All in the Family

"Don't make fun of your mother. It's a sin against your soul." -My mom.

I don't call my mom as much as I should. Timing is mostly to blame. That's lame, I know. But sometimes when I think of calling her, it's too late. I know she's either asleep or...

Mom and I at a family wedding a few years ago.

One of the things I find most amusing, but sometimes most aggravating, about my mom is that I can tell how many glasses of wine she's had on a given night by the number of times I have to ask her the same question before I get an answer. The later I call, the more glasses of wine that have been consumed. And the more likely the conversation is, shall I say, colorful. This not only leads to a lot of repeated questions during the conversation, but repeated conversations the next time we talk.

For instance, she actually called me on the Monday AND Tuesday after Easter, to ask me how our Easter with my in-laws was. "Mom," I said on the second call. "What is this, Groundhog Day?" Then she insists we didn't talk yesterday, and the conversation becomes a blow-by-blow account of what we had discussed previously. A little bit of this is age. A lot of it is wine.

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Criminal Minds

"Never rat on your friends. And always keep your mouth shut." - Goodfellas.

Young "Hendry" gets pinched and learns
the two most important things in life.

There is a code. It's a mostly unspoken code among Italian-Americans. Robert DeNiro's character in GoodFellas did speak it, though.  (I posted it above.)  He said it right after Ray Liotta's character got arrested for the first time. Called them the two greatest things in life. (In the scene depicted on the left.) Peanut, herself half-Italian, subscribes to the code. I guess it's genetic, because I never taught it to her.

Haven't you ever made your friends promise to keep a secret? It wasn't a bad thing, right? When we learned Peanut made her friend pinky swear something, we were mildly concerned at worst. It wasn't that she made her pinky swear, it was what she made her pinky swear. In true mafioso form, our little angel told her friend, "not to tell her mom anything about her anymore." That's right. Peanut's friend got pinched, see. While Peanut generally keeps quiet to us (the code), her friend - not Italian - sang like a canary to her mom.

Turns out, Peanut was tired of us finding out about her exploits at school, no matter how innocent they were, through her friend's mom. So she went to the source and told her to pinky swear... to basically keep her f*cking mouth shut. And guess what the friend did? Told her mom about the pinky swear, who in turn told us about the pinky swear. Vicious cycle. This is what happens when you bring non-Italians into your inner circle.

Here is the anatomy of the crime:

1. Peanut and friend interact at school.
2. The friend tells her mom the story.
3. Peanut tells us nothing.
4. Friend's mom tells My Director.
5. We tell Peanut.
6. Peanut tells friend to keep her mouth shut.

What this little girl who was unwittingly ratting on Peanut doesn't know is there is no witness protection in Kindergarten. This friend - or should I say consigliere, is playing with fire. She's risking getting Peanut pinched. Or worse, herself whacked. While Peanut lawyers up faster than you can say cannoli, her friend spilled the beans with very little effort on the prosecution's part. So she quickly became our source of information. Our stool pigeon. It's mostly funny stuff. But this pinky swear business had us worried.

My Director didn't want Peanut becoming a mean girl. Worse, a sneaky mean girl. Someone who likes to keep secrets, both from us and among her friends. Someone who was perhaps bullying her friend to keep things from us. (Really?! She's five.) I understood her concern, but I also understand the code. (I'm Italian. My Director is NOT.) Sometimes secrets have to be kept. Then again... do they have to be kept in Kindergarten?

While I found all of this mildly amusing, I don't like the idea that my daughter is a schemer. Already.

We've had several conversations with her since the "pinky swear" incident. We've been sure not to be accusatory. We told her we want to hear everything about her day - the good and the bad - no matter what. That it's ok if something or someone bothers her, or if she doesn't like someone or something. We  just want to know anything and everything. Open the vault, kid. We might not always agree with her, we might not always like her decisions, but we will always be on her side.

That was out mini-intervention. It seems to have worked. Lately, Peanut has been spilling the beans herself, to us. Often she volunteers the information without prompting. After all, the code begins and ends with family. We're the best at keeping secrets. And the best at making sure our little princess doesn't turn into a mean girl.

Sometimes when Peanut acts up, it's my fault. I learned that the hard way and wrote about it HERE.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Welcome, Christmas

Christmas Day will always be
Just as long as we have we

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#SundaySupper Christmas Eve Crab Cakes

Crab cakes with dip, shrimp salad,
scungilli salad, stuffed mushrooms

Christmas Eve is the big tradition in our family. It's more important than any other holiday, even Christmas itself. We do a modernized version of the Italian feast of the seven fishes. My family - my mom, my siblings, and I - are a rare breed: full-blooded Italian-Americans. None of my first cousins can make that claim. So Christmas Eve - our tradition - is a big deal.

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The Song That Officially Means It's Christmas

There is a song that I have to hear to officially mark the beginning of Christmas season. Our tree may be up, our halls may be decked, our presents may be purchased and wrapped, but if I haven't heard this song yet, it just doesn't feel like Christmas. And in this digital age when you can play whatever song you want with the click of a mouse or a spin of a wheel, I don't cheat. It needs to happen naturally, like when I was growing up. It has to come on the radio. (Or Pandora.)

A few years ago, I didn't hear it until the morning of Christmas Eve while I was riding around town running last-minute errands. I called My Director, put her on speakerphone, and made her listen along with me. With tears in my eyes I sat in the driveway and listened to rest of the song, singing along hysterically.

Why did we not own this growing up? No idea.

It's Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town by Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Ghosts of Christmas Cards Past

We take pride in our annual Christmas card. It's one of our favorite, if not our favorite, non-traditional traditions. We are not the kind of people who pose for perfect pictures, or would pose our child for a perfect picture, to evoke an image of the perfect family for our friends, colleagues, and loved ones. No. No. No. Family is not perfect. It is most certainly, and wonderfully, imperfect. We must laugh at our imperfections every chance we get. Here is the image and caption from our first-ever family Christmas card, sent the year after we were married:

2003: "Here's hoping the holidays
don't make you NUTS."

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Comfort and Joy

A long time ago, even before My Director was around, I started a collection. This collection has turned into somewhat of a tradition. But like some traditions, it may be time to retire this one. Pretty much everywhere we go, I insist on getting a shot glass as a memento. Even though my days of chugging Rumple Minze two ounces at a time are long behind me, we have dozens of them:

How COOL is that Nashville one?

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Hoping for a New Normal #JerseyStrong

We've managed to return to normal here in the DKL house, here in the DKL town, post-Sandy. It happened a while ago, actually. Normal, of course, is all relative. Before that happened, though, there was a whole lot of not normal...

The Witch Pinata

The warnings were there. We didn't ignore them. Not completely, at least. We just... tabled them. Sandy was coming. It was making a bee-line for New Jersey and all indications were it was going to be bad. We had to get ready, but not for Sandy. For Halloween. Our annual child Halloween extravaganza. So that's what we did. The weather on the Saturday before the storm was eerily calm and overcast. Perfect for an outdoor Halloween party for a dozen or so kids. This day was business as usual. Fun needed to be had. A party needed to be thrown. That witch pinata desperately needed to be beaten down in a violent avalanche of sugary paradise. The hurricane could wait... for Sunday. 

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#PayItForward: Guest Post from @Dumbsainted

Today I am pleased to feature a wonderfully talented writer and blogger. "Dumbsaint," as I will call her because she likes to keep a certain level of anonymity, brings humor, passion, and insight that you don't find many places. Her blog is called Crazy Dumbsaint of the Mind. She is unafraid to tackle any subject, always putting herself and her opinion out there. Whether I agree or disagree, I enjoy reading her posts because they always make me THINK. When someone is passionate about something, and presents their argument with grace and humor, along with that passion, I listen. Sometimes, it even makes stubborn old me change my mind.

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#JerseyStrong: Healing Takes Time

Eventually, there will be healing, but the scars will remain. The broken will be torn down, rebuilt, replaced. When the new rises, we will notice it's not the same as it was before. Never will be.

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Celebrate Real Well

I plan on making the most of this Thanksgiving. It's the one holiday where there really isn't all that much stress. No costumes. No gifts. No cards, church obligations, or pictures with Santa or the Easter Bunny. There's the cooking... but Thanksgiving is usually not my holiday to cook. My Director and I are in charge of Christmas Eve. Even though we are hosting Thanksgiving this year as well, there's not much to preparing a turkey, some stuffing, and popping it in the oven for a few hours. Our guests will fill in the blanks.

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What to Expect When You're NOT Expecting

“It isn’t the size of the family, it’s the interactions of the members inside." Michele Borba

A friend of mine posted a picture on Facebook. It was of her daughter entering daycare for the last time. A big moment. A milestone. Certainly a bittersweet one. The end of one era with daycare and the beginning of another one with Kindergarten. The first person to comment in the thread underneath the picture said, "Time to have another baby."

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#PayItFoward: Guest Post from I Hope I Win a Toaster

This week I bring you a special edition of #PayItForward. A guest post from one of my favorite bloggers. Bill, who writes a blog called I Hope I Win a Toaster, is a talented writer and stay-at-home dad who I now consider a friend. Talented because he uses real words like "wont" (not the contraction, either) and makes up cool words like "sillily" (as well as the title of the post below.) Perhaps most impressive, he doesn't sound like a tool when he does it like I am sure I would if I tried.

Bill is always thoughtful, often poignant, and consistently funny. He's insightful and self-deprecating. (Sound familiar?) A pure joy to read. In true #PayItForward fashion, he even mentions other bloggers that he admires and follows in this post. Please enjoy and find a way to follow I Hope I Win a Toaster:

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I'll Pick Nothing and Like It

"Millions saw the apple fall, but Newton was the one who asked why." -Bernard Baruch

What's the big idea?
(This guy was on to something.)

What is it about this time of year that turns parents into gluttons for punishment? Maybe it's the need to squeeze every last ounce of outdoor activity out of the beautiful autumn weather before the relentless chill of winter descends. Maybe it's the lure of deliciously picked fruit to serve as healthy snacks and turn into scrumptious desserts. And maybe, just maybe, we're under the delusion that as soon as summer ends, our house absolutely must be decorated with pumpkins this very second. What other reason do we have for wasting a perfectly good Sunday afternoon picking apples or pumpkins or - for heaven's sake - both?

My Director and I gave up this trivial pursuit a long time ago. It sounds good on paper. It even looks good on paper, or in pictures. But in all honesty, it's not nearly as much fun as we think it's going to be. And all we really want is a cute picture of our child with a pumpkin. You know it. I know it. So we should stop doing this to ourselves. 

First of all, you're never going to get good weather. If you get a perfect fall day, play the lottery because you're on a lucky streak. Chances are it's going to be so hot that it feels more like summer. But you're dressed for fall anyway (for the pictures), sweating your a$$ of in jeans and a sweatshirt. If it's not hot, it's muddy because it recently rained. The weather makes dressing for this adventure an adventure in and of itself. It's bad enough I never know which wardrobe combo to go with this time of year: cargo-shorts/long-sleeve t-shirt or jeans/short sleeve t-shirt? And footwear? It could range from boots to sneakers to flip flops. I love autumn but sometimes the wardrobe anxiety makes me yearn for winter just so I can put on a coat and be done with it.

Vehicle required to take your family "picking."

No matter what you wear, you're going to feel filthy from sweat or actually be filthy from mud. If it is muddy, you're definitely getting your minivan stuck in someone else's tire track trench slop when you park. That will force you to call one or two of the strapping young farmboys on the payroll to help you push your swagger wagon free. This will make you feel less manly because a) you drive a minivan and b) you're unable to navigate it out of a tire track mud trench. 

In between docking and freeing your minivan from the slop, you're waiting for a glorified tractor-pulling-a-flatbed that they have the nerve to call a "hayride" because they throw some bales of hay on there for you to sit on. You can't hear a word your child is saying because the tractor engine is humming so loudly you're sure you're never going to hear properly again. Yet you know whatever she is trying to tell you is life-altering because she hasn't spoken until that point. You see, she's decided to mask her enthusiasm about this supposedly pleasurable endeavor. Either that or she just knows.

This is a pumpkin dumping ground, not a "patch."

You arrive at the pumpkin patch only to realize what you knew all along: there is no pumpkin patch. This isn't where they grow pumpkins. It's a field where they dump a bunch of pumpkins for you to pick. They bring the pumpkins out here on the same deafening tractor-flatbed that you just paid $10 a head to ride out here. And they overcharge you for the pumpkin too. Maybe your miserable little angel realizes this as well because she suddenly decides to be uncooperative. She's tired. She's hungry. She's hot. (Because the weather never cooperates.) She doesn't want to get messy. She not only refuses to smile for a picture, but she is throwing the godfather of all hissyfits in the middle of the pumpkin patch Superfund site:

Ok I'll come clean: This may have scarred me for life.

You finally have your apples or pumpkins or both and you're so exhausted and filthy you can't imagine having enough energy to carry all of this crap that's going to spoil before you get it back to the car. You realize at that point that you have so many apples and pumpkins and they took so much physical and emotional effort to pick that you'll never eat another apple or carve another pumpkin as long as you live. The line for the fake non-hayride tractor-pull back to the parking mud pit is 3/4 of a mile long and you're behind the two kids who are fighting with each other and the two dads who are paying no attention to them because they're checking their fantasy football scores. That's another thing: I'm missing a day of football for this. Just because my favorite team is on a bye doesn't mean I don't have football to watch. It's appointment television no matter who's playing.

Do yourself and your family a favor. Just go to your local farm store or garden store and buy some pumpkins and apples without all of the production and drama and be done with it. Spend quality time with your family some other way. Buying pumpkins retail and watching football at home.  Get your picture on the front porch and be done with it. How do you like THOSE apples?

To read the full story behind the Peanut-crying-in-the-pumpkin-patch photo, and why I'll never go "picking" again, click here. 

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Every Day is #SundaySupper, Especially with Perfectly-Grilled Pork Chops

Some of my most vivid, vibrant, and most cherished memories of childhood are of the six of us - mom, dad, my two sisters, my brother, and me - sitting around the table, saying grace and eating dinner. This nightly tradition was rarely missed. My mom made sure of it. And her meals were always fabulous. None more than most Sundays, when the aroma of the sauteed garlic and braised beef and pork for the gravy for that day's pasta dinner would fill the house from early in the morning. It's something I do every few months. Make a big pot, and freeze portions for later meals:

It's called "gravy" when you add meat to it

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Christmas in July

The song leaked from the backseat like the creak of a loose floorboard on the steps of my childhood home. Familiar but eerie. Comfortable, yet at the same time, jarring. It was Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy from The Nutcracker Suite. But this, after all, is July.

Peanut was playing with the iPad as we waited in the swagger wagon at the train station for My Director. This is our routine. I bring the iPad and she plays with one or two of the many apps that live in the folder marked with her name. Usually she plays a memory game or spelling game. So when I heard that song, I turned around with a smile:

"Why are you playing a Christmas game?"

"Because we don't have any summer ones, daddy."

Duh. Stupid of me for asking. So with that app, she made this for Santa:

Whimsical and festive

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Family Portraits

There may be no better way to immortalize a person than to have their child draw a picture of them. Marble sculpture? Bronze bust? Oil painting? No, sir. Give my 5 year-old a box of Crayolas any day of the week and let her imagination run wild. (Besides, I'm too self-conscious to be painted or sculpted.)

Even better, Peanut is becoming quite the little artist. Unlike her dancing gene, which she obviously gets from me, this love of art comes from My Director's side. My mother-in-law was a stellar art teacher. My Director loves that artsy stuff too. Me? Admittedly, whenever Peanut asks, "Daddy, come color with me," I cringe. A pit forms in my stomach. I immediately try to think of an excuse to get out of it. It's true. I'd rather unload the dishwasher than color with my child. The best I can usually do is a house, a tree, a sun, and some stick figures.

Realizing that's cruel and contrary to everything I believe as a parent, I then try to convince her that something else would be more fun:

"C'mon, Peanut. Instead we can totally eat ice cream and jump on the bed before mommy gets home. She'll never know."

"No, daddy. I just want to color."

"Fine. Have it your way."

Whether I like it or not, Peanut loves to draw. Her favorite subject is our family. Here is the spot-on picture of My Director she recently drew for Mother's Day: 

The glasses. The earrings. The boots. Perfect.

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The Best Dad I Know

What do you say to a man who has no idea what he means to you? What do you say to a man who means the world to you?

There is a man who is reading this right now, and he has no idea it's about him... yet. He's a dad. But he's not just any dad.

He's my friend. He's my uncle. He's my godfather.

Me and "Unc" at my 29th Smurfday Party
August 2004

He has perhaps shown me how to be a dad, in good times and in bad - the worst, in fact - more than any other dad I know. Including my own dad.

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Where It All Began

"Wherever you go, go with all your heart." ~Confucius

Turns out, you can go home again. And in doing so, you can introduce your child to a part of her past that she was too young to remember. All through the magic of Groupon. Well, we didn’t exactly need Groupon to take Peanut back to the town where we lived for the first 15 months of her life. (And for nine years of our relationship.) But it did give us a good excuse when an offer for our favorite restaurant in Hoboken popped up in my inbox. So I pounced.

That Groupon, however, sat printed in my mail bin for months, and was about to expire. So I came up with the idea to take the Peanut there one weekend. Retrace some of her roots. And some of ours.

As we talked about it one night at dinner My Director asked Peanut if she knew what Hoboken was. "That's where I got born," she said. (Technically, she was born at a hospital in NYC, but close enough.)

This restaurant is nothing fancy. It serves mostly bar food on its lunch menu. It turns into a more sophisticated yet still low-key Italian place for dinner. We fell in love with the atmosphere, though. It was laid back, and served good food. A place where we could get drunk, feed a hangover, or celebrate with a nice meal. A lot of our family history has played out in this restaurant. The night we got engaged, Peanut’s Baptism, dinners with our parents. We always seemed to end up there.

This was also the place we were partying with friends when we received that horrible phone call about my dad. But all of the memories are fond ones, for even on that night we were celebrating something: a rare Jets playoff victory. On this day more than nine years later, we shared the fried calamari like we always used to. Peanut had a pizza:

A Sinatra song began to play. Then another. Summer Wind, followed by Moon River. Peanut said, “It sounds like you singing, daddy.” She’s too kind, but that’s a compliment I’ll take. Then I told her that Sinatra is my dad's favorite. All of those memories of this place coming full circle in one tiny observation by my four year-old.

After lunch, we drove around town to see what’s changed, and what hasn’t. There’s a perpetual line of people waiting outside of Carlo’s Bakery now, because the man who made Peanut’s Baptism cake is now more famously known as “The Cake Boss.” I think it’s kind of silly to wait an hour in the cold for a cannoli. There’s so much more to Hoboken that that.

Peanut's tiramisu cake from Carlo's

We made one last stop at the park. This is where we took her on her first walk, her first time out of the house. The same park where she rode a swing for the first time. The one right next to our old condo. Her first home.

March 2007: Her 1st walk (we're all very tired.)

2012: Same park (I'm wearing the same hat too)

It was cold, and we had to get Peanut to a haircut appointment. So we headed back to the swagger wagon, which I parallel parked expertly... twice. (I still got it.) As we drove away, we said goodbye to our old home. Again. "I like Hoboken," Peanut said. "I want to live here again." Then we reminded her that if we lived here, we wouldn't have a backyard. That changed her mind quickly. "Can we come back and visit then?"

We thought about it. And found the perfect occasion to return. (And maybe make a tradition out of it.) Next time we'll take Luna. She was born there too, after all. And we'll do it on Luna's birthday in June. (You can be sure there will be a blog post about it.)

Perfect. See? You can go home again. With or without a Groupon.

The last post I wrote before Peanut was born is an ode to our favorite Hoboken tradition, which was cancelled this year due to the persistent bad behavior of hooligans and amateurs. (Some great shots of us in this one, pre-parenthood.)

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What the Hell Was I Thinking?

"Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city." - George Burns

I'm an ideas guy. It's how I make my living, after all. I take my and others' ideas and make compelling television out of them. But this...this was MY idea.

My Director and I decided to finally succumb to the wicked yet awesome power of the princesses, join the mainstream and take Peanut to Disney World. But when? Well, what better time than her birthday in March? We avoid a pricey birthday party with all of those unnecessary (but appreciated) gifts and make her 5th birthday (holy crap she's turning 5?!?!) special.

This, despite my penchant for penny pinching and insistence on not spoiling her. Sometimes you just have to say, "What the hell." We've realized over the past few months that due to physical, emotional, financial, and professional factors, Peanut may ultimately be an only child. So we're no longer going to wait to do the things we want to do with her. And if Peanut's going to be "all in" on princesses, we're going to be "all in" on taking her to see them if and when we can.

photo from www.wdwforgrownups.com

You may be asking, "That's the idea you're talking about? Disney? Big deal, DKL." No. The idea - or bad idea, depending on how you look at it - is going with my in-laws. Not just going with them, but staying in the same room with them.

Maybe I can sleep in that volcano

I'm not talking about a suite here, either, people. Two queen beds side-by-side with a pull-out for Peanut. One bathroom. Let me allow that last part about the one bathroom sink in again while I remind you I am lactose intolerant. One piece of cheese and I'm a ticking time bomb counting down to a volcanic eruption. Something tells me there will be multiple sightings of DKL scurrying through the lobby of the Polynesian Resort squeezing his cheeks with a newspaper under his arm. By the third morning, I expect to be on a first-name basis with the restroom attendants.

And these people - my in-laws - are old, mind you. They snore. They will probably have a lot of unusual toiletries displayed on the vanity that will cause me to become uncomfortable with a mere glance. My father-in-law has to sleep hooked up to machines because of sleep apnea.

"Your dad has to check that machine of his onto the plane?" I asked.

"Of course he does," My Director responded. "If he doesn't have it he could stop breathing and die." Well that would spoil the vacation, now wouldn't it?

Yes it was my idea. To save money... and it did. Saved us thousands. My Director was the one who hesitated. "Really?" She asked while checking my forehead for signs of fever. "Absolutely," I said without pause. "If you want the pricey resort we're staying in one room."

After the trip was booked and we enjoyed some birthday cake in honor of my father-in-law's 64th, Peanut asked for more ice cream. My mother-in-law, forever the chronic spoiler, automatically chimed in with an instant, "Oh, sure." Of course. Why shouldn't she have more ice cream? It is her birthright, after all.

"Disney ought to be a blast," I deadpanned.

Then, overcompensating, my mother-in-law, suggested, "Maybe I shouldn't go."

That's not going to happen.

What the hell was I thinking?

Maybe I'll just sleep by the pool.

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