I'm clowning around in the living room with Lorenzo and the TV is on when I think I hear music, not music from the TV but live music. I mute the TV and I hear the music again, it's a brass marching band playing in the street, followed by a procession of people, and then they stop playing and I hear one voice praying over a microphone, it's a church procession heading somewhere at 9pm, complete with a band, five priests, nuns, and parishioners including children, many of whom are carrying candles. The procession is topped off by a Carabinieri car with its lights flashing following slowly behind. The priest finishes his prayer and the band strikes up again and the procession heads on down the road. I didn't see Sig.ra Pala today so she couldn't tell me about the procession, which I am sure she took full part in, probably carrying the priest's microphone or something. Lorenzo asked me why we never go to the things like that, silent church processions around the neighborhood with our children in the soft darkness, and I point out that Giulio would ask to be carried on Lorenzo's shoulders within a block of the church and Livia would want to get out of her stroller and would be so whacked out by 9pm that she would be unbearable. We'll go when the kids are older, I tell Lorenzo, i.e. when they can carry their own candles without accidentally setting themselves on fire. We'll have plenty of opportunities, they do these procession around four or five times a year. Don Vincenzo it seems, is a fan.
The other morning I'm wiping down the kitchen counter before heading out the door to go to work and I tell Giulio to get his rain coat on because we are about to go. "Are we going to America?" he asks, making me wish that going to America was as easy as telling Giulio to brush his teeth and get his coat on. You can't blame him, it is getting to be summer and summer to me means sweating it out in the midwest as I dash from parking lots into over air conditioned discount stores. We spend all year talking about what we will do when we get to the States and who we will see and what we will buy that Giulio knows that one morning I will turn to him and tell him to get his shoes on and that will be THE morning that we are flying out. We won't be going until August though and "only" for three weeks, so my summer is still a long way off, leaving me for the first time to have to organize summer activities for Giulio. Livia is covered, her daycare closes the day before we leave for the States so she is fine, except for one week after we get back and I'm hoping to work something out with Terry for when I will be back at work, but Giulio is set. I didn't know this but apparently our town runs its own day camp for kids from the second year of preschool up to middle school. Theresa told me about it, you pay for what weeks you want to send your kid and it's open all of July and August (Giulio's school closes at the end of June), except for the week of Ferragosto when everyone and their mother is on vacation in Italy. The camp also offers extended day, and is open til 6pm, which really makes my life easy as it is also around the corner from Livia's daycare so I can get both kids at the same time without worrying about making it in time from work. And lunch is included. So how much is this camp, with ex-day and food included costing us? 37 euros a week. Yes, that is right, 37 euros a week. I love it when I feel like my taxes are actually paying for something that I use, instead of trying to remind myself of that fact when I see the city paving the roads or something boring but extremely useful like that. So Giulio will go for all of July and then one week in August after we come back from the States. Here's hoping he likes it!
Last week a colleague of Lorenzo whose daughter is two years older than Livia gave him a bag of hand-me-down clothes for her. I like hand-me-downs, and I always welcome new-to-us clothes for my kids, but I’m afraid that Livia won’t be wearing these. Not because I don’t like them, but because I am unable to replicate the ironing and folding job that this woman did before sending them over. Amazing. I doubt a Chinese laundry could do better. This isn’t the first time I have been given clothes for Livia (no one had any boys clothes to pass on to me) that I gratefully accepted and then promptly put in my closet until the necessary amount of months had passed so I could send them back. First of all, there is no way I can do such beautiful ironing. I have this shameful scene in my mind of giving the woman the baby clothes back, thanking her for letting Livia wear them, and her telling me that it was no problem, really. Cut to the woman a few hours later in her own home unpacking the bag and tsk-tsk-ing over my shoddy ironing and folding. She would take the clothes and wash them and iron them again, sighing and rueing the day she ever lent them to me, before carefully putting them back into storage for some other friend’s baby. I would feel awful about making someone do extra work on my account, but at the same time it annoys me that lending me clothes will ultimately cause more work for me. The few pieces that I let Livia wear, the ones I felt confident enough to iron, I was constantly worrying about removing all the stains in a way that I never am with clothes I bought myself. It also seems silly to me to send the clothes back, because by the time something has been worn heavily by two or three toddlers, well, you really don’t want to pass it on again. In the States the idea is always you take the hand-me-downs, use them, and then pass them on to another person you know who needs them. Instead here the idea is that you eventually give them back, unless otherwise stated. I gave all of Giulio’s clothes away to Terry and let her do what she wanted with them, as along with Alessandro she has several nephews younger than Giulio who more than glad to take his Gap cast-offs and keep them from taking up space in my storage room.
As a final note, we had the blinds put up in the veranda. I wasn’t there for it, thank God, but apparently the man came and put them up himself. Which shows how scaring the whole door incident in the cantina was for Lorenzo, that he let this project be done by someone else. I was so sure I would have to spend a stressful morning holding the ladder, handing Lorenzo tools while listening to him swear that I can hardly believe I got off so easy. I came home for lunch that day and found lunch ready and the new blinds hanging in the windows. They look great by the way, I still can’t believe we kept the old ones for as long as we did. And despite being spooked by working on the cantina he now thinks that fixing up it up is the best thing he has ever done. He has the bench press down there, along with a TV and he mounted some kind of desk to the wall. I joke that he is slowly moving his things down there so he can live down there permanently, except that my parents think we should keep it free for them for when they come. My mother thinks that despite that it’s a three flight walk up to the nearest bathroom, (though they could do it ala’ Sig. Piero and just pee in the garden,) and the fact that I would have to lock them in at night when they go to sleep, she’s convinced that we now have a great guest room for when they come and visit. Yeah, I can just imagine that conversation.
“So Claire, where do you parents sleep when they come visit? In your room?”
“No, we’ve found a great solution, we have them sleep in the storage room in the basement. It’s amazing what a few tiles can do for a room. They can’t believe we waited as long as we did. It's every New Yorker's dream--finding a room in your house that you didn't know existed.”
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
The Days of the Door
Lorenzo, hoping for early admission to sainthood used his day off two weeks ago to completely empty the cantina as part of our ongoing saga of redoing the storage room. It sat empty for a few days while Lorenzo drew plans of where all the shelves, the dryer, and his not yet bought weight bench would go. He also met with Eugenio’s dad to talk tiles, and one morning they drove to a tile “outlet” where they got some pretty terra cotta tiles based on my request for something matched what we have on the garage floor. Eugenio’s dad lives on the other side of our fence in his little white villa on land that he bought when our neighbourhood was just fields and is now worth about 20 times what he paid for it. He tiled our bathroom for the previous owners, tiled the kitchen for us, and now would be tiling the cantina floor.
For reasons lost in the mist of time I call him Babyface, not to his face mind you, but behind his back to Lorenzo. Even Lorenzo calls him Babyface when referring to him in conversation and it is difficult sometimes to keep from calling it out when I see him across the fence tending to his lawn. His is a spry man, slightly stooped and always busy, either chopping wood for his fireplace, tending to his plants, or driving up to the mountains at the crack of dawn to hunt for wild mushrooms and returning home before 10am. In other words, Babyface is a true Old School Italian. Though he looks rather frail, appearances are deceiving because he tiled and chalked the cantina floor in less than two days, including splitting tiles to make the baseboards, and without so much as a sore back. On Sunday, the day after taking my mom who was visiting for the week to Salò , we left her with the kids and Lorenzo and I painted the cantina with white paint leftover from 3 years ago when we painted our apartment when we moved in. Lorenzo washed the floor four times, twice with regular floor cleaner and twice with vinegar as Babyface told him it is the best way to get all that cement grit off the floor. Suddenly, with its new tiled floor and white walls the cantina was transformed. Sunlight poured in through the window. No longer a dungeon filled with dust, it was suddenly light and airy, and best of all, clean, looking more like a monk’s cell, though certainly bigger, or at least a pleasant basement apartment.
(Sorry, the mention of the monk’s cell made me think of something. Years ago when I was living in Rome, before I was married or had kids I had a job where I helped company execs relocate to Italy for work. I had this rather difficult client who wanted a beautiful home in the center of Rome, something unusual with a large terrace and didn’t want to pay more than 1000 euros a month for it, back when the euro was 86 cents to the dollar. Anyway, I called agencies all over Rome looking for an apartment to please this woman and I was nearing despair when I stumbled upon an apartment in the center, just off of the Circus Maximus, with the requisite number of bedrooms and square meters that this woman had requested. Once upon a time it had been part of a convent for nuns, but with the nuns long gone the remaining part had been turned into an apartment, and my boss told me it was the fabled unicorn of apartments, rumoured to exist, it would briefly appear on the market only to be immediately snapped up and disappear again. The client went to see it, she loved it, loved the location, thought the place was beautiful. In the end however she decided against it because, as she told me over the phone, the bedrooms were too small! Unfortunately for her most nuns don’t go in for large bedroom sets.)
I was pleased with our sunny monk’s cell and went to bed optimistic. On Monday Lorenzo had the day off and the plan was that he would put together the shelves that would go in the cantina and start organizing where we wanted to put things. Then he read on-line that IKEA was having a super sale, large plastic storage containers at 2 euros a pop, something that he couldn’t stop himself from driving to IKEA and buying, taking my mother along for the ride. I knew it would be tough to do all the things he had planned for one day, but I knew Lorenzo could do it. After all, what were some metal shelves and a trip to IKEA in the face of my husband’s raw determination? I found out at 5:50 when Lorenzo pulled up in front of my office. His fingers bandaged in two different places he told me that they had managed to get to IKEA but that he had only finished putting together two of the four shelves, had cut himself twice while doing so, and that he would need my help with the last two. I got home, took Livia upstairs to my mom, threw on some work jeans and headed downstairs, where I spent the next hour kneeling by the metal shelf twisting the little screws in as fast as I could trying to avoid the same fate as Lorenzo with his cut hands. We got the shelves up, and Lorenzo was whistling which is always a good sign but then we had to screw them to the wall with the drill and it was here that the whistling stopped. The walls, as all the walls in our house seem to be weren’t completely flat and involved one of us pushing the shelf against the wall while the other marked the holes with a red marker. Then Lorenzo would drill into the cement foundation to make the holes where the screws would go, the noise was awful, and then with the first shelf the holes didn’t match up and it took all kinds of moving and flipping them around and pushing them against the wall to get them right, and while the other three sets went in OK, Lorenzo was cursing under his breath and sweating and I was hating home improvement projects with every ounce of my being until finally we had all four shelves bolted to the wall so neither Giulio or Livia could ever pull a storage shelf down on top of themselves.
Then a dash upstairs to wolf down dinner before heading down again, it was now around 10 o’clock and the kids had been in bed for hours, my mom helping us move things into the plastic containers and onto the shelves. Despite the weeding out I had done the week before there was still a lot of things to get rid of, so much so that in the end when we got everything inside the cantina was half empty. Not the shelves, but there was a lot more floor space, just as well I suppose since we have to factor in the weight bench. The cantina looked good, and my mother made some comment about how Italian it was to have this beautiful room with tile that most Americans can only dream about for the purpose of storing winter coats and a surplus of shower gel.
The last thing to do was re-hang the door, something that is really easy to do in Italy, all the doors lift off their hinges and can be removed with some straining and then delicately put back in place with a lot of straining. Anyway, we strained and lifted to put the door on. It had been removed last week so the floor could be tiled and then cut down so the tiles would fit underneath and still allow the door to open and close. But the door didn’t fit anymore, it leaned heavily towards the right side of the doorframe so it would not close properly, let alone lock though if some thief would like to relieve me of 50 pounds of baby clothes, more power to them.
Italians are famous for their doors. You know those cop shows you see on TV where the cops give the door a hearty kick and it gives way? Or the SWAT team shows up with an iron pole, they pound on the door a few times and the whole thing collapses? Well Italian cop shows don’t bother with that because everyone knows that all front doors have steel bars in them, you can hear them moving into place every time you lock or unlock them. Lorenzo’s biggest concern when he came to visit my parents was how flimsy their front door seemed, alarming my dad so much that he had the door changed for something sturdier, though nothing like what we have on our modest apartment in Italy. But our basement door was of the standard wooden variety, the same door that was put when the building was built. Apparently about 15 years ago after several break-ins to the cantina, the former owner had added along with the basic door lock a heavy lock with a steel bar that the runs the length of the door and was held in place by a hole in the basement floor at the base and by a metal latch at the top when the door was locked.
But suddenly it no longer could be locked. Too exhausted to do anything about it as it was nearly midnight we trudged back upstairs with Lorenzo saying he would talk to Babyface and fix it tomorrow.
Thus began The Saga of the Basement Door. On Tuesday and Wednesday I came home from work hoping to find the door fixed and instead found piles of tools, drills, and Lorenzo and Babyface standing around the door. On Tuesday they said it would be fixed Wednesday, on Wednesday they admitted that the situation was grave, Thursday we took a break to go to Genoa for the day and forget about the stress of the cantina and it’s cursed door, but then Friday morning found Lorenzo down in the cantina again trying to put it right. It seemed a bit like herding cats. He would measure and drill and fix one thing only to find another problem and each set back seemed to push us deeper in despair. We couldn’t get new door, as that would involve ripping out the door frame and would set us back thousands of euro, but the longer it dragged on, longer than it had taken us to empty, tile, paint, mount shelves, and refill the entire cantina. Friday night Lorenzo came upstairs tired and defeated, with the tool box in his hands, a sign that the work for now was done. Apparently the door now closed, the bottom lock locked, but the big metal one would no longer close properly, no matter how many times he took it apart and oiled it. He was leaving it be, in fact, he would be doing no more home improvement projects. When our blinds come for the porch he is going to let their guys put it instead of taking care of it himself. It seemed like the end of an era.
After a day’s reflection Lorenzo decided that he would remove the old lock and put a new one on, but not yet. Right now we are still recovering from the draining four days that I call The Days of the Door. In the meantime we have taken all our winter clothes down to the cantina in clear plastic bins so that the contents are visible and as the room is no longer filled with dust I have no qualms about our comforters staying down there as well. There is something very satisfying about seeing all our items neatly stored and put away, yet having them easily accessible that I have almost forgiven Lorenzo for the havoc this project ended up causing and I can almost enjoy the cantina and take pleasure in using my dryer in a room fit for a monk.
For reasons lost in the mist of time I call him Babyface, not to his face mind you, but behind his back to Lorenzo. Even Lorenzo calls him Babyface when referring to him in conversation and it is difficult sometimes to keep from calling it out when I see him across the fence tending to his lawn. His is a spry man, slightly stooped and always busy, either chopping wood for his fireplace, tending to his plants, or driving up to the mountains at the crack of dawn to hunt for wild mushrooms and returning home before 10am. In other words, Babyface is a true Old School Italian. Though he looks rather frail, appearances are deceiving because he tiled and chalked the cantina floor in less than two days, including splitting tiles to make the baseboards, and without so much as a sore back. On Sunday, the day after taking my mom who was visiting for the week to Salò , we left her with the kids and Lorenzo and I painted the cantina with white paint leftover from 3 years ago when we painted our apartment when we moved in. Lorenzo washed the floor four times, twice with regular floor cleaner and twice with vinegar as Babyface told him it is the best way to get all that cement grit off the floor. Suddenly, with its new tiled floor and white walls the cantina was transformed. Sunlight poured in through the window. No longer a dungeon filled with dust, it was suddenly light and airy, and best of all, clean, looking more like a monk’s cell, though certainly bigger, or at least a pleasant basement apartment.
(Sorry, the mention of the monk’s cell made me think of something. Years ago when I was living in Rome, before I was married or had kids I had a job where I helped company execs relocate to Italy for work. I had this rather difficult client who wanted a beautiful home in the center of Rome, something unusual with a large terrace and didn’t want to pay more than 1000 euros a month for it, back when the euro was 86 cents to the dollar. Anyway, I called agencies all over Rome looking for an apartment to please this woman and I was nearing despair when I stumbled upon an apartment in the center, just off of the Circus Maximus, with the requisite number of bedrooms and square meters that this woman had requested. Once upon a time it had been part of a convent for nuns, but with the nuns long gone the remaining part had been turned into an apartment, and my boss told me it was the fabled unicorn of apartments, rumoured to exist, it would briefly appear on the market only to be immediately snapped up and disappear again. The client went to see it, she loved it, loved the location, thought the place was beautiful. In the end however she decided against it because, as she told me over the phone, the bedrooms were too small! Unfortunately for her most nuns don’t go in for large bedroom sets.)
I was pleased with our sunny monk’s cell and went to bed optimistic. On Monday Lorenzo had the day off and the plan was that he would put together the shelves that would go in the cantina and start organizing where we wanted to put things. Then he read on-line that IKEA was having a super sale, large plastic storage containers at 2 euros a pop, something that he couldn’t stop himself from driving to IKEA and buying, taking my mother along for the ride. I knew it would be tough to do all the things he had planned for one day, but I knew Lorenzo could do it. After all, what were some metal shelves and a trip to IKEA in the face of my husband’s raw determination? I found out at 5:50 when Lorenzo pulled up in front of my office. His fingers bandaged in two different places he told me that they had managed to get to IKEA but that he had only finished putting together two of the four shelves, had cut himself twice while doing so, and that he would need my help with the last two. I got home, took Livia upstairs to my mom, threw on some work jeans and headed downstairs, where I spent the next hour kneeling by the metal shelf twisting the little screws in as fast as I could trying to avoid the same fate as Lorenzo with his cut hands. We got the shelves up, and Lorenzo was whistling which is always a good sign but then we had to screw them to the wall with the drill and it was here that the whistling stopped. The walls, as all the walls in our house seem to be weren’t completely flat and involved one of us pushing the shelf against the wall while the other marked the holes with a red marker. Then Lorenzo would drill into the cement foundation to make the holes where the screws would go, the noise was awful, and then with the first shelf the holes didn’t match up and it took all kinds of moving and flipping them around and pushing them against the wall to get them right, and while the other three sets went in OK, Lorenzo was cursing under his breath and sweating and I was hating home improvement projects with every ounce of my being until finally we had all four shelves bolted to the wall so neither Giulio or Livia could ever pull a storage shelf down on top of themselves.
Then a dash upstairs to wolf down dinner before heading down again, it was now around 10 o’clock and the kids had been in bed for hours, my mom helping us move things into the plastic containers and onto the shelves. Despite the weeding out I had done the week before there was still a lot of things to get rid of, so much so that in the end when we got everything inside the cantina was half empty. Not the shelves, but there was a lot more floor space, just as well I suppose since we have to factor in the weight bench. The cantina looked good, and my mother made some comment about how Italian it was to have this beautiful room with tile that most Americans can only dream about for the purpose of storing winter coats and a surplus of shower gel.
The last thing to do was re-hang the door, something that is really easy to do in Italy, all the doors lift off their hinges and can be removed with some straining and then delicately put back in place with a lot of straining. Anyway, we strained and lifted to put the door on. It had been removed last week so the floor could be tiled and then cut down so the tiles would fit underneath and still allow the door to open and close. But the door didn’t fit anymore, it leaned heavily towards the right side of the doorframe so it would not close properly, let alone lock though if some thief would like to relieve me of 50 pounds of baby clothes, more power to them.
Italians are famous for their doors. You know those cop shows you see on TV where the cops give the door a hearty kick and it gives way? Or the SWAT team shows up with an iron pole, they pound on the door a few times and the whole thing collapses? Well Italian cop shows don’t bother with that because everyone knows that all front doors have steel bars in them, you can hear them moving into place every time you lock or unlock them. Lorenzo’s biggest concern when he came to visit my parents was how flimsy their front door seemed, alarming my dad so much that he had the door changed for something sturdier, though nothing like what we have on our modest apartment in Italy. But our basement door was of the standard wooden variety, the same door that was put when the building was built. Apparently about 15 years ago after several break-ins to the cantina, the former owner had added along with the basic door lock a heavy lock with a steel bar that the runs the length of the door and was held in place by a hole in the basement floor at the base and by a metal latch at the top when the door was locked.
But suddenly it no longer could be locked. Too exhausted to do anything about it as it was nearly midnight we trudged back upstairs with Lorenzo saying he would talk to Babyface and fix it tomorrow.
Thus began The Saga of the Basement Door. On Tuesday and Wednesday I came home from work hoping to find the door fixed and instead found piles of tools, drills, and Lorenzo and Babyface standing around the door. On Tuesday they said it would be fixed Wednesday, on Wednesday they admitted that the situation was grave, Thursday we took a break to go to Genoa for the day and forget about the stress of the cantina and it’s cursed door, but then Friday morning found Lorenzo down in the cantina again trying to put it right. It seemed a bit like herding cats. He would measure and drill and fix one thing only to find another problem and each set back seemed to push us deeper in despair. We couldn’t get new door, as that would involve ripping out the door frame and would set us back thousands of euro, but the longer it dragged on, longer than it had taken us to empty, tile, paint, mount shelves, and refill the entire cantina. Friday night Lorenzo came upstairs tired and defeated, with the tool box in his hands, a sign that the work for now was done. Apparently the door now closed, the bottom lock locked, but the big metal one would no longer close properly, no matter how many times he took it apart and oiled it. He was leaving it be, in fact, he would be doing no more home improvement projects. When our blinds come for the porch he is going to let their guys put it instead of taking care of it himself. It seemed like the end of an era.
After a day’s reflection Lorenzo decided that he would remove the old lock and put a new one on, but not yet. Right now we are still recovering from the draining four days that I call The Days of the Door. In the meantime we have taken all our winter clothes down to the cantina in clear plastic bins so that the contents are visible and as the room is no longer filled with dust I have no qualms about our comforters staying down there as well. There is something very satisfying about seeing all our items neatly stored and put away, yet having them easily accessible that I have almost forgiven Lorenzo for the havoc this project ended up causing and I can almost enjoy the cantina and take pleasure in using my dryer in a room fit for a monk.
Monday, April 14, 2008
DIY
It’s election day here. I casually brought up the topic with my co-worker as to whom she voted for and she busts out with 2 photos of Berlusconi that she carries in her wallet, next to the photo of her boyfriend. Guess that answers my question! I have to say that I am shocked, despite the fact that Berlusconi has already been elected twice she is the first person I have met who has openly declared her love for the man, though Italians are so private about who they vote for. They will tell you without blinking an eye who much they earn a month, but ask who they voted for, well, they blush, tell you that who you voted for is private, and then turn away. I do know that Lorenzo split his vote, saying that he voted for one party for the Senate and another party for the House, rather like ordering from a menu at a Chinese restaurant, seeing as there are more than 140 parties to choose from, though only 5 or 6 “big” ones. He didn’t work this election, which was a bummer because when we have elections it is a boon for cops to get in overtime, as two police officers are required to be in the polling place starting the night before the election and stay until all the votes are counted. Yes, they sleep there, and they take turns working, eating (they can leave for meals), and resting. Lorenzo always takes the books that he has been trying to read since our last summer vacation and our Play Station, and other than being kind of boring, I mean, you are just sitting there watching people vote, there are worse ways to pass a weekend on the job. At any rate we dedicated Sunday afternoon to cleaning out the basement storage room.
We are in the midst of several home improvement projects. New blinds for the study to replace the 40 year old green ones that been there when the study was still a porch and not a room. And then down in our storage area in the basement Lorenzo has decided that he what he really needs in his life is a weight bench and a room to lift weights in, this from a man who hasn’t been inside a gym in over a year, a man who hauled his heavy barbells up and down flights of stairs when we moved where they had been under the crib in the baby’s corner, placed them in a corner of our bedroom and hasn’t touched them since. (And from a man who is as slim as he was when I met him, the jerk!) However part of the plan involves putting down a tiled floor in the storage area and putting up new storage shelves and better organizing what could really only be called a junk room right now, except that my beloved dryer is kept down there as well, so I am secretly kind of happy about it. Ironically, our garage has a beautiful cream colored tiled floor, put down by the previous owners, that our diesel engine car drips oil onto, while our basement storage room sits there nakedly exposed to whatever walks over it. Honestly, it is just the kind of floor you would want oil dripped on as it never looks clean, even when you have just washed it. I really don’t know the reasoning behind these decorating decisions, but you can be sure that whatever tile we put down it won’t be as nice as what we have in the garage.
I usually hate home improvement projects involving Lorenzo. He is there, concentrating on whatever it is he is doing, while he leaves me the job of keeping an eye on the kids and running and fetching things for him. I don’t mind helping him, but I do mind helping him and try to keep two small children from climbing up ladders and picking up hammers. We started after nap time, with Livia clinging to me, knowing that I wanted to put her down and when I did finally detach her from my hip immediately got into arguments with Giulio over the toys that we had dumped out on a plastic sheet for the kids to play on just outside the storage room while we dealt with the stuff inside. The toys were all things that had been given to the children either when they were already too old, or where they seemed to have too many pieces and be too large to ever be properly put together. Soon the floor was covered with random pieces of a complicated race track and an “activity” table meant for one year olds that someone had given me for Giulio when he was already almost two, but that he was happy to assemble now.
The scary thing about going through our stuff was to find out how much stuff we have that we weren’t using, nor did we ever intend to use again. Apparently if I didn’t want it in the house I moved it down to the basement for That Day when it would be cleaned out, therefore 9 objects out of 10 were deemed Not Needed, including my wedding dress. You can be sure I’m going 100% couture the day I marry George Clooney, so I won’t be needed my old Bridal and Formal gown. And what was I thinking hanging onto 5 bags of maternity clothes, not one of which I ever intend to wear again, even if I did have another baby. Nothing makes a pregnant woman feel more beautiful than wearing maternity clothes from another decade. I discovered that I have an obscene amount of baby clothes, but as one of my best friends in Italy has just announced that she is pregnant I must hang onto them for a little longer, just in case it is a girl, because it feels like a shame to just give them away after the days of hunting at Value City, Target, Gap Outlet, and Old Navy to make sure that Livia was the best dressed girl at the nido.
The Hoarder Award went to Lorenzo for the 3, that’s right 3 irons that we had, and of which he would only part with 1. Though I explained that I had a fantastic iron and that if anything ever happened to it I was going right out to buy another and would not be dealing with those dinky little irons again, he argued that they didn’t take up much space and kept 1, plus the travel iron, though ironing is the one thing he won’t do. Nice to know that he has my best interests at heart. I also found several old purses which I was at least smart enough to clean out before putting it on the charity heap because it contained, oddly enough my dental x-rays, and a business card from a hotel that Lorenzo and I stayed at in Florence when we went to visit my cousins who had come from New York. The purse was a knock off of a style that was in about 5 years ago, and I cringed to think that I walked around Florence with it, God knows what my chic New York cousin thought about it—hopefully she didn’t notice.
Lorenzo dug out an enormous jar of ancient olives from his parents, another gift along the same lines as the prosciutto and wondered where to dump them, along with several jars of preserves that had been sent to the basement and never seen again.
In the midst of all this cleaning I kept going out to check on the kids and often finding that Livia, after her initial reluctance to be torn from my side, had taken to doing a David Copperfield on me and disappearing. I found her in the yard watching Terry water some lettuce, dust sticking to her face in streaks thanks to her snotty nose and looking like one of those children you see on the money raising campaign for Third World countries, minus the GAP raincoat. And took her back downstairs where now Lorenzo, with dust flying through the air, was attacking the 25 year old wooden storage shelves that looked like they had been put together by someone who was overly fond of nails. Just the thing to have around small children! The kids eventually took refuge with Terry and we were able to drag out the pieces of the shelf and sweep up, we gave Eugenio’s dad most of the wood, since he has a fire place and didn’t mind the nails.
In the end though other than being a bit grimy the kids were no worse for wear, Lorenzo was thrilled to have taken down the shelves, and I was just relieved that no one got hurt. Now perhaps you understand why I don’t like home improvement jobs.
We are in the midst of several home improvement projects. New blinds for the study to replace the 40 year old green ones that been there when the study was still a porch and not a room. And then down in our storage area in the basement Lorenzo has decided that he what he really needs in his life is a weight bench and a room to lift weights in, this from a man who hasn’t been inside a gym in over a year, a man who hauled his heavy barbells up and down flights of stairs when we moved where they had been under the crib in the baby’s corner, placed them in a corner of our bedroom and hasn’t touched them since. (And from a man who is as slim as he was when I met him, the jerk!) However part of the plan involves putting down a tiled floor in the storage area and putting up new storage shelves and better organizing what could really only be called a junk room right now, except that my beloved dryer is kept down there as well, so I am secretly kind of happy about it. Ironically, our garage has a beautiful cream colored tiled floor, put down by the previous owners, that our diesel engine car drips oil onto, while our basement storage room sits there nakedly exposed to whatever walks over it. Honestly, it is just the kind of floor you would want oil dripped on as it never looks clean, even when you have just washed it. I really don’t know the reasoning behind these decorating decisions, but you can be sure that whatever tile we put down it won’t be as nice as what we have in the garage.
I usually hate home improvement projects involving Lorenzo. He is there, concentrating on whatever it is he is doing, while he leaves me the job of keeping an eye on the kids and running and fetching things for him. I don’t mind helping him, but I do mind helping him and try to keep two small children from climbing up ladders and picking up hammers. We started after nap time, with Livia clinging to me, knowing that I wanted to put her down and when I did finally detach her from my hip immediately got into arguments with Giulio over the toys that we had dumped out on a plastic sheet for the kids to play on just outside the storage room while we dealt with the stuff inside. The toys were all things that had been given to the children either when they were already too old, or where they seemed to have too many pieces and be too large to ever be properly put together. Soon the floor was covered with random pieces of a complicated race track and an “activity” table meant for one year olds that someone had given me for Giulio when he was already almost two, but that he was happy to assemble now.
The scary thing about going through our stuff was to find out how much stuff we have that we weren’t using, nor did we ever intend to use again. Apparently if I didn’t want it in the house I moved it down to the basement for That Day when it would be cleaned out, therefore 9 objects out of 10 were deemed Not Needed, including my wedding dress. You can be sure I’m going 100% couture the day I marry George Clooney, so I won’t be needed my old Bridal and Formal gown. And what was I thinking hanging onto 5 bags of maternity clothes, not one of which I ever intend to wear again, even if I did have another baby. Nothing makes a pregnant woman feel more beautiful than wearing maternity clothes from another decade. I discovered that I have an obscene amount of baby clothes, but as one of my best friends in Italy has just announced that she is pregnant I must hang onto them for a little longer, just in case it is a girl, because it feels like a shame to just give them away after the days of hunting at Value City, Target, Gap Outlet, and Old Navy to make sure that Livia was the best dressed girl at the nido.
The Hoarder Award went to Lorenzo for the 3, that’s right 3 irons that we had, and of which he would only part with 1. Though I explained that I had a fantastic iron and that if anything ever happened to it I was going right out to buy another and would not be dealing with those dinky little irons again, he argued that they didn’t take up much space and kept 1, plus the travel iron, though ironing is the one thing he won’t do. Nice to know that he has my best interests at heart. I also found several old purses which I was at least smart enough to clean out before putting it on the charity heap because it contained, oddly enough my dental x-rays, and a business card from a hotel that Lorenzo and I stayed at in Florence when we went to visit my cousins who had come from New York. The purse was a knock off of a style that was in about 5 years ago, and I cringed to think that I walked around Florence with it, God knows what my chic New York cousin thought about it—hopefully she didn’t notice.
Lorenzo dug out an enormous jar of ancient olives from his parents, another gift along the same lines as the prosciutto and wondered where to dump them, along with several jars of preserves that had been sent to the basement and never seen again.
In the midst of all this cleaning I kept going out to check on the kids and often finding that Livia, after her initial reluctance to be torn from my side, had taken to doing a David Copperfield on me and disappearing. I found her in the yard watching Terry water some lettuce, dust sticking to her face in streaks thanks to her snotty nose and looking like one of those children you see on the money raising campaign for Third World countries, minus the GAP raincoat. And took her back downstairs where now Lorenzo, with dust flying through the air, was attacking the 25 year old wooden storage shelves that looked like they had been put together by someone who was overly fond of nails. Just the thing to have around small children! The kids eventually took refuge with Terry and we were able to drag out the pieces of the shelf and sweep up, we gave Eugenio’s dad most of the wood, since he has a fire place and didn’t mind the nails.
In the end though other than being a bit grimy the kids were no worse for wear, Lorenzo was thrilled to have taken down the shelves, and I was just relieved that no one got hurt. Now perhaps you understand why I don’t like home improvement jobs.
Monday, March 31, 2008
The Mezzo Stagione
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.
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.
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.”
Saturday, February 16, 2008
The Power Mommy
I had to go to England this week for a business trip. OK, fine, I'm going to drop the cool and hopelessly blase' tone and say--Finally! I'm 29 years old and this is the first time I've ever been able to say the words "business trip" in a sentence pertaining to me and my work! It also makes my job seem very time consuming and important, which it really isn't. Well, it does take up a lot of my time as all jobs do, but it has its highs and lows. I mean it's like one minute they need me to be the company representative talking to the head of a huge international corporation about some very tricky problem, and then we finish on the conference call, I wipe the sweat from my brow and go back downstairs to where I answer the phone and do various mundane office tasks. It sounds like I hate my job, which I don't. I find it for the most part interesting, there is a ton to learn, much of which would prove useful if I ever decide to go work somewhere else. And I like my colleagues, who are a good looking, very Italian bunch, most of the women hopelessly skinny and sexily dressed, but who do wear jeans everyday, yet another bonus to working here.
What I wasn't expecting on Tuesday afternoon though was to be asked if I could be able to go to England the next morning because we had a problem and they needed us to go to the client in person to express our extreme availability and willingness to resolve the problem. They needed me to go to make sure that we were very clear about what was going on, and that our company and my colleague understood everything they were saying to us. So I'm not a translator exactly because my colleague does speak English, but a translator who is also apparently closely following and deeply involved in the project. Which I kind of am, at least when it comes to dealing with this client, just don't tell them that I also answer the phone. You can imagine Lorenzo's reaction when I called him. In the past seven years I have done little more than ask him if he could pick Giulio up from school, and now I was asking if he would be OK on his own for at least 36 hours with the kids. He initially panicked, but when I pointed out that he would be at work on Wednesday, Livia at school and Giulio at Giusys (with another fever!!) and by Thursday I would be home he relented. "Sure, go. Make sure they pay you a ton extra!"
So Wednesday morning found me traveling to the north of England with another colleague, luckily one who I work with a lot so there was no awkwardness and wondering what to say. Our trip was uneventful, and yet for me really strange. I could not remember the last time I had flown alone, well, actually, I can, it was when I flew to the US the summer I was pregnant with Giulio. It was so strange not to be sherpa-ed out with a bag, a diaper bag, three winter coats, a stroller and Giulio's backpack. I went to the bathroom on my own. There was no wiggling child on my lap who I had to keep amused while we sat on the runway, or frequently fed from beaten up cracker packs from my bag. When we boarded the first plane and they immediately announced that we would be waiting 40 minutes to take off my first thought was that we would miss our connecting flight and NOT how to keep my children from getting us thrown off the plane while we waited. I just sat and read my book. There were no awkward diaper changes in the confines of the airplane bathroom, no trying to eat from a try and not letting a baby spill my water, and no pained looks from my fellow passengers when I sat down next to them, in fact no one even knew that I had children. It was all so wonderful and yet I was missing my kids like crazy. In the airport cafe before our flight I saw a family with two small children the same age as mine, the eldest boy even had a hair cut like Giulio's and had the charming habit of exhaling "aahhhh" when he finished drinking a glass of water like they do on soft drink commercials to show that major thirst has been quenched, and which Giulio and Livia do as well. My heart flipped watching him and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying. Yes, I had been away from my children for under three hours and I already missed them.
Our trip was long and rather stressful, as I think most trips involving connecting flights are. The fear of the unknown delay keeps you stressed out and on your toes. Plus the sprint for your connecting flight, sweating under your wool coat and avoiding tripping fellow travelers with your suitcase confirms my belief that you should be in good shape to fly. The worst part was that after almost nine hours of being on the move when we finally arrived in Northern England all I wanted to do was put my feet up and have a stiff drink and instead I had to pull it together and concentrate more than I had all day, cause we left the airport and went directly to our client's offices. I felt like I was moving underwater. I hadn't been too out of it however to notice the new slogan for Northern England that met us as we came down the gate: Passionate People, Passionate Places. My colleague gave me an alarmed look as I let out a snort of laughter. My grandparents were from Northern England, my grandfather was a Yorkshireman through and through and while there are many lovely adjectives I could use to describe him and the people from the village where my mother grew up, passionate is not one of them. Kind with a dry sense of humor, yes. Passionate, no. It would be like getting off the plane in Italy and finding our new motto was Serene People, Serene Places.
We got a taxi and headed off for our meeting, and it was there that I realized why my company had asked me to go to. For one thing, due being rather tired himself, my colleague Enzo's english became extraordinarily contorted, so that I was translating in my head from Italian into English to understand what he was saying. And I noticed that 9 times out of 10 when anyone from the English company said anything they directed it at me. After three grueling hours though, we were done. We staggered out of there, got a cab and headed to the hotel where I found myself for the very first time in my life in a hotel room entirely for me. I felt like I should call someone and mark the grandness of the occasion but I decided I couldn't afford it and instead went to take a shower. The room was, if nothing else, delightfully warm, and I reveled in the carpeted floor, though in showing what an Italian I have become I wouldn't walk around on it barefooted and instead kept my slippers on the whole time.
Finding a place to eat proved challenging. Italians are the worst people in the world to go abroad with because the quality of the food always disappoints and disgusts them. On the flight earlier we had been given sandwiches which included mustard on one and mayo on the other and my colleague kept making faces like someone had thrown up on his shoes, and when I scarfed them down, commented on how all these foods with "sauces" weren't good for you. Yes, I agreed, eating mayo at every meal would cause long-term damage, but I didn't think one sandwich was going to do much harm. Plus this was coming from a man who insisted on smoking a cigarette before we could get into a taxi or go to a restaurant. When I suggested Indian for dinner I got the same vomit-on-shoes-look as before, but in the end we agreed on a Japanese restaurant that had been recommended to us. There Enzo was in for another shock. As we sat chowing down on our California rolls and bad white wine a group of about 20 young women, none older than 21, came in for a group meal. They were all in various stages of undress wearing shorts, halter tops, mini dresses, bare legs and stiletto sandals, apparently they would be hitting the clubs after eating. Enzo couldn't stop looking at them. Not because they were beautiful or sexy, but because he couldn't understand how they could walk around in February so scantily dressed and not get ill. Italian women dressed for a night out in winter will always be wearing tights and often a wool undershirt to protect themselves from the cold, it's a almost like a sign of character and good moral upbringing. I still remember how I got chastised when Giulio was a baby for letting him run around without an undershirt tucked in under his clothes in early September. What do these women wear when it gets hot? Enzo wondered. It didn't seem worth it to point out that there was little variation in the weather from summer to winter, if one waited in Northern England for the right weather to bust out with your mini-sundress, well, it almost wouldn't justify the price you paid when you bought it. As we walked back to the hotel after dinner we passed a woman in a t-shirt walking down the street. As Enzo started gaping yet again I couldn't help but add "Now you understand how England conquered half the world and built its Empire."
Back in the hotel, it was still strange to be alone, though it was an alone-ness that I relished for about 30 seconds before passing out into a sleep induced coma, not stirring until almost 9 hours later, the most I had slept in over week. I rolled over, opened my eyes, and thought, "Today I will see my kids again." The thought alone made me leap out of bed and start packing my meager suitcase. I said a brief prayer for decent connecting flight times, on-time departures, no fog in London or Milan, and a lack of traffic going to or from the various airports. I was woman on a mission: a mommy coming home to her babies. Move the heck out of my way.
What I wasn't expecting on Tuesday afternoon though was to be asked if I could be able to go to England the next morning because we had a problem and they needed us to go to the client in person to express our extreme availability and willingness to resolve the problem. They needed me to go to make sure that we were very clear about what was going on, and that our company and my colleague understood everything they were saying to us. So I'm not a translator exactly because my colleague does speak English, but a translator who is also apparently closely following and deeply involved in the project. Which I kind of am, at least when it comes to dealing with this client, just don't tell them that I also answer the phone. You can imagine Lorenzo's reaction when I called him. In the past seven years I have done little more than ask him if he could pick Giulio up from school, and now I was asking if he would be OK on his own for at least 36 hours with the kids. He initially panicked, but when I pointed out that he would be at work on Wednesday, Livia at school and Giulio at Giusys (with another fever!!) and by Thursday I would be home he relented. "Sure, go. Make sure they pay you a ton extra!"
So Wednesday morning found me traveling to the north of England with another colleague, luckily one who I work with a lot so there was no awkwardness and wondering what to say. Our trip was uneventful, and yet for me really strange. I could not remember the last time I had flown alone, well, actually, I can, it was when I flew to the US the summer I was pregnant with Giulio. It was so strange not to be sherpa-ed out with a bag, a diaper bag, three winter coats, a stroller and Giulio's backpack. I went to the bathroom on my own. There was no wiggling child on my lap who I had to keep amused while we sat on the runway, or frequently fed from beaten up cracker packs from my bag. When we boarded the first plane and they immediately announced that we would be waiting 40 minutes to take off my first thought was that we would miss our connecting flight and NOT how to keep my children from getting us thrown off the plane while we waited. I just sat and read my book. There were no awkward diaper changes in the confines of the airplane bathroom, no trying to eat from a try and not letting a baby spill my water, and no pained looks from my fellow passengers when I sat down next to them, in fact no one even knew that I had children. It was all so wonderful and yet I was missing my kids like crazy. In the airport cafe before our flight I saw a family with two small children the same age as mine, the eldest boy even had a hair cut like Giulio's and had the charming habit of exhaling "aahhhh" when he finished drinking a glass of water like they do on soft drink commercials to show that major thirst has been quenched, and which Giulio and Livia do as well. My heart flipped watching him and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying. Yes, I had been away from my children for under three hours and I already missed them.
Our trip was long and rather stressful, as I think most trips involving connecting flights are. The fear of the unknown delay keeps you stressed out and on your toes. Plus the sprint for your connecting flight, sweating under your wool coat and avoiding tripping fellow travelers with your suitcase confirms my belief that you should be in good shape to fly. The worst part was that after almost nine hours of being on the move when we finally arrived in Northern England all I wanted to do was put my feet up and have a stiff drink and instead I had to pull it together and concentrate more than I had all day, cause we left the airport and went directly to our client's offices. I felt like I was moving underwater. I hadn't been too out of it however to notice the new slogan for Northern England that met us as we came down the gate: Passionate People, Passionate Places. My colleague gave me an alarmed look as I let out a snort of laughter. My grandparents were from Northern England, my grandfather was a Yorkshireman through and through and while there are many lovely adjectives I could use to describe him and the people from the village where my mother grew up, passionate is not one of them. Kind with a dry sense of humor, yes. Passionate, no. It would be like getting off the plane in Italy and finding our new motto was Serene People, Serene Places.
We got a taxi and headed off for our meeting, and it was there that I realized why my company had asked me to go to. For one thing, due being rather tired himself, my colleague Enzo's english became extraordinarily contorted, so that I was translating in my head from Italian into English to understand what he was saying. And I noticed that 9 times out of 10 when anyone from the English company said anything they directed it at me. After three grueling hours though, we were done. We staggered out of there, got a cab and headed to the hotel where I found myself for the very first time in my life in a hotel room entirely for me. I felt like I should call someone and mark the grandness of the occasion but I decided I couldn't afford it and instead went to take a shower. The room was, if nothing else, delightfully warm, and I reveled in the carpeted floor, though in showing what an Italian I have become I wouldn't walk around on it barefooted and instead kept my slippers on the whole time.
Finding a place to eat proved challenging. Italians are the worst people in the world to go abroad with because the quality of the food always disappoints and disgusts them. On the flight earlier we had been given sandwiches which included mustard on one and mayo on the other and my colleague kept making faces like someone had thrown up on his shoes, and when I scarfed them down, commented on how all these foods with "sauces" weren't good for you. Yes, I agreed, eating mayo at every meal would cause long-term damage, but I didn't think one sandwich was going to do much harm. Plus this was coming from a man who insisted on smoking a cigarette before we could get into a taxi or go to a restaurant. When I suggested Indian for dinner I got the same vomit-on-shoes-look as before, but in the end we agreed on a Japanese restaurant that had been recommended to us. There Enzo was in for another shock. As we sat chowing down on our California rolls and bad white wine a group of about 20 young women, none older than 21, came in for a group meal. They were all in various stages of undress wearing shorts, halter tops, mini dresses, bare legs and stiletto sandals, apparently they would be hitting the clubs after eating. Enzo couldn't stop looking at them. Not because they were beautiful or sexy, but because he couldn't understand how they could walk around in February so scantily dressed and not get ill. Italian women dressed for a night out in winter will always be wearing tights and often a wool undershirt to protect themselves from the cold, it's a almost like a sign of character and good moral upbringing. I still remember how I got chastised when Giulio was a baby for letting him run around without an undershirt tucked in under his clothes in early September. What do these women wear when it gets hot? Enzo wondered. It didn't seem worth it to point out that there was little variation in the weather from summer to winter, if one waited in Northern England for the right weather to bust out with your mini-sundress, well, it almost wouldn't justify the price you paid when you bought it. As we walked back to the hotel after dinner we passed a woman in a t-shirt walking down the street. As Enzo started gaping yet again I couldn't help but add "Now you understand how England conquered half the world and built its Empire."
Back in the hotel, it was still strange to be alone, though it was an alone-ness that I relished for about 30 seconds before passing out into a sleep induced coma, not stirring until almost 9 hours later, the most I had slept in over week. I rolled over, opened my eyes, and thought, "Today I will see my kids again." The thought alone made me leap out of bed and start packing my meager suitcase. I said a brief prayer for decent connecting flight times, on-time departures, no fog in London or Milan, and a lack of traffic going to or from the various airports. I was woman on a mission: a mommy coming home to her babies. Move the heck out of my way.
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