Paintball and Camping: A Recipe for Pain and Discomfort

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

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

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

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

So, of course that was the place.

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

Private Property

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

Trespassers will be prosecuted

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

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

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

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

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

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

And this was just a fraction of the total damage.

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

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

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

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

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

The new poster in my bedroom.

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

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

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

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

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

The California Trip

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It looked so inviting. Most catastrophes do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

                                                 Taken at the welcome reception. 1912.

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

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

Till next time, California.

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

Five Truths Parents Won't Like Hearing

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

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

1. Your kid might not be cute

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

2. Your sex life is comatose

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

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

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

4. Your kid is going to use curse words

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

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

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

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

Hang in there.

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

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

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

1. Random Anger

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

2. Unnecessary Wardrobe Changes

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

3. Dropping a Phone on My Face

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

4. From Obsessed Stalker to Silent Treatment

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

5. The Most Annoying Sound in the World

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

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

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

The Dentist Visit: How My Son Surprised Me

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

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

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

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

Random kid screaming

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

 

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

And all was right with the world.

Thanks for reading.

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

My First Time Hosting a Sleepover (Videos Included)

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

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

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

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

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

Video: Talking in the dark

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

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

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

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

Video: Tyler motivates Antonio to play soccer

Danny Tanner would be proud.

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

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

If you enjoyed this, please share.

Thanks for reading.

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

The Case For and Against Having a Third Kid

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

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

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

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

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

* All children are a blessing.

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

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

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

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

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



CASE AGAINST IT

* Are you an idiot?

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

* They will outnumber you guys.

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

* You can't afford another child.

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

* Two is more than enough.

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


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

Should having a third child be punishable by law?

Should having any children be punishable by law?

Let's discuss.

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

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