Almost Coherent Parent | Because sometimes being fully coherent is too much to ask . . .

Growing Up Italian-American, part 2: The Dearly Departed

Posted on February 24, 2015 by ADelfino Posted in Death, Growing Up Italian-American .

Because PBS airs Parts 3 and 4 of “The Italian Americans” tonight at 9pm (check your local listings here), I once again present what I consider a companion piece to that documentary. (The first part in this series, about appetizers and Happy Hour can be read here.) In my occasional series “Growing Up Italian-American,” I focus on the elements of Italian-American culture that slip through the cracks of earnest PBS documentaries. Today I cover some strange traditions surrounding wakes.

Lots of different cultures hold wakes. Jewish families sit Shiva. Irish-Americans take pride in their whiskey-fueled wakes. Italian-Americans hold wakes that are like sober Irish-American ones if Irish-Americans regularly took pictures of the dearly departed in the open, satin-lined casket. Then these pictures get collected in albums every family keeps on a shelf. These are like the Topps trading cards of dead Italian-Americans.

While growing up, each of us had eventually stumbled across my grandmother’s photo album which contained photos of dead relatives and friends in their coffins and the souvenir prayer cards from each wake. I remember being around six and wondering why Great Aunt Edith was sleeping in such a strange white bed, and why in the world would Grandma have so many pictures of it. After she told me about what the album was, I would occasionally look at it while I was bored on a Sunday afternoon before the salami came out. When I got older, I came up with a good use for those pics. I would try to scare my sisters with pictures I’d snuck out of the album whenever we visited: like the time I pinned one in the toilet paper so it would pop out after a few squares when I knew one of them was going to go right after me in my grandparents’ one-bathroom house. Continue reading →

Growing Up Italian-American, Part 1: Appetizers

Posted on February 17, 2015 by ADelfino Posted in Growing Up Italian-American .

After church a few weeks ago, a friend and I started talking. I discovered Jenny also comes from an Italian-American family, which made for a great conversation reminiscing about growing up in such a wonderful culture. Talking to another person who knows the idiosyncrasies of a particular culture was refreshing.

Then this Sunday I discovered that tonight PBS is airing a documentary about Italian-American culture titled The Italian Americans (very original, PBS!). I know PBS’s documentary is going to be filled with gravitas and serious takes on the culture and Italian-American’s contributions to this country (Stan Tucci narrates!); this means lots of little, important things will fall through the cracks. Those little things really make a culture, though. So I decided that PBS’s documentary needs a supplement that catches those important little things that the documentary will miss.

That’s why I am starting a new series here at Almost Coherent Parent about the lesser-known aspects of Italian-American culture. This will hopefully educate you, my reader, that not every Italian-American can order a hit, or has sent someone to sleep with the fishes, or left a gun and took the cannolli. Sure, GoodFellas is a great film, but other than some memorable meals and paintings, it does not remotely capture the average Italian-American’s experience other than Henry Hill’s obsession towards the end with not letting the spaghetti sauce stick.

Of course, I don’t speak for all Italian-Americans, just myself and my family, of course. Being a West Coast Italian-American is very different than being a New York City one (e.g., I never heard the term “gravy” for sauce until I moved to DC.), so don’t tell me I’m wrong. You’re wrong, you bakala.

Since food is such an important part of the culture (not that Olive Garden, diarrhea-foreshadowing garbage), let’s start at the beginning: appetizers and cocktail hour.

Growing Up Italian-American, Part 1: Appetizers, or Why Salty Cured Meats Need a Crumbly Cracker

My grandfather had a t-shirt of this, I’m pretty sure.

Though I can’t speak for every family, I’m sure most every family get together in an Italian-American household begins with appetizers and cocktails. Sure, go to a restaurant and get that antipasto platter, thinking you got the real deal of the Italian-American experience, but you didn’t: you just got suckered out of $14 for some normal lunch meat and olives. No, no, no. Antipasto might be for fancy occasions like Thanksgiving or Little Christmas, but not for a regular family dinner on Sunday.

For a run of the mill Sunday dinner at my paternal grandparents’ house, with great uncles and aunts, appetizers were almost invariably hard salami and Ritz crackers. The mixing of textures is essential: the salami has to be hard enough that biting into it shatters the cracker underneath it. Bite #2 is always cracker crumbs and bitten half moon of a salami slice. But the salty meat and salty cracker are little circles of garlicy meaty heaven.

Now salami is an occasional treat, but growing up, it was always around. While it was ubiquitous, my family never went so far as some families that had salamis hanging in the pantry. At my grandmother’s house, though, you had only three choices of sandwich: salami, mortadella, or a combo of the two. By the time I got to college, I was so overdosed on salami (that would make for an interesting paramedic call—“I’m having trouble breathing and pork grease and garlic are leaking out of every pore and orifice!”) that my parents would send one in every care package (your parents didn’t?); people in the dorm would gather round late at night for salami slices cut with a pocket knife.

In addition to salami and crackers appetizers, my family always had foccacia bread. This was the ‘80s, before every restaurant and fast food joint tried to class themselves up with “fo-ka-chee-a” bread, so to me foccacia was a dimpled flat bread covered in tomato sauce and green onions, which every single kid would pick off. (When I first saw the now ubiquitous foccacia at a sandwich shop, I thought it was a misnomer: where was the sauce and onions?) And it was pronounced in our house as “fuh-got-za.” Everyone knew the best came in San Francisco came from Lucca’s Deli, which to this day is what I imagine heaven smells like: cured meats, freshly baked bread, pasta, and tomato sauce.

Now the salami and crackers with fahgotza appetizers were part of Happy Hour, which was a given part of every family get together. While wine was drunk with dinner, Happy Hour was ruled by bourbon and seven. When The Bife first came to a family dinner when we were dating, she wondered why someone just handed her a drink without asking her what she wanted. She learned that in my family, there was really just one drink at Happy Hour: bourbon and Seven-Up. (Unless you were my Great-aunt Lena who drank a vodka and tonic she made herself; such strangeness was explained away by her coming from a Portuguese-American family–this explanation made complete sense to me as a kid.)

Bourbon-and-7s do go down smooth, so as a kid, we were given sips of it by the adults, each one imagining themselves (like older family members everywhere) as the only adult doing that: as a 10-year-old, you could get a nice little buzz going. There was so many bottles of 7-Up and bourbon in my grandparents’s house, that when we helped them move closer to my family when I was 16, I was able to sneak a cocktail of my own without anyone noticing anything was missing from the liquor cabinet. While the drink was what I associated with my Italian-American family, sneaking booze is as all-American as apple pie and Chevrolets.

Now I live 3200 miles from where I grew up, but when I feel nostalgic, a bite of salami washed down with a strong bourbon and seven take me back to my family faster than any jet plane ever can.

Blogging My Own Burning

Posted on February 13, 2015 by ADelfino Posted in Rant, What I've Learned .

I have never hidden the fact that much of the time I hate blogging. Most of the time, blogging feels like all the best of a writing career, but without any of the dignity that surrounds Toni Morrison and Phillip Roth like a fine perfume. I hate all the extra internet junk that Tolstoy (1.93 million Facebook likes—really, I’m not joking) would’ve had a scrofulitic serf do for him: posting to social media; commenting on strangers’ mediocre posts; debating the latest schmaltzy, half-baked post that has gone viral.

He has 1.932 million Facebook followers. Really. . . I’m not joking.

I especially hate the whoring that you have to do with Facebook’s new algorithms. Because the algorithm shares your stuff with followers only if it’s already been shared, bloggers have gotten desperate. “Please share this, and I’ll show you my tits!” seems to end most bloggers’ FB posts these days. This means, ultimately Facebook has transformed even the most dedicated writer into the blogging equivalent of a drunk college girl collecting beads on Bourbon Street: they’ll do almost anything for clicks.

At the same time, with everyone in this together, I try to avoid getting jealous and comparing myself to other bloggers. Their success doesn’t take away from me at all. As a much wiser person than me wrote, one should feel joy for other’s success, “Just joy. Anything else is just fuel for my own burning. Pass it on.” (It was passed on over 4000 times on Facebook).

Despite having the soul of a grumpy old man, I am actually proud of many of the bloggers I know. I cheer them on and celebrate their successes. But then I see a man or woman who started blogging two months ago and already has 1000 more followers than me. And they are crowing about their exclusive interview with the hottest new blogger (700k+ Twitter followers), who happens to be 8-years-old and has blogged for all of 6 days. It’s enough to tempt me into either showing my tits or throwing my keyboard in the trash for my garbage man (blogs at Garbage Dreams in Suburbia—reaches 7690 per post on FB).

I’m not trying to take away from any of the successful bloggers (except for Single Dad Laughing—fuck that hack), since I’m happy to call many of them my friends. But the most frustrating aspect of blogging is how those weekly roundups of best parenting tweets or blog posts seem to always be filled with the same big name bloggers. This creates what I call The Blogger’s Paradox: to become a successful blogger, you have to be seen on the big websites, but to get on the major outlets you already have to be a successful blogger. Just like the trust fund baby starts out on second base of life and has income to get home safely, so the successful bloggers have the exposure that keeps them successful. What drives me to secretly cry and post the pictures to Instagram isn’t that their writing isn’t any good (again, except for SDL) or that they aren’t funny (most of them are), but this: I would love a chance to see different names in the list, which will go a long way towards helping a new, deserving blogger get new readers (I’m free, HuffPo Parents, whenever you are).

Sure, this could just be sour grapes on my part. Sure, I could be a little more consistent in my efforts in posting on this blog in order to build a regular readership. Sure, I could network more with the bloggers I like, or post to social media more frequently in a way that I’m comfortable with. But all this takes time, and with four small children–two of whom are still at home, including a baby–that is something I don’t have. As I once said on Facebook (and got 7 likes for), I’d be more successful if I got rid of two or three kids: every successful blogger seems to have only one or two school-aged children. Even if they have more (#sooooblessed), those kids are in daycare or school. Mine aren’t. So I struggle to find time to write when the baby is napping and the toddler is watching Sesame Street because she decided her taking naps makes me too happy.

Live Tweeting the Jazz Age

As parenting blogger Scotty Fitzgerald once wrote about the business, “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne ceaselessly into the world of sippy cups, goldfish crackers, and poopy diapers.” I must make peace with this boat ride since I don’t want to give any of my kids back, even if they do carry me ceaselessly into their mess instead of letting me build a successful brand (blargh!). Eventually, when they are all in school, I’ll be able to write without being interrupted by a butt that needs wiping or being yelled at that someone wants to watch Peppa Pig videos on my phone like I am for 6 hours a day currently (including right now as I try to edit and post this).

That is when I’ll finally reach the big time: interviewing the fetus that has the best content on the web as of 32 minutes ago.

Where I’ve Been, Where I’m Going

Posted on January 9, 2015 by ADelfino Posted in Teaching/Learning .

Self-portrait of the author as working man (image via AMC.com)

Last spring, The Bife and I decided that because The Boy would be starting school with The Girl in the fall–leaving only The Toddler at home–perhaps I should ease back into working. After all, we were done having kids and The Toddler herself would be starting school sooner than either of us could imagine. After a daycare was found for The Toddle, for the first time in five years, this last September I began working during the day in an adjunct position that paid slightly better than hugs and kisses and had benefits slightly better than half-eaten chicken nuggets leftover from lunch: I requested three daytime sections in the fall at the large public university where I teach.

Then Miracle Baby #4 was conceived (less miraculously than Jesus, but more about him later), and we realized this two-working parents experiment would be a short one. The results of last semester’s experiment could be summarized thusly: I don’t know how other families with two working parents do it. Even with me working just three-quarters time, life was hard. My initial hypothesis was that it’d be the best of both worlds. Since I would be teaching only part-time, I’d still have two days to be an at-home parent. I should’ve left the experimentation to the pros and instead remembered one of Jesus’ parables since I’m not a scientist but do teach Sunday school. Continue reading →

A Clash of the Couples Special Guest

Posted on November 5, 2014 by ADelfino Posted in Guest Posts .

One of the best parts about being published in Clash of the Couples two days ago (get your copy here!) was all the bonding with my fellow contributors in the weeks leading up to the release. I got to know quite a few of the best bloggers out there. Most of them were ladies, but not all of them.

One of my new friends Spike Zelenka and I decided to guest post on each other’s blogs as male contributors to Clash. Since Clash deals with the fights couples have, we decided to guest post about minor fights we’ve had with our spouses. So with great pleasure, I introduce Spike’s guest post about another fight he and his wife have had where he reminds his wife that everything will be okay if she’d only take a deep breath.

Spike blogs at Double Trouble Daddy, about the crazy life of being a stay at home dad to twin boys. Check him out, subscribe, then buy 2ooo copies of our book.

It’s Going to Be Okay

Spike Zelenka, Double Trouble Daddy

If I said the title, “Why England Slept,” it probably wouldn’t mean much to you. If I told you that an autographed copy could be scored for upwards of $60,000 (plus shipping), I’d probably get your attention pretty quick.

The book, published the first time in 1940 was originally titled, “Appeasement in Munich,” and it was the senior honors paper written a year earlier by none other than John Fitzgerald Kennedy in response to Winston Churchill’s, “While England Slept.”

Now that I’ve completely bored you, it’s time to wake up and pay attention because this is where it gets fun!

I’m going to offer you a first edition autographed copy of MY book for only $19.95 including shipping!

I know, a steal, right? And a bargain at twice the price!

If you would have told me a year ago that I would be featured in a book alongside some great authors, I probably would have told you that you were crazy. Had you then told me the book would be about marital spats, the white van would have showed up immediately and taken you away in a straitjacket. Now I’m here signing your release papers, and un-lacing your restraints.

I mean, what do I know about marital fights? I’ve only been at this for 5 years. We’re still on our honeymoon, right? We, like most couples, have our slightly stormy moments. Honestly those pass pretty quickly with very little rain, the sun appears and things return to normal again. I’ve just always stuck to the theory that if you relax, and take a deep breath, it’s all going to be ok. Even if it’s not ok, as long as you remain calm, you’re still going to make it through the storm in one piece.

It is Valentine’s Day weekend, 2008 and my girlfriend and I are walking from Bally’s to Planet Hollywood. “Shit!!” she exclaims. I ask her what’s wrong, and as she digs through her purse she tells me that she thinks she left her camera in the room we checked out of earlier that day at Mandalay Bay. This is the girl I had been dating since the 18th of October the previous year. The same one that would be moving here to Sin City with me in less than 2 months from Colorado. Unknown to me then, the same woman that I would marry 2 years from the day we started going out. She was here visiting one last time before her big move, and we had just checked out of one hotel after a night and into another.

“Relax,” I told her. “We’ll call housekeeping and make sure they hang on to it. We can pick it up there tomorrow.”

I swear at that moment I witnessed a scene from the Godfather. In between tears, and sobs I hear, “If that housekeeper, or maid, or whatever you want to call her… if she steals my camera I hope that Karma comes up and takes a big old bite out of her ass!”

But Karma wouldn’t need to be called in because it was ok, just like I told her it would be. We had the camera back in her possession by noon the following day. This would be only the first of many times I told her to take a deep breath, and relax. Everything would be ok.

Like the time that I had an idiot pull out in front of me. It was my birthday of all days, and I’m cruising down Eastern Avenue going the posted 45 mph. The radio is on in the car… her car… the only car we have between us, and all of a sudden a white pickup truck suddenly pulls out into traffic. I know I mentioned that it’s her car, but maybe I need to explain further. The car was an Oldsmobile Alero that she bought with her own money. Money she had saved. She loved that car, and it had been with her longer than I had. Now I have cars to the left of me, and a curb to my right so I did what anyone would do in that circumstance. No, I didn’t shit my pants. I locked up the brakes, held tight to the steering wheel to maintain my lane, and braced for impact.

The car, of course, was totaled. The good news was that my friend Jerry could let me borrow his truck for a couple days until we figured out what we were doing next. The bad news was that my future bride was out of town, due to return the next evening, and I had yet to tell her what happened. The following night, I pulled up to the curb at the airport in Jerry’s truck. I could tell by the quizzical look on her face that she wondered why I picked her up in anything other than the precious Alero. I let her know that all questions would be answered shortly. We pulled into a bar next to the apartments we called home, and as we sat down, I ordered us drinks. She asked again what was going on, and I held up a finger, refusing to answer until our drinks were in front of us. I knew she was going to need one. I explained about the accident, and she soon realized why we were there at the bar (she couldn’t kill me in a public place.)

-She was upset that someone pulled out in front of me and wrecked her 4-wheeled friend.

-She was upset at me for waiting to tell her instead of telling her on the phone the day before when it happened.

-And she was REALLY upset with me for getting mad at her for not even bothering to ask if I was OK after I dropped the bomb on her.

In the end, it was like I told her. “It’s all going to be ok. Take a deep breath. We’ll figure it out.”

We did figure it out. We didn’t get as much for the totaled out vehicle as we had hoped, but she got a one year old Nissan that she loved just as much. Well, not really, but almost. Ok honestly, she still gives me “the look” every time we see an Alero in traffic and it’s 6 years later.

Another great example was when I got a nice little Thank-You letter from my friends at the Internal Revenue Service.

If you want to know the rest of THAT story…well, you better buy the book. I will tell you this, though. It all ended up ok (for the IRS anyway.)

I can’t guarantee that all things will be ok with a deep breath. I won’t promise that there’s never going to be a time when the world gets the better of you for a moment, and you end up in the rain. I have no way of knowing if a copy of this book that we’re in will ever become a collector’s item 70 years from now.

But why take any chances. Do you want me to sign it?

Publication Day is here!

Posted on November 3, 2014 by ADelfino Posted in Wildcard .

At the end of the summer, I got some great news. One of my fights with The Bife produced something other than tears, shouts, and replies I imagine sounded good only in my head. The essay that I wrote detailing our fight while on vacation was accepted in the anthology The Clash of the Couples.

That snake could charm the non-existent panties off Eve.

I was really lucky to get in to begin with: I missed the deadline while on vacation and just happened to send in my late submission moments after a contributor backed out. As I met the other contributors, a veritable Who’s Who of the blogging world, I realized how lucky and honored I am to be included with such awesome, hilarious writers. And all of them are sharing their hilarious stories of fights with their significant others.

As I’ve said before, The Bife and I love hearing about other people’s marriages, and this book is perfect for that. This synopsis from Blue Lobster Books says it better than I ever could. . .

Clash of the Couples is a new anthology featuring a collection of absurd lovers’ quarrels and relationship spats. Couples just starting their journeys and those who have been together “forever” will relate to dozens of short stories running the “one said, the other said” gamut—from disagreements over furniture, to who gets the last beer, to where to store the placenta (yes, you read that right).

The book has been endorsed by a number of humor and publishing heavyweights, including Josh Blue, comedian and winner of NBC’s Last Comic Standing, and Abby Heugel, popular humorist and blogger at Abby Has Issues. Look at what they had to say:

“If you’re looking for a fun read, check out Clash of the Couples. I could relate to the couples in this honest and hilarious collection of modern relationship tales. Clash of the Couples bursts with the real stuff that couples fight about and will make you laugh while shaking your head at the ridiculousness of it!” said Blue.

Heugel shares his sentiments. “Married, single, destined for spinsterhood—it doesn’t matter what angle you come at this book from, you will find something that you can relate to. And you will laugh, because even if you can’t relate to that particular situation, you’ll just be glad that it happened to somebody else.”

Subscribe now and you’ll be entered to win an autographed copy of the book by yours truly. I’ll even sign it as the blogger of your choice. Hell, I’ll even sign it as Ernest Hemingway if you’d like.

Buy a copy here! And feel free to use the hashtag #ClashoftheCouples on Twitter.

Confessions of an (Innocent) Asshole

Posted on October 7, 2014 by ADelfino Posted in Teaching/Learning .

The actual sign at my actual library. Clearly I won easily.

After five years of living in Maryland, I was called an asshole by an elderly woman the other day. On the second day of college, I was called an asshole by a guy playing the piano in our dorm’s lounge. So I must be maturing. Of course, these stats only count being called an asshole to my face: as the Bife sweetly pointed out, I’ve probably been called an asshole loads of times behind my back.

Back in college, I really was being an asshole—see, I have matured. Jimmy was playing the piano while the TV showed the Giants playing the Cubs in a one-game playoff to be the Wild Card team. So I thought it would be appropriate if Jimmy could imitate an organ and play the “Charge!” music while the Giants batted. He tried, I corrected him since he’d evidently never been to a baseball game before; he tried again, I corrected him again, and then he finally said, “Has anyone told you how much of an asshole you are?”

Okay, technically he didn’t call me an asshole, but merely alluded to it. I guess I could’ve left him alone, and I certainly could’ve avoided correcting his piano playing: I probably should’ve avoided saying repeatedly “That’s not how they do it on TV! They use both hands!” since I know nothing about music. So I guess I was an asshole. The Giants lost the game too, and I blame that asshole Jimmy and his goddam inability to play “Charge!” correctly—so much for being mature, I guess.

Eventually in college I became a humor columnist for the newspaper, giving me more opportunities to be called a sphincter, though not for my writing like you would expect. At one newspaper party I did deserve to be called an asshole. This one girl thought she had comedy gold: she spent at least ten minutes “amusing” people with her theory that anal sex should be called “German birth control.” After a few bottles of wine and hearing her act again, I famously had enough, and yelled at her “I’m paid to be funny, and you should just shut the fuck up!” My friend Debby told me the next day that I was essentially a big asshole. Deservedly so, I feel.

But last week, for the first time in my life, I got called an asshole totally undeservedly. Because it was raining on the day the kids had the day off from school, our plans for the zoo were scuppered. So I decided the best place for kids who had been cooped up all morning and were about to kill each other was hanging out in a library instead.

We walked in like we normally do, which means the kids went into the kids’ room while I returned books. At the return desk I put my books on top of the shortest stack of books already on the desk. When I’d finished, this older woman turned to me and loudly complained, “Sir! You put your books on top of the ones I was going to check out!”

Ever the nice guy, I said, “I’m sorry. This is the return desk, so I thought they were being returned.”

The lady looked at me like I was stupid enough to not know how to return books properly.

“You shouldn’t make such assumptions like that,” she said.

Usually I am adverse to confrontation, but there was just something in this woman’s tone that suggested that I was so completely in the wrong—when I clearly wasn’t—that I just couldn’t let it go.

“What?” I asked. “I shouldn’t assume that books on the return desk are being returned.”

“No,” she said. “You shouldn’t make assumptions that this is for returns.”

For a split second, I even thought that I could possibly be wrong, so I checked for signage. And there, right above our heads, was a large rectangular sign, white letters on a teal background, reading “RETURN.”

The actual sign at my actual library. That sign reads “Victory”

I experienced a short little burst of glee because I would deliver the finishing blow. Just like I imagine every presidential candidate does while winning a debate, I even got aroused in the excitement of being right.

“So, this sign saying ‘RETURN’ doesn’t mean you return books here? Instead you check books out under the sign reading ‘RETURN’? Got it.”

She was fuming. Honestly, I only gloated for a second before I heard her say, “Yes, asshole,” she said, just loud enough for me to hear it, but not the librarians sitting four feet away from us—coincidentally under a similarly large sign reading “CHECK OUT.”

There you have it. One time sorta being an asshole, one time definitely being one, and this time, where I wasn’t the asshole. For the first time I was innocent. Though just to be sure, as we left, I later took a picture of the sign with my phone just to prove my innocence in a court of Facebook. Though, as my friend Adam pointed out, there is probably an older woman posting about the asshole who tried to bury her books at the library. But she’d be wrong.

I’ve finally learned that there is no reason to pick fights with old ladies, but when you do, play to win. And winning, know when to exit gracefully: instead of responding to her, I just turned and walked into the kids’ room, looking for my kids that I know love their daddy, whether he’s an asshole or not.

The Anthology I’m in Has a Cover!!!

Posted on September 17, 2014 by ADelfino Posted in My Stuff Other Places .

The Bife and I love dissecting marriages. All relationships are interesting, but there is something about two people committed to sharing their lives with each other before God and the law that fascinates us. Each marriage is different, sure, but how does such a serious commitment that doesn’t end easily (i.e., with only death or divorce) work daily? That’s why novels, movies, t.v. shows that delve into marriages get our attention.

Now there is a perfect anthology for us. Clash of the Couples comes out November 3rd, but today (yes today!) we have a cover to show the world!

That snake could charm the non-existent panties off Eve.

Ever since the first wife of all, Eve, nagged her partner to do something he didn’t want to do, couples have had their issues. And I’m sure that after Adam through her under the bus with God, they had the world’s first married fight. The Bible is silent about the make-up sex, though it couldn’t have been that good if it gave us the world’s first murderer, Cain.

Forty-three of the best writers around let us peer into their relationships, especially the fights that come with such an intense, intimate relationship. Though no fruits of knowledge are involved, these fights cover such diverse topics as googling “college boobs,” buying a birthday cake, a trip to Mexico, even where to store a used placenta, and more. My pal Foxy from Foxy Wine Pocket even tells us all about the epic fight that she and her husband had over a sandwich years ago that still lives on. These are real stories about marriage that The Bife and I love reading about.

I can’t wait to read these essays.

And did I mention that I’m in it? That’s probably the best part and the primary reason you should go out and advance order 500 copies for you and your closest friends, family, church members, neighbors, and any one else living in the same zip code as you.

Thanks in advance, and you’re welcome for giving you the head’s up. . .

Clash of the Couples contains these other brilliant and hilarious people. Check them out today!

Crystal Ponti of MommiFried

Camille DeFer Thompson of Camille DeFer Thompson

Kimberly Morand of Anchor Magazine: Navigating Depression, Bipolar, and Anxiety

Meredith Napolitano of From Meredith to Mommy

Chris Dean of pixie.c.d.

Linda Roy of elleroy was here

Kevin Zelenka of Double Trouble Daddy

Sarah Cottrell of Housewife Plus

R.C. Liley of Going Dad

Mary Widdicks of Outmanned

Marie Bollman of Make Your Own Damn Dinner

Ginny Marie of Lemon Drop Pie

Mike Reynolds of Puzzling Posts

Leigh-Mary Hoffmann of Happily Ever Laughter Blog

Lisa Petty of Lisa R. Petty

Lynn Shattuck of The Light Will Find You

Jeff Bogle of Out With The Kids

Stacey Gustafson of Are You Kidding Me?

Angela Godbout of FRaPS

Courtney Conover of The Brown Girl with Long Hair

Jenny Hills of Express Bus Mama

Marcia Kester Doyle of Menopausal Mother

Julia Arnold of Frantic Mama

Jessica Azar of Herd Management

Susan A. Black of I Like That

Dave Lesser of Amateur Idiot Professional Dad

Sarah del Rio of est. 1975

Nicole R. Wildhood of Naught Be All Else

Angela Keck of Writer Mom’s Blog

Alexa Bigwarfe of No Holding Back

Brian Sorrell of Dadding Full Time

Kathryn Leehane of Foxy Wine Pocket

April Grant of 100lb Countdown

Bev Feldman of Linkouture

Jodi Flaherty of The Noise of Boys

Scott Rigdon of Three Five Zero

Lydia Richmond of Cluttered Genius

Allie Burdick of VITA – Train for Life

Michelle Grewe of Crumpets and Bollocks

Barb Godshalk of Co-Author of Tall Tales and Short Stories from South Jersey

Jonathon Floyd of One Funny Daddy

Amanda Mushro of Questionable Choices in Parenting

Chris Carter of The Mom Cafe

A Circumcised Father Cuts in to the Debate

Posted on September 12, 2014 by ADelfino Posted in Parenting, Teaching/Learning .

I was almost thirty years old before I found out that I’d been mutilated. I never knew that my being circumcised meant I’d been mutilated until The Bife and I found out we were having The Boy and had to decide whether or not to have him circumcised. In doing research, there were lots of opinions, many of which poked holes in the prevailing myths about circumcision that dominated back when I was born in the Late Dark Ages where circumcision was common.

I was pretty ambivalent about the whole situation. I didn’t see circumcision as one of the worst things we could do to our son: after all, I don’t spend my days putting up posters searching for my lost foreskin or crying myself to sleep. But The Bife was against it since it is so unnecessary, just as she’d been against having The Girl’s ears pierced in the hospital nursery after she’d been born. Ultimately, we chose not to have The Boy circumcised because it was unneeded.

You didn’t think I’d actually post a picture of a circumcision, did you?

Since then, I hadn’t really even though much about the topic until I read the great Foxy Wine Pocket’s post about her and her husband making the decision whether or not to circumcise their own son. In it, she writes that on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being opposed to it with every molecule of her being, she was a 10. I also understand her husband’s point about wanting him and his son to have similar looking penises. Continue reading →

Two Time Tuesday: It Gets Easier, Parent(s) of Kindergarten

Posted on August 26, 2014 by ADelfino Posted in Wildcard .

With The Boy starting school yesterday, I feared that his transition would be as painful, difficult, and protracted as The Girl’s was two years are ago. Thankfully he had a great time and seemed to see kindergarten as an extension of preschool. But reminiscing about The Girl’s struggle reminded me that no matter how bad those first first days of school are, it does get better.

Two of these are elementary school students now.

Dear Parent(s) of a Kindergartner,

It gets better. It really does. Both for you and for your little student starting his educational journey. I know it might not seem like it on these first few days (or weeks), when she cries while getting dressed, or he cries when you ask him to put on his shoes, or she cries when you say it is time to leave for school. Or when you cry because your baby is leaving you for the first time, and, when you watch him walk into school, he doesn’t look back once. Or when you are both crying and you are really, really considering quitting your job and homeschooling, even though you don’t know how to teach reading, you don’t understand how letters can be involved in math, and you don’t know that photosynthesis isn’t a scrapbooking term.

It will get better. It really does. Trust me, because I know.

Last year, my oldest started kindergarten. She was super, super, super, super excited!!!! All summer long, all she talked about was school. School!!!!!! The first day came, and she was still super, uper, duper excited! We walked her to her classroom, gave her a hug and a kiss, and she ran in to talk to the teacher. No tears from either student or parents.

When we picked her up that day, she said, “It was the best day ever!” Then half a block later, she asked, “Do I have to go back?”

The next three days were easily among my worst as a parent. She cried through dinner, and through the next morning. She clung to my legs, screaming at me to not let her go. The day after that, she tried to run home during recess. She spat on her teacher when asked to stop screaming. (If you want all the gory details, see this post).

Her trying to run home brought tears to my eyes. The fact that she was so frantic to leave school that she would try to make a break for it even though she had only a rough idea of where she was, told me how desperate she felt.

Together with the school, we worked out a transition plan. We set goals for the amount of crying that was allowed each day, and she got a sticker reward when she met her goal. First 15 minutes, then 10, 5, 1 and eventually none. Every morning, we loaded up a Care Bear doll with hugs and kisses and she carried it with her throughout the day. She took a picture of her family in her backpack to look at if/when she got sad. And I came to have lunch with her so that she didn’t have to go more than three hours without seeing a parent.

And it got better. Slowly, it did.

Certainly not immediately, but eventually. Slowly the crying decreased. The bear moved from being touted around all day to mostly living in her backpack. The lunch dates changed from daily to 3x a week, 2x a week, and then eventually, there were no lunch dates.

I’d like to think that everything we did helped, but probably the thing that helped the most was time. Time to get used to the school, time to learn that being away from her family was not the end of the world, time to learn the new daily schedule.

And it got better for her mother and me too.

As things got better for my daughter, my heart didn’t ache each day when she would hug me fiercely before going into the school with a look on her face like she was about to be fed to the lions. Eventually, she got to the point where she would give me a hug and walk in with a smile on her face. My last glimpse of her each day would be of her enormous princess backpack covering her petite frame from shoulders to hips; it always seemed to me just like the life packs the Apollo astronauts wore on the moon, happy explorers in a new world, just like my daughter.

Just give it some time, and trust me, this will happen for you too. Eventually.

-Almost Coherent Parent