio for pushing Nate even though his anger was justified (again, this castle was pretty damn special)? I was, after all, right there. Should I continue to administer the pain while my kids are wreaking havoc on my personal property? These are all questions that crowd my brain before the inevitable glass of wine and Xanax combination. Then my brain seems to empty like the fourth quarter of a blowout football game.
Am I alone here? I'm interested in hearing from other parents who too often face the dilemma of "how harshly should I punish my kids, and where do I draw the line?"
Thanks for reading. Follow me on Twitter here.
I will soon start to incorporate live video with this blog to spruce it up a bit for the holidays. Feel free to share this with friends if you enjoy it. When my book comes out next year, I'd love for thousands of you to be reading my chaotic tales!
-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
That is, verbatim, the speech I hear in my head every time I let my son get away with being destructive without the proper amount of consequence. It's always stated in an English accent too, which I never quite understood. Put simply, one of my main concerns as a father is that I'm either not disciplining my kids enough or I'm overreacting and doling out too much punishment. Ultimately, I will be held accountable for 50% of my kids' impact on society, for better or worse. So, I am continually questioning whether or not I'm doing the best job I can. I believe the easiest way to articulate the frustrations of disciplinary decisions is to describe a typical scenario and let you guys decide on your own how you'd handle it.
I arrive home from work at 6:35 PM on a Thursday night. Antonio is intently focused on building a castle of blocks and Nate is staring at the remote control like it were a Filet Mignon. I enthusiastically greet both of them and reach out to rub their heads playfully. Nate giggles. Antonio so much as blinks. In fact, he rarely provides a salutation when socially expected to give it. I try to force the issue, but only end up annoying him, being greeted instead with a dismissive wave and a grunt. The more I persist, the madder he grows. He goes as far as to push me away angrily. I decide to walk away. As I'm walking away, Nate does the unimaginable- he knocks over Antonio's block castle that he'd been working on for at least seven minutes. Before I can turn around, Antonio pushes Nate backward onto the hardwood floor, causing a painful thud, a volcano of tears and a pathetic siren-wail. As furious as I am with Antonio, though, I'll admit that I understand his frustration. I mean, that was one impressive castle.
So I find myself shouting, "Aw, Nate, why'd you....Antonio, why'd you....gahhhhhhh!!!!" I grab Antonio and put him in his room with the door closed. And I'm not sure why this is a punishment as all of his favorite toys are in there. But he flips out regardless, pounding on his door and knocking over and shattering a picture frame in the process. But how do I punish him for that? If I do, the tantrum will escalate and inevitably, all our dinners will get cold. And we all know steak doesn't heat up well. So I decide to let it slide, braving the storm and clutching Nate close to me for protection (mine, not his). Twenty minutes later, after finally calmed down, Antonio sits down to dinner and immediately spills his milk. He looks at me annoyed and insists, "I'm thirsty." I don't say a word and sop up the milk. Then, later before bed, when he least expected it (and when I even least expected it), I screamed at him to brush his teeth. He'd worn me down. And I was all out of logic.
As a parent, we need to pick our battles. But occasionally the battles pick us. I mean, was I not supposed to punish Antonio for pushing Nate even though his anger was justified (again, this castle was pretty damn special)? I was, after all, right there. Should I continue to administer the pain while my kids are wreaking havoc on my personal property? These are all questions that crowd my brain before the inevitable glass of wine and Xanax combination. Then my brain seems to empty like the fourth quarter of a blowout football game.
Am I alone here? I'm interested in hearing from other parents who too often face the dilemma of "how harshly should I punish my kids, and where do I draw the line?"
Thanks for reading. Follow me on Twitter here.
I will soon start to incorporate live video with this blog to spruce it up a bit for the holidays. Feel free to share this with friends if you enjoy it. When my book comes out next year, I'd love for thousands of you to be reading my chaotic tales!
-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Monday, October 22, 2012
Zone Defense: Babysitting Two Kids By Myself
First off, I know what you're thinking. "It's not babysitting if it's your own kids, Joe!" Well, they're babies and I'm sitting with them. Please feel free to send along any suggestions for how better to describe this activity. Anyway, my wife and in-laws were out of town for a couple of days for a funeral, which left only me to watch after our two children. This frightened me for several reasons. And I had some questions/concerns. Such as...
* Will this be the moment my kids realize I'm clueless?
* When will I pee?
* Good lord, I'll have to bathe, feed AND put them to sleep together!
* I'll have to DVR the Jets game. No way I'll catch even one snap.
* Oh, who cares? The Jets are terrible.
* I mean, really. Stevie Wonder could find better running room than Shonn Greene.
* The good thing is I won't be eating much so dropping a deuce shouldn't be an issue.
* Should I opt for whiskey or vodka once they're finally asleep?
It didn't take very long for me to lose my patience. I was at the breakfast table with both boys 15 minutes after they woke up and I walked to the toaster to take out the waffles. As I turned around, I noticed Antonio rushing his arm to his side, muffling laughter. As I approached the table, I noticed Nate's bowl of pureed fruit looked a little lighter than it had a moment earlier. Then I noticed the empty measuring cup next to it. Antonio had poured Nate's reflux medicine into his breakfast bowl. I shouted in Antonio's face, "Are you serious?! You know better than that!" I tend to tell him he knows better whenever he does something appalling, but truthfully he really doesn't. He's three for God's sake.
So I tried to kill two birds with one stone by spooning some fruit and medicine into Nate's mouth, but two scoops in and he realized it tasted like fruit mixed with medicine. At least I tried.
About an hour later, I had them dressed and in the car, on our way to a pumpkin patch (which I'd forgotten was 45 minutes away). No sooner did I reach the highway when I peered in the rear-view mirror and noticed Nate leaning forward in his car seat. Well, that's odd, I thought. Then I realized I never strapped him into the damn thing! I pulled into the next parking lot and jumped out of the car, making the adjustment. "Please don't tell mommy," I frantically pleaded with Antonio.
"I'm going to tell her," he quipped with a menacing grin. What a jerk. Bros before hoes, pal. Fortunately, he's three and totally forgot by the time Sonia returned.
Going to this pumpkin patch/apple orchard/whatever the fuck seemed like a decent idea going into it. "My cousins will be there, so you'll have some help with the kids. If you stay home, you're on your own," Sonia suggested. It was hard to argue with any logic that might allow me the luxury of urinating in solitude. So, I went for it.
I was told we'd been meeting them at 10:30 AM, so naturally Nate shit as I was opening the door to leave, setting us back a bit. I got there 11:00, thinking I was 30 minutes late. Then I remembered I'd married into a South American family. Thirty minutes late actually meant 90 minutes early.
I waited for them to arrive, intermittently snapping awkward pictures of one of my sons while holding the other son, a diaper bag, the camera bag and pushing a double stroller down a rocky hill. I was walking birth control at that point. No sooner did they arrive when I kissed most of them goodbye to take the tractor ride to get a pumpkin- aka, the only reason Antonio wanted to come and the thing he'd complain about for three hours if I didn't take him. We weren't even on the tractor yet and Nate was starting to voraciously head butt me (that means he's tired). And it's a good thing cousin Nathalie and Fernando came along. Otherwise, I'd have no way of carrying the pumpkin back other than counting on a three-year-old I can't even count on to hold an empty container of yogurt for more than 30 seconds.
I got them both back in the car by 2:00 PM, a full two hours beyond the start of Nate's normal nap time. Both of them passed out before I reached the highway. I exhaled slowly, truly enjoying the moment of serenity I was now sharing with nothing but myself and the open road ahead. I felt empowered, with a new sense of belief in my abilities to entertain, clothe and generally maintain two young children full-time. Twenty five minutes later, as I neared the entrance to our driveway, I looked back expecting to see two dozing toddlers. Instead they were wide awake! Desperately, I drove past our house and around the neighborhood, hoping they'd fall back asleep. But it was all for nil. They were my kids, and by God they weren't sleeping another wink.
No sooner were we inside when Antonio tried dragging his dirty pumpkin into the (at that point) clean kitchen. I lost it and screamed at him, which prompted him to grab a picture of Sonia and sob while shouting, "I want mommy!" and gazing at the photo longingly. Oh, I wanted her too.
After the tantrum subsided, I allowed them to wreak havoc on the basement. It was my only real shot at sanity. While they entertained themselves by taking every conceivable object and hurling it carelessly on the tile floor/sucking on it, I texted Sonia making sure she was coming back eventually. "My Aunt said she'd come by to help. Give her a call. She won't mind." Sure, she won't mind. But how embarrassing is that? "Yeah, hey, it's Joe. I'm here with my own children and I'm not capable enough to keep them and myself alive for 48 hours." So, instead, I called my best friend Andrew. He already knows my shortcomings. But he claimed to be sick. Very curiously, he was over this sickness the very next day. I might also mention that he enjoys seeing me suffer.
After I shoveled as much food into them as I could to ensure I wouldn't starve them, I gavee both baths at the same time, which was particularly stressful since I had to put Nate's special earplugs in, and then a headband over the earplugs, then wash his hair while ensuring he doesn't rip any of this off while Antonio shoots me in the eyes with a water gun. So, after this was over, I began the monumental task of putting them to sleep at the same time. And if you've never tried putting two small children to sleep together, the skill involved is worthy of an Olympic event. I placed Nate in his crib while holding Antonio on my lap, intermittently begging him with a harsh whisper, "Pretend you're not here." Naturally, Antonio takes that as his cue to relentlessly sing Puff the F'ing Magic Dragon to Nate like he was hired to do just that. This only extended the night.
After about 20 minutes of this excruciating sing-a-long, I got a text from Sonia, asking me to DVR one of her shows. Since neither kid was sleeping, I turned on the lights and headed downstairs to do the deed. Both kids giggle as if being released from some kind of purgatory. This glee would be extinguished, though, when I return to the dark five minutes later. You'd have thought I was lowering them into an erupting volcano. My only option at that point was to wait until they were both tired of whining/singing/crying/poking me in the face and to mercifully resign to the living room for a stiff Jack Daniels and Coke. I sat on the couch sipping my drink with unmatched satisfaction, feeling a sense of great accomplishment as a parent and pride as a responsible human being. Until I saw the massive pile of dirty dishes that were mockingly waiting for me on the kitchen counter. And then I cried a little.
This one was for all you parents of one thinking about being parents of two! Proceed with caution and bang responsibly.
I've already gotten some fantastic blurbs from some readers for my upcoming parenting book. Still looking for more! If you have a unique perspective on parenting, send it my way to the email listed below and you may be a contributing writer on my next book!
P.S. The Jets actually won that game vs. The Colts!
Thanks,
Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Buy my first book here.
Follow me on Twitter here.
* Will this be the moment my kids realize I'm clueless?
* When will I pee?
* Good lord, I'll have to bathe, feed AND put them to sleep together!
* I'll have to DVR the Jets game. No way I'll catch even one snap.
* Oh, who cares? The Jets are terrible.
* I mean, really. Stevie Wonder could find better running room than Shonn Greene.
* The good thing is I won't be eating much so dropping a deuce shouldn't be an issue.
* Should I opt for whiskey or vodka once they're finally asleep?
False perception of two kids
Truth about two kids
It didn't take very long for me to lose my patience. I was at the breakfast table with both boys 15 minutes after they woke up and I walked to the toaster to take out the waffles. As I turned around, I noticed Antonio rushing his arm to his side, muffling laughter. As I approached the table, I noticed Nate's bowl of pureed fruit looked a little lighter than it had a moment earlier. Then I noticed the empty measuring cup next to it. Antonio had poured Nate's reflux medicine into his breakfast bowl. I shouted in Antonio's face, "Are you serious?! You know better than that!" I tend to tell him he knows better whenever he does something appalling, but truthfully he really doesn't. He's three for God's sake.
So I tried to kill two birds with one stone by spooning some fruit and medicine into Nate's mouth, but two scoops in and he realized it tasted like fruit mixed with medicine. At least I tried.
About an hour later, I had them dressed and in the car, on our way to a pumpkin patch (which I'd forgotten was 45 minutes away). No sooner did I reach the highway when I peered in the rear-view mirror and noticed Nate leaning forward in his car seat. Well, that's odd, I thought. Then I realized I never strapped him into the damn thing! I pulled into the next parking lot and jumped out of the car, making the adjustment. "Please don't tell mommy," I frantically pleaded with Antonio.
"I'm going to tell her," he quipped with a menacing grin. What a jerk. Bros before hoes, pal. Fortunately, he's three and totally forgot by the time Sonia returned.
Going to this pumpkin patch/apple orchard/whatever the fuck seemed like a decent idea going into it. "My cousins will be there, so you'll have some help with the kids. If you stay home, you're on your own," Sonia suggested. It was hard to argue with any logic that might allow me the luxury of urinating in solitude. So, I went for it.
I was told we'd been meeting them at 10:30 AM, so naturally Nate shit as I was opening the door to leave, setting us back a bit. I got there 11:00, thinking I was 30 minutes late. Then I remembered I'd married into a South American family. Thirty minutes late actually meant 90 minutes early.
I waited for them to arrive, intermittently snapping awkward pictures of one of my sons while holding the other son, a diaper bag, the camera bag and pushing a double stroller down a rocky hill. I was walking birth control at that point. No sooner did they arrive when I kissed most of them goodbye to take the tractor ride to get a pumpkin- aka, the only reason Antonio wanted to come and the thing he'd complain about for three hours if I didn't take him. We weren't even on the tractor yet and Nate was starting to voraciously head butt me (that means he's tired). And it's a good thing cousin Nathalie and Fernando came along. Otherwise, I'd have no way of carrying the pumpkin back other than counting on a three-year-old I can't even count on to hold an empty container of yogurt for more than 30 seconds.
I got them both back in the car by 2:00 PM, a full two hours beyond the start of Nate's normal nap time. Both of them passed out before I reached the highway. I exhaled slowly, truly enjoying the moment of serenity I was now sharing with nothing but myself and the open road ahead. I felt empowered, with a new sense of belief in my abilities to entertain, clothe and generally maintain two young children full-time. Twenty five minutes later, as I neared the entrance to our driveway, I looked back expecting to see two dozing toddlers. Instead they were wide awake! Desperately, I drove past our house and around the neighborhood, hoping they'd fall back asleep. But it was all for nil. They were my kids, and by God they weren't sleeping another wink.
No sooner were we inside when Antonio tried dragging his dirty pumpkin into the (at that point) clean kitchen. I lost it and screamed at him, which prompted him to grab a picture of Sonia and sob while shouting, "I want mommy!" and gazing at the photo longingly. Oh, I wanted her too.
After the tantrum subsided, I allowed them to wreak havoc on the basement. It was my only real shot at sanity. While they entertained themselves by taking every conceivable object and hurling it carelessly on the tile floor/sucking on it, I texted Sonia making sure she was coming back eventually. "My Aunt said she'd come by to help. Give her a call. She won't mind." Sure, she won't mind. But how embarrassing is that? "Yeah, hey, it's Joe. I'm here with my own children and I'm not capable enough to keep them and myself alive for 48 hours." So, instead, I called my best friend Andrew. He already knows my shortcomings. But he claimed to be sick. Very curiously, he was over this sickness the very next day. I might also mention that he enjoys seeing me suffer.
After I shoveled as much food into them as I could to ensure I wouldn't starve them, I gavee both baths at the same time, which was particularly stressful since I had to put Nate's special earplugs in, and then a headband over the earplugs, then wash his hair while ensuring he doesn't rip any of this off while Antonio shoots me in the eyes with a water gun. So, after this was over, I began the monumental task of putting them to sleep at the same time. And if you've never tried putting two small children to sleep together, the skill involved is worthy of an Olympic event. I placed Nate in his crib while holding Antonio on my lap, intermittently begging him with a harsh whisper, "Pretend you're not here." Naturally, Antonio takes that as his cue to relentlessly sing Puff the F'ing Magic Dragon to Nate like he was hired to do just that. This only extended the night.
After about 20 minutes of this excruciating sing-a-long, I got a text from Sonia, asking me to DVR one of her shows. Since neither kid was sleeping, I turned on the lights and headed downstairs to do the deed. Both kids giggle as if being released from some kind of purgatory. This glee would be extinguished, though, when I return to the dark five minutes later. You'd have thought I was lowering them into an erupting volcano. My only option at that point was to wait until they were both tired of whining/singing/crying/poking me in the face and to mercifully resign to the living room for a stiff Jack Daniels and Coke. I sat on the couch sipping my drink with unmatched satisfaction, feeling a sense of great accomplishment as a parent and pride as a responsible human being. Until I saw the massive pile of dirty dishes that were mockingly waiting for me on the kitchen counter. And then I cried a little.
This one was for all you parents of one thinking about being parents of two! Proceed with caution and bang responsibly.
I've already gotten some fantastic blurbs from some readers for my upcoming parenting book. Still looking for more! If you have a unique perspective on parenting, send it my way to the email listed below and you may be a contributing writer on my next book!
P.S. The Jets actually won that game vs. The Colts!
Thanks,
Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Buy my first book here.
Follow me on Twitter here.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Good God: Bringing Two Toddlers to Church
I haven't finished a prayer since 2009. That's the year my first son was born. Nowadays, when I'm kneeling in church and looking to the sky and Antonio is poking me in the ribs for his fifth snack in three minutes, I opt to be succinct and say simply, "You already know." But that said, there are plenty of reasons not to bring small children to church, but one important reason to do it anyway.
A trip to church is never without incident (read; grumbled, frustrated curses until we enter the parking lot of holiness). In fact, of all the places you can bring your children, it's easily one of the most stressful. Planning to get out the door, for instance, must begin no later than 45 minutes before the smart time of mass. Any later than that, and you're sheepishly opening the back door, hoping the priest was proactive enough to spray some WB-40 on the hinges. So, naturally, that's what happens to us every single Sunday.
We make sure both kids have sufficient fluids and snacks (as if mass is taking place in the Sahara Desert) and pack noiseless toys into a backpack and run to the car. After we've done our worst to sneak in without anyone noticing we're late, we take our seats in the back room - otherwise known as "the cry room." There's even a sign on the door going into the room that states, "This room is reserved for parishioners with small children." But apparently, the text is too small for the half-asleep college students with sweat pants and Crocs to read. Thanks, jerks.
At this point, the priest is already halfway through his homily, which I always guiltily believe is somehow related to the sins of tardiness (if such a thing is technically sinful). Thankfully, we're far enough away from the altar where the priest can't make judgmental eye contact with us.
No sooner do we sit down when Antonio is somehow starving and proceeds to eat everything in sight. It's borderline embarrassing, since not even the babies in the room are indulging in food and drink. But he still sits there, chomping on a granola bar, not giving a shit. Sonia tries to get Antonio interested by giving him a kid bible, but the whole, "a man was nailed to a cross and rose from the dead to save the rest of us jerks" is a bit of a dark story for a three-year-old who still pees himself occasionally. He winds up using it as a coloring book, anyway.
If it needs to be said, sitting in the cry room at church and trying to actually listen is like sitting in the front row at Sea World, trying to peacefully read a book. Translation: You feel like a badass actually trying to pull it off. But then an idiot when you fail.
All in all, there are Sundays when I feel like I'm completely wasting my time. But teaching my kids the skill of shutting the fuck up for a full hour can't possibly be a bad thing.
In closing, I'll say that I do feel kind of bad cursing in a post about church. But as long as I'm not on the holy Wi-Fi network, I figure I have carte blanche.
Till next time, thanks for reading.
-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Buy my first book for only $3 here.
Follow me on Twitter here.
#parenting
This kid isn't actually praying. He just fell asleep and his parents pushed his hands together.
A trip to church is never without incident (read; grumbled, frustrated curses until we enter the parking lot of holiness). In fact, of all the places you can bring your children, it's easily one of the most stressful. Planning to get out the door, for instance, must begin no later than 45 minutes before the smart time of mass. Any later than that, and you're sheepishly opening the back door, hoping the priest was proactive enough to spray some WB-40 on the hinges. So, naturally, that's what happens to us every single Sunday.
We make sure both kids have sufficient fluids and snacks (as if mass is taking place in the Sahara Desert) and pack noiseless toys into a backpack and run to the car. After we've done our worst to sneak in without anyone noticing we're late, we take our seats in the back room - otherwise known as "the cry room." There's even a sign on the door going into the room that states, "This room is reserved for parishioners with small children." But apparently, the text is too small for the half-asleep college students with sweat pants and Crocs to read. Thanks, jerks.
At this point, the priest is already halfway through his homily, which I always guiltily believe is somehow related to the sins of tardiness (if such a thing is technically sinful). Thankfully, we're far enough away from the altar where the priest can't make judgmental eye contact with us.
No sooner do we sit down when Antonio is somehow starving and proceeds to eat everything in sight. It's borderline embarrassing, since not even the babies in the room are indulging in food and drink. But he still sits there, chomping on a granola bar, not giving a shit. Sonia tries to get Antonio interested by giving him a kid bible, but the whole, "a man was nailed to a cross and rose from the dead to save the rest of us jerks" is a bit of a dark story for a three-year-old who still pees himself occasionally. He winds up using it as a coloring book, anyway.
If it needs to be said, sitting in the cry room at church and trying to actually listen is like sitting in the front row at Sea World, trying to peacefully read a book. Translation: You feel like a badass actually trying to pull it off. But then an idiot when you fail.
All in all, there are Sundays when I feel like I'm completely wasting my time. But teaching my kids the skill of shutting the fuck up for a full hour can't possibly be a bad thing.
In closing, I'll say that I do feel kind of bad cursing in a post about church. But as long as I'm not on the holy Wi-Fi network, I figure I have carte blanche.
Till next time, thanks for reading.
-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Buy my first book for only $3 here.
Follow me on Twitter here.
#parenting
Friday, September 14, 2012
A Concerted Effort: Taking My Son to See the Fresh Beat Band
Considering the attention span of a three-year-old, there isn't much we can count on mine being focused on for longer than 15 seconds. But one of the things he consistently comes back to is the lineup of shows on Nick, Jr. The infuriatingly peppy, carefree, and crappy Fresh Beat Band, for one.
Here's who they are, in case you're lucky enough to be a 22-year-old bachelor who has never heard the name. I apologize in advance.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ZVbigFntFc
So, we went ahead and bought tickets to an actual concert of said band. I think there was even a pre-sale, which implies that people were so eager to purchase tickets, that they went on sale before they went on sale. Says a ton about the current state of the music industry when we're clamoring to pre-order tickets to a concert of a fictitious band. I only wish the money I put down on it was phony too.
I dropped him off at school that day, prefacing the entire day with, "Mommy and I will pick you up early and then it's straight to the Fresh Beat show!" He was beyond thrilled. Hell, even I started getting excited just to see him experience something he'd waited so long to see. In a word, I was eager. In another word, I was embarrassed. To be eager. After all, the original Marina wouldn't even be there! (That's an inside joke for my fellow Fresh Beat sufferers)
We picked him up around the time we said we would, and naturally hit an unacceptable amount of traffic on the Parkway heading to Toms River to the Pine Belt Arena, where as it turns out this concert was taking place in a high school gym (not an actual arena, which made me feel better about the music industry, but worse about the money I'd spent on each seat). We got there 10 minutes into the performance and I could already feel the vomit start to form. But I took solace in knowing that I was doing something for my son that was as charitable as it was commendable, allowing him to live out a dream, to see his heroes live and in the flesh. So instead of puking, I simply smiled to myself. I knew it was going to be money well spent. That was, until I actually looked at Antonio's face.
The above photo displays his expression for no less than 80% of the entire concert. Complete and utter indifference. He looked how I often look when I accidentally leave a documentary about the War of 1812 on and can't find the remote. We tried asking why he wasn't more excited, of course. But he gave us the silent treatment. A part of me was silently happy. Could it be that my spawn has come to his senses and realized how terrible and ghastly this music actually is? I soon came to find out that the culprit was food-related. Yup. Despite eating strawberries, a yogurt, a granola bar, and probably a 16-oz steak on the drive down, he started whining that he was hungry. So I took him to wait on the excruciatingly long food line. At this point it was during intermission so I figured I had the time to wait on it. So, after we finally got to the front of the line, I realize I hadn't seen a single person paying with credit card. I leaned in and reluctantly asked, "Are you cash only?" The cashier nodded disinterestedly. I literally took the bag of Sun Chips and slammed it on the counter like some kind of ogre. I may have even shouted an expletive as I stormed off, Antonio dragging behind me as he begged me for just a nibble. I started to hate myself.
Fortunately, Sonia emerged and had about two dollars in quarters, which was barely enough to cover the cost of the overpriced chips. So as Antonio went out of his way to kick, scream, and do everything in his power to show he didn't deserve happiness, we begrudgingly handed him the bag of chips. Of course, this process took so long that we missed the one fucking song he claimed he wanted to hear- "Just Like a Rock Star." He couldn't have given a shit less. He just wanted a God damn snack.
At long last, we finally made our way back to our seats, just so Antonio could softly sob while making sure I couldn't reach into his bag. Then, I saw something so foreign I knew I had to snap a shot of it with my camera. Yes, folks, this actually happened, during the last song of the performance, as the "arena" started to empty...
Yes, Antonio smiled. And for a couple of seconds, his face matched the excitement he had been oozing with over the last several months. And folks, it was that exact moment when I decided NOT to jump off a bridge and die a watery, painful death.
Till next time, be strong and stay sane.
Working hard on my upcoming parenting book. Stay tuned!
-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Buy my first book for only $3!
Follow me on Twitter!
Here's who they are, in case you're lucky enough to be a 22-year-old bachelor who has never heard the name. I apologize in advance.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ZVbigFntFc
We're here to make you sing, dance, and question your very reason for living!
So, we went ahead and bought tickets to an actual concert of said band. I think there was even a pre-sale, which implies that people were so eager to purchase tickets, that they went on sale before they went on sale. Says a ton about the current state of the music industry when we're clamoring to pre-order tickets to a concert of a fictitious band. I only wish the money I put down on it was phony too.
I dropped him off at school that day, prefacing the entire day with, "Mommy and I will pick you up early and then it's straight to the Fresh Beat show!" He was beyond thrilled. Hell, even I started getting excited just to see him experience something he'd waited so long to see. In a word, I was eager. In another word, I was embarrassed. To be eager. After all, the original Marina wouldn't even be there! (That's an inside joke for my fellow Fresh Beat sufferers)
We picked him up around the time we said we would, and naturally hit an unacceptable amount of traffic on the Parkway heading to Toms River to the Pine Belt Arena, where as it turns out this concert was taking place in a high school gym (not an actual arena, which made me feel better about the music industry, but worse about the money I'd spent on each seat). We got there 10 minutes into the performance and I could already feel the vomit start to form. But I took solace in knowing that I was doing something for my son that was as charitable as it was commendable, allowing him to live out a dream, to see his heroes live and in the flesh. So instead of puking, I simply smiled to myself. I knew it was going to be money well spent. That was, until I actually looked at Antonio's face.
The above photo displays his expression for no less than 80% of the entire concert. Complete and utter indifference. He looked how I often look when I accidentally leave a documentary about the War of 1812 on and can't find the remote. We tried asking why he wasn't more excited, of course. But he gave us the silent treatment. A part of me was silently happy. Could it be that my spawn has come to his senses and realized how terrible and ghastly this music actually is? I soon came to find out that the culprit was food-related. Yup. Despite eating strawberries, a yogurt, a granola bar, and probably a 16-oz steak on the drive down, he started whining that he was hungry. So I took him to wait on the excruciatingly long food line. At this point it was during intermission so I figured I had the time to wait on it. So, after we finally got to the front of the line, I realize I hadn't seen a single person paying with credit card. I leaned in and reluctantly asked, "Are you cash only?" The cashier nodded disinterestedly. I literally took the bag of Sun Chips and slammed it on the counter like some kind of ogre. I may have even shouted an expletive as I stormed off, Antonio dragging behind me as he begged me for just a nibble. I started to hate myself.
Fortunately, Sonia emerged and had about two dollars in quarters, which was barely enough to cover the cost of the overpriced chips. So as Antonio went out of his way to kick, scream, and do everything in his power to show he didn't deserve happiness, we begrudgingly handed him the bag of chips. Of course, this process took so long that we missed the one fucking song he claimed he wanted to hear- "Just Like a Rock Star." He couldn't have given a shit less. He just wanted a God damn snack.
At long last, we finally made our way back to our seats, just so Antonio could softly sob while making sure I couldn't reach into his bag. Then, I saw something so foreign I knew I had to snap a shot of it with my camera. Yes, folks, this actually happened, during the last song of the performance, as the "arena" started to empty...
Yes, Antonio smiled. And for a couple of seconds, his face matched the excitement he had been oozing with over the last several months. And folks, it was that exact moment when I decided NOT to jump off a bridge and die a watery, painful death.
Till next time, be strong and stay sane.
Working hard on my upcoming parenting book. Stay tuned!
-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Buy my first book for only $3!
Follow me on Twitter!
Friday, August 31, 2012
Feeling Flighty: Taking Two Toddlers on an Airplane
Ever since I was a kid, I tended to shy away from adventure. When my meager pool of friends asked me to go to the local carnival, I accepted reluctantly, making every conceivable excuse not to set foot on anything remotely exciting. Instead, I stood idly by stuffing zeppoles into my mouth (which likely was more dangerous in the long run than riding a roller-coaster). As years went by, those same friends moved past carnivals and onto skydiving, rock-climbing, unprotected sex with promiscuous bar patrons. You name it! Still, I stood there with my bag of zeppoles. They stopped asking me to do things years ago. And once I had kids, they deleted me from their contacts. Can't blame them. But I can certainly resent the hell out of them.
Anyway, my cousin Karen in Florida had been asking me to come visit ever since the kids were born. So naturally, we waited until the boys were at the most inconvenient ages possible (1 and 3) to book our trip to Orlando.
Now is a good time to mention that I might be the world's shittiest flyer. Everyone is a terrorist, every foreign sound is the engine failing and every raindrop will cause us to nosedive erratically into the Atlantic. Add kids into the equation and you've got the makings of a first-rate, pee your pants comedy (for everyone but me, that is). And what's odd is that I refuse to fly with my wife since I fear that the plane will go down and leave my children as orphans, but apparently am okay with us all going up in flames together with the kids. Please don't try to understand my morbidly creepy logic.
So, going into this trip, I knew I had three obstacles to overcome. They were:
1. Getting alcohol immediately
2. Ensuring my older son doesn't shit in his underwear
3. Ensuring I don't shit in my underwear
Obstacle #1 reared its ugly head immediately, as I asked the stewardess upon boarding when the liquor would be served. I felt like Amy Winehouse, but dammit, I had an itch that needed to be scratched, and scratched with something at least 80 proof. I was told with judging eyes that the drink service would begin once they reached an elevation where it was safe to move about the aircraft, or some bullshit. Considering 80% of the reason I needed said liquor was for takeoff, I noticeably grimaced while lugging Sonia's flowery diaper bag and an eager-to-walk Nate simultaneously to our seats.
I was so intently focused on wishing we wouldn't all die that I forgot Nate hadn't pooped himself all day. So, when do you think he pooped? About five minutes before we took off. Meaning we weren't allowed to get up and that the unfortunate souls to my left and right would need to smell feces at least for the next 15 minutes. I tried my best to hold my nose and point to Nate's butt (the social indicator that I'm aware I'm the root cause of the current odor), but none of my seat neighbors would make eye contact with me. Instead, they looked away with sour faces as if they'd smelled a fart. But they didn't. They smelled shit. Luckily, Sonia volunteered to make the change once the Fasten Seatbelts sign was off. And let me tell you, that's one offer you always accept. She could've been on crutches with patches on both eyes and my conscious still would've allowed it. As she left with Nate, naturally Antonio ran to follow, causing me to awkwardly hop over the poor Cuban lady to my right, who I'd been reaching over and apologizing to for the past hour or so. After dragging him back to his seat like a mental patient off his meds, I whispered into his ear with the only phrase I knew would instantly stop the tears. "I just pooped my pants," I mumbled. And BOOM. Instant mood enhancer. He laughed his ass off, and I was no longer embarrassed.
So while the cat's away (changing the kitten's diaper), the mouse will drink whiskey on the rocks. And drink it I did. Quickly and voraciously.Then, just as I started to really feel it, Nate dropped another bomb. So much that it leaked out of his diaper and onto his pants. And it was my turn to change him. Now, let me just say this. You haven't been truly challenged until you're drunk on an airplane, forced to change a baby's soiled diaper on an airplane bathroom changing table the size of a pocket calculator. I mean, I would've had difficulty changing a Ken doll on that thing. I tried standing Nate up on it but I bumped his head on the ceiling. Thankfully, there was some give to it (his head, not the ceiling). Although, this was the point where I started hoping a DYFS representative wasn't on board to see me stumbling down the aisle with a disoriented child and Jack Daniels on my breath. Fortunately, though, I wouldn't have to worry about walking down the aisle at all. Because the stewardess was blocking my path with the God damn drink cart. So I stood there and waited. And standing still at that point might have been harder than trying to walk. Regardless, I braved it out, because that's what mildly inebriated fathers do.
Once I was off the plane, I breathed a sigh of relief, which probably intoxicated anyone in the surrounding area. Then, as I turned on my phone, carrying a camera bag, diaper bag, my one-year-old son and a changing pad, I noticed a text message saying, "Hope you're relaxing on your vacation!" Go fuck yourself.
I'm currently hard at work (no pun intended) on my parenting book. I won't be presumptuous and set a release date, but I promise not to Chinese Democracy this thing either. Believe that.
Till next time, feel free to share this with someone you think would enjoy.
-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Anyway, my cousin Karen in Florida had been asking me to come visit ever since the kids were born. So naturally, we waited until the boys were at the most inconvenient ages possible (1 and 3) to book our trip to Orlando.
Now is a good time to mention that I might be the world's shittiest flyer. Everyone is a terrorist, every foreign sound is the engine failing and every raindrop will cause us to nosedive erratically into the Atlantic. Add kids into the equation and you've got the makings of a first-rate, pee your pants comedy (for everyone but me, that is). And what's odd is that I refuse to fly with my wife since I fear that the plane will go down and leave my children as orphans, but apparently am okay with us all going up in flames together with the kids. Please don't try to understand my morbidly creepy logic.
So, going into this trip, I knew I had three obstacles to overcome. They were:
1. Getting alcohol immediately
2. Ensuring my older son doesn't shit in his underwear
3. Ensuring I don't shit in my underwear
Obstacle #1 reared its ugly head immediately, as I asked the stewardess upon boarding when the liquor would be served. I felt like Amy Winehouse, but dammit, I had an itch that needed to be scratched, and scratched with something at least 80 proof. I was told with judging eyes that the drink service would begin once they reached an elevation where it was safe to move about the aircraft, or some bullshit. Considering 80% of the reason I needed said liquor was for takeoff, I noticeably grimaced while lugging Sonia's flowery diaper bag and an eager-to-walk Nate simultaneously to our seats.
The most unrealistic picture ever taken
I was so intently focused on wishing we wouldn't all die that I forgot Nate hadn't pooped himself all day. So, when do you think he pooped? About five minutes before we took off. Meaning we weren't allowed to get up and that the unfortunate souls to my left and right would need to smell feces at least for the next 15 minutes. I tried my best to hold my nose and point to Nate's butt (the social indicator that I'm aware I'm the root cause of the current odor), but none of my seat neighbors would make eye contact with me. Instead, they looked away with sour faces as if they'd smelled a fart. But they didn't. They smelled shit. Luckily, Sonia volunteered to make the change once the Fasten Seatbelts sign was off. And let me tell you, that's one offer you always accept. She could've been on crutches with patches on both eyes and my conscious still would've allowed it. As she left with Nate, naturally Antonio ran to follow, causing me to awkwardly hop over the poor Cuban lady to my right, who I'd been reaching over and apologizing to for the past hour or so. After dragging him back to his seat like a mental patient off his meds, I whispered into his ear with the only phrase I knew would instantly stop the tears. "I just pooped my pants," I mumbled. And BOOM. Instant mood enhancer. He laughed his ass off, and I was no longer embarrassed.
So while the cat's away (changing the kitten's diaper), the mouse will drink whiskey on the rocks. And drink it I did. Quickly and voraciously.Then, just as I started to really feel it, Nate dropped another bomb. So much that it leaked out of his diaper and onto his pants. And it was my turn to change him. Now, let me just say this. You haven't been truly challenged until you're drunk on an airplane, forced to change a baby's soiled diaper on an airplane bathroom changing table the size of a pocket calculator. I mean, I would've had difficulty changing a Ken doll on that thing. I tried standing Nate up on it but I bumped his head on the ceiling. Thankfully, there was some give to it (his head, not the ceiling). Although, this was the point where I started hoping a DYFS representative wasn't on board to see me stumbling down the aisle with a disoriented child and Jack Daniels on my breath. Fortunately, though, I wouldn't have to worry about walking down the aisle at all. Because the stewardess was blocking my path with the God damn drink cart. So I stood there and waited. And standing still at that point might have been harder than trying to walk. Regardless, I braved it out, because that's what mildly inebriated fathers do.
Once I was off the plane, I breathed a sigh of relief, which probably intoxicated anyone in the surrounding area. Then, as I turned on my phone, carrying a camera bag, diaper bag, my one-year-old son and a changing pad, I noticed a text message saying, "Hope you're relaxing on your vacation!" Go fuck yourself.
I'm currently hard at work (no pun intended) on my parenting book. I won't be presumptuous and set a release date, but I promise not to Chinese Democracy this thing either. Believe that.
Till next time, feel free to share this with someone you think would enjoy.
-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
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