We are now in what the Italians call the “mezzo stagione” the middle season, that period between the cold of winter and the heat of summer. In other words, spring. Yes, spring is lovely, warm weather and all, but it always throws me into a panic for the simple and yet very complicated reason: I don’t have any “spring” clothes. My wardrobe, perhaps reflecting my formative years in parts of the US where the spring is more of a theory rather than fact, goes directly from heavy wool jackets and leather boots into sandals and t-shirts, there is little, if any, in between. So suddenly to wake up and find warm gentle breezes and temperature highs in the mid-70s I feel like a girl on her first day at junior high school; whatever am I going to wear? Let me expose myself as the shallow and self-obsessed person that at I am and lay it all out.
Living in Italy has shown me that style is stamped into your DNA, that Italians, especially Italian women always know exactly how to dress, and are willing to look just right, even if it means living with Mom and Dad until your are 40, or doing one week in Sharm El Shek instead of two. Plus it is not just the sense of style, it’s the unwritten rules that say when it is OK to start wearing sandals instead of shoes, or skirts without tights underneath, rules that I missed. In the US, if it is hot in April, you dress like it is June because, well, it’s hot. Wearing a sweater isn’t going to trick the heat into going away. Instead here, as I have said before, going in sandals a month too soon reflects poor moral fiber and a lack of self respect, and everyone you meet will either ask you if you are cold or make some comment on the state of your bare feet, honestly, it is just better to sweat it out a bit and cover up. Obviously after having lived here for almost eight years certain rules of fashion have become clear to me: no white clunky running shoes, no sandals with socks (unless you are Miuccia Prada), t-shirts with stuff written on them should not be worn outside the house, unless you are running. Fleeces get the axe as well. You don’t borrow clothing from your husband’s closet and then head out the door. No khakis on women. In short, my rule is that if you look like you are going to be spending the day at the Cincinnati Zoo, you need to go back and change.
It’s a rule that seems to be easier said than done however, judging from past photos of myself. When the computer in our little study is idle for few minutes it switches over to iPhoto and random photos from the past 5 years come up on the screen. In one you see Livia stuffing her face with spaghetti, then in the next there is a photo of Giulio as a tiny baby, then the one after that a photo of me with my parents in Mantova 3 years ago. Looking at these photos can be wonderful, oh, was Giulio ever that small? Oh, wasn’t Sicily beautiful last year? Gosh that was a great trip to Augusta, Kentucky. But beyond realizing I looked about 12 when Giulio was born, I also realize how badly dressed I am once we get into the warmer months. I can do cold. A nice coat covers a multitude of sins, as well as a good pair of leather boots. But there have been a few photos that have made me turn to Lorenzo and ask, you let me go out like that? No, nothing shocking, at least no socks with sandals, just some linen pants and a striped t-shirt, but it doesn’t look elegant, sexy, or well put together, which is how I see most women around here dressed.
I look in store windows for inspiration and I see a two hundred euro crisp white jacket that would look fabulous, until I actually wore it and went somewhere with my children. Or 125 euro leather shoes that would be perfect for spring but would languish in my closet the second June rolled around. The other thing is that my personal comfort is waaay too important to me. I just can’t do heels unless I know I’m going to be mostly sitting down in them most of the time, yet when I walk around and I see women my age wearing them without a care, or a pain, in the world, I blame it on my lack of training when I was young. I should have worn heels from the age of 15 on, so that by now I would be able practically to run in them, yet another way that I don’t measure up to these Italian women.
But I see that Italian women, and men too for that matter, are bothered by this mezzo stagione as well. Yesterday was beautiful, almost hot in the sun, but with a breeze that you needed a sweater for. I wore a long sleeved shirt with a cotton sweater over it, my black work jeans, (i.e. meaning they are really too nice for a day out with the kids) and for comfort, cause we would be walking, a pair of black sneakers. I saw some people dressed lightly, and yet I saw other people bundled up in the warm sunshine wearing wool coats and hats. Babies bundled up like it was 30 degrees and not 75. The day before the kids and I had played outside in the yard without our coats, wearing just long sleeved shirts. Eugenio’s sister came over zipped up in a quilted jacket and immediately asked me if I thought the kids were dressed warmly enough. I told her I thought they were, but I could tell she was worried. Italians tend to freak about wind/breeze. Didn’t you know that a strong breeze can cause all kinds of stomach problems and illness?
Sunday in Italy is a family day. Do you remember last Sunday on Easter in the States most stores were closed and people were with their families? Well, imagine if every Sunday was Easter, meaning stores closed and families together, but the restaurants are open, just as they were on Easter. People here also tend to dress up on Sundays, even if they have nothing else planned but going out for a walk with their families, some perhaps more dressed up than they get any other day of the week.
Anyway, so we go to Salò, which if you can forget its dark Nazi past, which isn’t entirely its fault, you will love this beautiful little town on Lake Garda with all this Venetian architecture, and snow capped mountains high above the lake. It is gorgeous and was obviously full of other people walking around. We had ice creams and the kids are running around, and then Giulio is walking around groaning because he wants to be carried on Lorenzo’s shoulders and people are giving him concerned looks because it really does sound like he is seriously ill or something, but we won’t let him be carried, at least not yet. After all, this is the same child who walked all over Syracuse in Sicily for four days a year ago, with little to no carrying at all. Anyway, in moments like these what do I do? I check out what the other women are wearing, imagining what I would wear if I wasn’t pushing a stroller and trying to ignore Giulio who is staggering along behind me, and if I had a much bigger bank balance than the one I currently have. Most of the women seemed overdressed, in that they were wearing too many layers, boots over tights and gorgeous swaths of wool artistically wrapped around them. No one seems hot though. Some are wearing truly “spring-like” clothing, elegant white trousers, crisp white blouses, cool navy jackets, and loafers, with lots of gold jewelry all things I don’t own. The women’s hair looks good as well, on Saturdays many women go to the salon just to get their hair styled, something I might consider in my next life. Other mothers were wearing jeans like me, but with 4 INCH heels and not seeming to be in any discomfort, though they dispatched Daddy to retrieve the kids when they went running off. I instead had to do my own running. So many women were wearing lovely dresses that I felt like asking Lorenzo if there was a wedding going on, the whole thing made me feel rather inferior, and with the sun beating down on me, also rather hot and sweaty, and wondering what genetic material I am lacking to be unable to spend a day with my kids wearing high heels and without breaking out into a sweat? I glanced at Lorenzo walking beside me in his jeans and sneakers and decided that even if I wasn’t super elegant at least we matched, in mean, he wasn’t wearing a tie and oxfords, was he? It made me think of my new boss who bought his girlfriend a beautiful pair of stiletto sandals on-line and had her drive all the way from Milan to our company just to try them on to see if she liked them. She’s a girl who would wear heels with a toddler, no prob. And then I thought of Lorenzo who has spent the last month scouring Ebay for a new pair of running shoes for me, because he knows that I will need a new pair sooner or later, and thought that maybe I’m with the right guy after all. Someone who doesn’t mind me in sneakers or getting a little sweaty on a Sunday afternoon. My mission to be more elegant and my insecurities over how I dress won’t go away, but at least I know that they come from me and nowhere else, which means a lot. It’s one thing to wreak hell on your feet because you want to look good, been there, done that, and quite another when it is imposed on you from another person. And while the stilettos would be fun for the clubs that we never go to, when we got home I went for a five mile run and had a wonderful time getting sweaty in my running shoes.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
As Long as He Needs Me
Today was the first day back at work after the three day weekend. The kids are still home. Last Monday I was taking a shower when it dawned on me that spring break was almost upon us and that I still hadn’t organized childcare. Lorenzo seemed stunned that the schools would be closed for five days around Easter, and kept demanding to know why, why would they be closed for almost a week? Didn’t he have spring break when he was a kid I wondered, but I had to admit it seemed like a lot of time to fill. Before, with my old job we followed the school calendar and so when the schools were closed, we were closed (but not paid either) and there was no concern over who would be with the kids. Now I’m finding these long breaks the bane of my existence. It means telling Lorenzo to have his day off on Tuesday so he can babysit, and begging my neighbours to fill in for the other days, which is how we solved it this time, the kids went to Terry on Thurday, were home with Lorenzo Friday, everyone was home Monday, and today Lorenzo is home with them, he did work Easter though. Tomorrow he’s working in the afternoon and at any rate Livia will be back in daycare, which just leaves Giulio to spend the afternoon at Giusy’s tomorrow, which he couldn’t be happier about.
Getting out the door this morning proved just as stressful as always, even though I was the only one who had to be somewhere on time. Breakfast was hard going, one child demanding what the other child was eating, or demanding what I was eating, which meant I never managed to take one bite of cereal before I was out of my seat again to get another breakfast roll for Livia who then proceeded to leave most of it on her try and then scream like a banshee when Giulio tried to eat it. Yes, Livia is talking now, she can scream at full volume, “E’ mia! E’ mia!” (It’s mine, it’s mine!) which I should take as a small comfort that she is on track developmentally. Then Giulio wanted a banana, but not the banana that I had given half of to Livia. A whole banana, an “upright” banana with the peel still on. God, how he takes after me when I was a kid. And yet this complete understanding of where this mentality was coming from did nothing to increase my patience or understanding and I proceeded to have a pointless argument with him trying to convince him that half a banana still in the peel was just as good as a whole one. No such luck. He gets a new banana, unpeels it, takes one bite and then leaves it on his plate, causing another lecture from me. He goes to his room in floods and I grimly eat the greatly discussed piece of fruit. Livia wants to eat standing on the floor in the kitchen, instead of in her high chair where I want her. I put her in the high care where she stands up and refuses to eat, so I let her get down, where she gestures wildly to the pieces of roll on her tray. Back up again, no hunger unless feet are touching the floor. We compromise. She kneels in Giulio’s abandoned chair and finishes her breakfast.
After brushing teeth and washing faces the kids mill around the door waiting for me and Lorenzo to catch up as we throw dishes into the sink and pick up stray socks that have wound up on the living room floor. You know the old saying how you should always change your underwear in case you are run over that day? I always feel that way about my house. I want some semblance of order before I leave in case I get run over so the news reporters coming to interview my bereft husband won’t find the morning’s bowl of Cheerio’s still on the table, or a pair of pyjamas lying on the floor by the couch. Strange I know. Perhaps Italy is really starting to get to me. Anyway, the kids are by the door and Livia has some toy in her hand and Giulio announces he wants a toy too, specifically the plastic whale he got with his chocolate Easter egg, which I go and grab off the changing table in the kids’ room. In Italy they don’t have Easter baskets. They have these large hollow chocolate eggs which are placed in the center of a large piece of shiny cellophane wrap, and then the wrap is pulled up over the egg and gathered up at the top with all the excess wrap sticking straight up and tied with a piece of gold string. They are all different kinds of eggs, sizes, and price ranges because inside the egg is a little toy which is usually worth about 50 cents, the eggs themselves sell for about 4 or 5 euros depending on who made them and what the toy is.
They have girl eggs and boy eggs, so Giulio had received a little plastic blue whale, which doubled as a water gun, Livia a little pink stuffed pig, and then I got from the egg that I had won running a 15K the week before a small clear plastic tambourine. I had been really reluctant to open and eat my egg, as Eugenio said, it hadn’t cost very much but it had taken a lot of effort to get! In short, the toys are crap and yet the kids did nothing this weekend but argue over them, the whole è mio, è mia, though Livia in these cases was the more guilty party. My kids interest in toys is relative to how much the other one wants it. Livia had been playing with the plastic tambourine, (I saw Giulio with the pig yesterday) but as soon as she spotted the whale she wanted that too and when I opened the door she follows Giulio into the hallway in hot pursuit of the whale. When I get outside the door Giulio is sitting forlornly on the step while Livia stands in front of my neighbor’s door grinning and clutching both toys in her hand. Chaos ensues. I take the whale from Livia who starts wailing, and hand it to Giulio, and I pick her bereft form up and try to get her attention with the plastic tambourine. I get it into her hand and she looks at it limply for a moment before letting it drop to the floor where it promptly breaks apart scattering plastic disks all over the stairs. I put Livia down and rush around, trying to pick up as many pieces as possible, shoving them into my coat pocket and swearing under my breath. God knows what the neighbours think we are up to first thing in the morning, what with yells, tears, and things smashing on the steps. And then Lorenzo appears behind me, not knowing anything of the charged 60 seconds we just had. “What’s that?” he asks about a stray disk that we find at the bottom of the stairs by the main entrance. “That? Oh, nothing.”
In the car I feel tired, really tired, as though the straining and warring of the morning has taken its toll. That and that the fact that I got up at 5:30 to go running. I ran a 12k race yesterday and today felt like I was running uphill the entire time. Giulio tells Lorenzo that they will have to buy another toy for Livia today because hers broke. “No,” I say weakly from the front seat. “No more toys.”
“Are you going to work Mommy?” Giulio asks.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to go to work?”
And get away from a day of battles over toys, breakfast cereals, and chocolate eggs? After this morning? God yes. But no I can’t say that, and honestly, it’s not even 100% true. More like 75%.
“No, Giulio, I don’t, I would rather stay with you.”
“Why do you have to go to work?”
“To make money to feed you, and pay for clothes and toys. You know how sometimes you don’t want to go to school?”
“Yes, sometimes I cry because I don’t want to go to school.”
“Yes, well, once you get there and then you start playing with Andrea, and Filippo, and Simone, and Massimo, and Antonietta, and Angelica then you start to feel better.”
“I don’t like Angelica.”
“Yeah, but you like Antò, right?”
“Yes.” He’s quiet for a moment.
“Will you remind Daddy to come back and get me today?” I ask.
“Yes, I’ll say, Daddy we have to go get Mommy.”
“Yeah, don’t let him leave me at work.”
“Sometimes Mommy when you are at work I miss you and I cry.”
Oh God, I felt like crying right then too. And I felt terrible about every thinking that I couldn’t wait to get to work, I felt terrible about going to Germany last week overnight for work, and enjoying the silence of my hotel room and getting dressed without having to simultaneously dress and feed two small children. I’m totally verklempt as Linda Richman would say, but it wouldn’t be cool to start the day out with rivers of mascara running down my face so I blink back tears.
“Yes, but Giulio I always come back to you, you know that right?”
“Yes, Mommy.” He brightens. “Ok, see you tomorrow!”
“Not tomorrow Giulio—tonight! You better come back at 5:30 and get me!”
I feel good, very good as I head into work to start the day, in the end I guess it was a good morning after all.
Getting out the door this morning proved just as stressful as always, even though I was the only one who had to be somewhere on time. Breakfast was hard going, one child demanding what the other child was eating, or demanding what I was eating, which meant I never managed to take one bite of cereal before I was out of my seat again to get another breakfast roll for Livia who then proceeded to leave most of it on her try and then scream like a banshee when Giulio tried to eat it. Yes, Livia is talking now, she can scream at full volume, “E’ mia! E’ mia!” (It’s mine, it’s mine!) which I should take as a small comfort that she is on track developmentally. Then Giulio wanted a banana, but not the banana that I had given half of to Livia. A whole banana, an “upright” banana with the peel still on. God, how he takes after me when I was a kid. And yet this complete understanding of where this mentality was coming from did nothing to increase my patience or understanding and I proceeded to have a pointless argument with him trying to convince him that half a banana still in the peel was just as good as a whole one. No such luck. He gets a new banana, unpeels it, takes one bite and then leaves it on his plate, causing another lecture from me. He goes to his room in floods and I grimly eat the greatly discussed piece of fruit. Livia wants to eat standing on the floor in the kitchen, instead of in her high chair where I want her. I put her in the high care where she stands up and refuses to eat, so I let her get down, where she gestures wildly to the pieces of roll on her tray. Back up again, no hunger unless feet are touching the floor. We compromise. She kneels in Giulio’s abandoned chair and finishes her breakfast.
After brushing teeth and washing faces the kids mill around the door waiting for me and Lorenzo to catch up as we throw dishes into the sink and pick up stray socks that have wound up on the living room floor. You know the old saying how you should always change your underwear in case you are run over that day? I always feel that way about my house. I want some semblance of order before I leave in case I get run over so the news reporters coming to interview my bereft husband won’t find the morning’s bowl of Cheerio’s still on the table, or a pair of pyjamas lying on the floor by the couch. Strange I know. Perhaps Italy is really starting to get to me. Anyway, the kids are by the door and Livia has some toy in her hand and Giulio announces he wants a toy too, specifically the plastic whale he got with his chocolate Easter egg, which I go and grab off the changing table in the kids’ room. In Italy they don’t have Easter baskets. They have these large hollow chocolate eggs which are placed in the center of a large piece of shiny cellophane wrap, and then the wrap is pulled up over the egg and gathered up at the top with all the excess wrap sticking straight up and tied with a piece of gold string. They are all different kinds of eggs, sizes, and price ranges because inside the egg is a little toy which is usually worth about 50 cents, the eggs themselves sell for about 4 or 5 euros depending on who made them and what the toy is.
They have girl eggs and boy eggs, so Giulio had received a little plastic blue whale, which doubled as a water gun, Livia a little pink stuffed pig, and then I got from the egg that I had won running a 15K the week before a small clear plastic tambourine. I had been really reluctant to open and eat my egg, as Eugenio said, it hadn’t cost very much but it had taken a lot of effort to get! In short, the toys are crap and yet the kids did nothing this weekend but argue over them, the whole è mio, è mia, though Livia in these cases was the more guilty party. My kids interest in toys is relative to how much the other one wants it. Livia had been playing with the plastic tambourine, (I saw Giulio with the pig yesterday) but as soon as she spotted the whale she wanted that too and when I opened the door she follows Giulio into the hallway in hot pursuit of the whale. When I get outside the door Giulio is sitting forlornly on the step while Livia stands in front of my neighbor’s door grinning and clutching both toys in her hand. Chaos ensues. I take the whale from Livia who starts wailing, and hand it to Giulio, and I pick her bereft form up and try to get her attention with the plastic tambourine. I get it into her hand and she looks at it limply for a moment before letting it drop to the floor where it promptly breaks apart scattering plastic disks all over the stairs. I put Livia down and rush around, trying to pick up as many pieces as possible, shoving them into my coat pocket and swearing under my breath. God knows what the neighbours think we are up to first thing in the morning, what with yells, tears, and things smashing on the steps. And then Lorenzo appears behind me, not knowing anything of the charged 60 seconds we just had. “What’s that?” he asks about a stray disk that we find at the bottom of the stairs by the main entrance. “That? Oh, nothing.”
In the car I feel tired, really tired, as though the straining and warring of the morning has taken its toll. That and that the fact that I got up at 5:30 to go running. I ran a 12k race yesterday and today felt like I was running uphill the entire time. Giulio tells Lorenzo that they will have to buy another toy for Livia today because hers broke. “No,” I say weakly from the front seat. “No more toys.”
“Are you going to work Mommy?” Giulio asks.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to go to work?”
And get away from a day of battles over toys, breakfast cereals, and chocolate eggs? After this morning? God yes. But no I can’t say that, and honestly, it’s not even 100% true. More like 75%.
“No, Giulio, I don’t, I would rather stay with you.”
“Why do you have to go to work?”
“To make money to feed you, and pay for clothes and toys. You know how sometimes you don’t want to go to school?”
“Yes, sometimes I cry because I don’t want to go to school.”
“Yes, well, once you get there and then you start playing with Andrea, and Filippo, and Simone, and Massimo, and Antonietta, and Angelica then you start to feel better.”
“I don’t like Angelica.”
“Yeah, but you like Antò, right?”
“Yes.” He’s quiet for a moment.
“Will you remind Daddy to come back and get me today?” I ask.
“Yes, I’ll say, Daddy we have to go get Mommy.”
“Yeah, don’t let him leave me at work.”
“Sometimes Mommy when you are at work I miss you and I cry.”
Oh God, I felt like crying right then too. And I felt terrible about every thinking that I couldn’t wait to get to work, I felt terrible about going to Germany last week overnight for work, and enjoying the silence of my hotel room and getting dressed without having to simultaneously dress and feed two small children. I’m totally verklempt as Linda Richman would say, but it wouldn’t be cool to start the day out with rivers of mascara running down my face so I blink back tears.
“Yes, but Giulio I always come back to you, you know that right?”
“Yes, Mommy.” He brightens. “Ok, see you tomorrow!”
“Not tomorrow Giulio—tonight! You better come back at 5:30 and get me!”
I feel good, very good as I head into work to start the day, in the end I guess it was a good morning after all.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
The Lullaby
After a dark and foggy couple of weeks we woke up Sunday morning and found that spring has sprung. Or that this global warming is really scary and happening much faster than anticipated. The sun was shining, the breeze was blowing (quick! Let's get some laundry on the line!) and best of all, it was warm. Just the day to take a walk, ride bikes, be outside with your nearest and dearest. We cleaned the house. Sad to admit it, but the house was yucky, I no longer have time during the week to clean it, and coming home when it's getting dark has its advantages because it hides the dust bunnies under the furniture. Cleaning when it's sunny has its disadvantages; you can see how badly you needed to have cleaned the house before today. But whatever, at least Lorenzo was there to help me so it went faster and he is an intense cleaner, he takes on the tasks that I am than happy to let go, like beating the couch to get the dust out of it. Or rather, the dust rises up in tremendous clouds and then settled back onto the couch again.
We had hoped to get done early so we could do something outside as a family before Lorenzo had to go to work at 2, but it became obvious around 12:30 that it wasn't going to happen. I was thinking of taking the kids to the park and then I remembered that as Friday was our town's feast day, then on this particular Sunday there would be serious celebrations in town. The story behind the town's celebration is that in February 28, 1528 the town risked being invaded (and having its butt handed to it) by the French army. But then a miracle occurred, a painting of the Madonna in the town's chapel began to cry real tears, which caused the French army to lay down it swords and leave the town alone. They do this re-enactment complete with soldiers on horses, people in historical dress, and long processions. There is also a mass where the sword and helmet of the commander of the French army is on display. More importantly, there are also market stalls selling candy, clothes, cds, food, as well as a carnival that comes to town every year and always coincides its visit with the town's feast day. I was all set to take the kids, go the see the procession, (Lorenzo said I could park the car at the police station, solving the stress of finding parking) and eat one of those famous sausage sandwiches with onions. But Giulio wanted to go to the pool. The indoor pool, which wasn't really the place I wanted to be on such a beautiful day. He hasn’t been since we had that awful month of illness back in January when he missed the last three of the nine lessons I had paid for. We haven’t been back since, I’ve been meaning for over a month now to go back and sign him up again, though it is one of those things on my list of things to do that I never forget but never remember to do.
Despite trying to tempt him with the promise of real live horses and a ride on the merry-go-round, Giulio stayed adamant about going to the pool so in the end I gave up trying to convince him and got our swimsuits. In fact, going to the pool turned out to be a rather good idea. Even though we had to park kind of far away because the pool parking lot was full of cars belonging to people who now thronged the streets and vendor stalls, the pool itself was practically empty. The warm day meant I was wearing a t-shirt, while Livia and Giulio wore light, long sleeve t-shirts. We kept passing people who were elegantly bundled up in sweaters and jackets, as though somehow their memory of the cold weeks we had just gone through would help keep them cool against the hot sun. I have noticed that Italians dress more according to the calendar than by the actual weather, at least when easing themselves out of winter. No Italian would go around in short sleeves in February if the temperature was in the high seventies anymore than they would go around in short sleeves with temperatures in the low thirties. You really want to shock an Italian? Show up at their house with your legs bare before the middle of May. I could always spot the foreign tourists when I lived in Rome because (among other things) of how lightly they were dressed, no self-respecting Italian leaves their jacket at home before the end of April, no matter how warm. The cold might leap up from behind you at any time and take you down.
Giulio and Livia had a great time at the pool, Giulio leaping confidently from the side into the shallow end with me holding his hand, and Livia stepping off the edge into the water without even breaking her stride. She was so confident that I would catch her she seemed like someone doing one of those trust exercises they make you do on office retreats. You know, when you call out “fall!” and then let yourself fall backwards into the waiting arms of the women from the HR department and the man with the cubicle next to you. It was a little unnerving actually, as Livia would just walk off the edge without any warning, but she seemed to really like it and Giulio got to show me all the moves he had learned during his swim lessons. Note to self: sign Giulio up again for swimming lessons! Best of all the locker room was empty when we took showers and got dressed so no one had to watch me run around with my bathing suit around my waist trying to pin Livia down and get a diaper on her with Giulio giggling hysterically sitting naked on the locker room bench trying to put one sock on.
Today was business as usual with the kids at school and Lorenzo and myself back at work. I’m getting used to work, how to plan my day, how to plan my week, and it seems for the most part that, barring sick kids, Lorenzo and I have found a way to get through the week in one piece. Today though I came home exhausted after a long day, after getting Livia from daycare and going grocery shopping, only to find a huge pile of dried laundry sitting on the bed, results of my rather over zealous running of the washing machine the day before. I was ready to start bitching but Lorenzo took the groceries and got busy with dinner and just then Giulio came running up to me, with on hand behind his back.
“Look Mommy, I have something for you.” He held out a slightly squashed purple flower without the stem. “I picked it just for you.”
Of course I melted. Took the kid in my arms and kissed the heck out of him. And then got down to folding laundry, putting it away, and getting the kids into their pjs. I know, I should have been enjoying these precious moments with my children, taking pleasure in being with them, but instead I just focused on the task of getting them into bed, with Lorenzo calling me to the table because dinner is ready, like I’m doing my nails and gadding on the phone with a girlfriend instead of trying to read “Peepo” to my children before kissing them goodnight and tucking them in. Only Giulio is mad because we are going to bed without reading the story again, and he kicks off the covers I have pulled up to his chin, he way of protesting. I’m too tired to argue and just turn to go when he calls out frantically to me: “Mommy!” And then, if nothing had happened he says in a much quieter voice. “Will you sing good night to me?” Our goodnight song is one I have sung to him every night since he was a baby, taking the song “Goodnight My Someone” from “The Music Man” and just changing the words. It’s a brief song, only four lines, the perfect length for a tired woman worn out by a long day with a baby, but tonight at this point the four lines loom as long as four Shakespearean sonnets. I bend over the bed, putting my face next to his ready to sing the song quickly.
“Good night my Giulio, Good night my boy.”
OK, almost there, I think. His cheek is against mine, his breath even and quiet in my ear.
“Good night my Giulio, I love you so.”
His cheek is so soft, My little baby, my little boy, a boy who in another few years won’t want me singing in his ear before going to sleep and checking to make sure he has his Pat the Bunny and stuffed elephant in bed with him. I take a deep breath and slow down, wanting to draw out the last two lines and remind myself of right now, not five minutes from now or after dinner, or what I have to do before the morning, but now, just me singing a lullaby to my son.
“The stars are shining their brightest light,”
I feel like crying, my very own Madonna of the Tears weeping over two children so wonderful I sometimes wonder what I did to deserve them. No, I won't cry, I’m going to enjoy this moment, not rush. My Giulio, the little boy who picked a flower for his mommy, the little boy who loves his mommy even though she isn’t perfect and who one day will see her faults better than he will see his own, but that hasn’t happened yet. Not today, not right now, not while I’m singing this song. I’m just a mommy singing to her boy, with his little arms around my neck and his breath in my ear.
“Now goodnight my Giulio, goodnight.”
We had hoped to get done early so we could do something outside as a family before Lorenzo had to go to work at 2, but it became obvious around 12:30 that it wasn't going to happen. I was thinking of taking the kids to the park and then I remembered that as Friday was our town's feast day, then on this particular Sunday there would be serious celebrations in town. The story behind the town's celebration is that in February 28, 1528 the town risked being invaded (and having its butt handed to it) by the French army. But then a miracle occurred, a painting of the Madonna in the town's chapel began to cry real tears, which caused the French army to lay down it swords and leave the town alone. They do this re-enactment complete with soldiers on horses, people in historical dress, and long processions. There is also a mass where the sword and helmet of the commander of the French army is on display. More importantly, there are also market stalls selling candy, clothes, cds, food, as well as a carnival that comes to town every year and always coincides its visit with the town's feast day. I was all set to take the kids, go the see the procession, (Lorenzo said I could park the car at the police station, solving the stress of finding parking) and eat one of those famous sausage sandwiches with onions. But Giulio wanted to go to the pool. The indoor pool, which wasn't really the place I wanted to be on such a beautiful day. He hasn’t been since we had that awful month of illness back in January when he missed the last three of the nine lessons I had paid for. We haven’t been back since, I’ve been meaning for over a month now to go back and sign him up again, though it is one of those things on my list of things to do that I never forget but never remember to do.
Despite trying to tempt him with the promise of real live horses and a ride on the merry-go-round, Giulio stayed adamant about going to the pool so in the end I gave up trying to convince him and got our swimsuits. In fact, going to the pool turned out to be a rather good idea. Even though we had to park kind of far away because the pool parking lot was full of cars belonging to people who now thronged the streets and vendor stalls, the pool itself was practically empty. The warm day meant I was wearing a t-shirt, while Livia and Giulio wore light, long sleeve t-shirts. We kept passing people who were elegantly bundled up in sweaters and jackets, as though somehow their memory of the cold weeks we had just gone through would help keep them cool against the hot sun. I have noticed that Italians dress more according to the calendar than by the actual weather, at least when easing themselves out of winter. No Italian would go around in short sleeves in February if the temperature was in the high seventies anymore than they would go around in short sleeves with temperatures in the low thirties. You really want to shock an Italian? Show up at their house with your legs bare before the middle of May. I could always spot the foreign tourists when I lived in Rome because (among other things) of how lightly they were dressed, no self-respecting Italian leaves their jacket at home before the end of April, no matter how warm. The cold might leap up from behind you at any time and take you down.
Giulio and Livia had a great time at the pool, Giulio leaping confidently from the side into the shallow end with me holding his hand, and Livia stepping off the edge into the water without even breaking her stride. She was so confident that I would catch her she seemed like someone doing one of those trust exercises they make you do on office retreats. You know, when you call out “fall!” and then let yourself fall backwards into the waiting arms of the women from the HR department and the man with the cubicle next to you. It was a little unnerving actually, as Livia would just walk off the edge without any warning, but she seemed to really like it and Giulio got to show me all the moves he had learned during his swim lessons. Note to self: sign Giulio up again for swimming lessons! Best of all the locker room was empty when we took showers and got dressed so no one had to watch me run around with my bathing suit around my waist trying to pin Livia down and get a diaper on her with Giulio giggling hysterically sitting naked on the locker room bench trying to put one sock on.
Today was business as usual with the kids at school and Lorenzo and myself back at work. I’m getting used to work, how to plan my day, how to plan my week, and it seems for the most part that, barring sick kids, Lorenzo and I have found a way to get through the week in one piece. Today though I came home exhausted after a long day, after getting Livia from daycare and going grocery shopping, only to find a huge pile of dried laundry sitting on the bed, results of my rather over zealous running of the washing machine the day before. I was ready to start bitching but Lorenzo took the groceries and got busy with dinner and just then Giulio came running up to me, with on hand behind his back.
“Look Mommy, I have something for you.” He held out a slightly squashed purple flower without the stem. “I picked it just for you.”
Of course I melted. Took the kid in my arms and kissed the heck out of him. And then got down to folding laundry, putting it away, and getting the kids into their pjs. I know, I should have been enjoying these precious moments with my children, taking pleasure in being with them, but instead I just focused on the task of getting them into bed, with Lorenzo calling me to the table because dinner is ready, like I’m doing my nails and gadding on the phone with a girlfriend instead of trying to read “Peepo” to my children before kissing them goodnight and tucking them in. Only Giulio is mad because we are going to bed without reading the story again, and he kicks off the covers I have pulled up to his chin, he way of protesting. I’m too tired to argue and just turn to go when he calls out frantically to me: “Mommy!” And then, if nothing had happened he says in a much quieter voice. “Will you sing good night to me?” Our goodnight song is one I have sung to him every night since he was a baby, taking the song “Goodnight My Someone” from “The Music Man” and just changing the words. It’s a brief song, only four lines, the perfect length for a tired woman worn out by a long day with a baby, but tonight at this point the four lines loom as long as four Shakespearean sonnets. I bend over the bed, putting my face next to his ready to sing the song quickly.
“Good night my Giulio, Good night my boy.”
OK, almost there, I think. His cheek is against mine, his breath even and quiet in my ear.
“Good night my Giulio, I love you so.”
His cheek is so soft, My little baby, my little boy, a boy who in another few years won’t want me singing in his ear before going to sleep and checking to make sure he has his Pat the Bunny and stuffed elephant in bed with him. I take a deep breath and slow down, wanting to draw out the last two lines and remind myself of right now, not five minutes from now or after dinner, or what I have to do before the morning, but now, just me singing a lullaby to my son.
“The stars are shining their brightest light,”
I feel like crying, my very own Madonna of the Tears weeping over two children so wonderful I sometimes wonder what I did to deserve them. No, I won't cry, I’m going to enjoy this moment, not rush. My Giulio, the little boy who picked a flower for his mommy, the little boy who loves his mommy even though she isn’t perfect and who one day will see her faults better than he will see his own, but that hasn’t happened yet. Not today, not right now, not while I’m singing this song. I’m just a mommy singing to her boy, with his little arms around my neck and his breath in my ear.
“Now goodnight my Giulio, goodnight.”
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