Crystal Ball

The heat is coming back. We had a much needed week of rain, though not enough to deal with the drought that has been going on here since the winter. And I am still Giulio's donkey! Nice to know, something to cling to when he is 15 and no longer speaking to me in public. I had one of those days when I felt like I had a crystal ball that can see into the future for when Giulio is older. I taught fourth graders today, including the class at the school across the street from me. I like teaching there because I see the children and I wonder, what will Giulio be like? Will he be the kid with papers exploding from all corners of his desk, or will he be the one who sits quietly and gets his homework done on time? Will he be well-behaved or will he be the one that all the teachers tell each to "keep on eye on."? And most of all what kind of mother will I be? Along with the Mine Will Be Different sentiment that you had before you had kids, you also certainly had that I Will Be Different feeling about being a mother. Screaming at your kid because he got Nutella on the couch? Not you. Furious that he has now woken you four times in one night and will not go back to his own bed without a fight, are you kidding? Willing to take your child's side over the teachers? Never. I always swore that I would try and see things the teacher's way if it ever came time to having a parent-teacher conference, seeing as I teach children, I know that behind every Mother's Blue Eyed Innocent lurks the Wild Child beneath, the side that all mothers know exists but like to fool themselves into thinking that your child would have the decency to keep hidden when outside the house. It turns out that I Wasn't Different. I have yelled at Giulio, I have lost my temper in the small hours of the morning, and when Giulio's teacher told me that he was pushing kids at school I wanted to say "It's because you don't understand him!" I know the score though, I know Giulio is no picnic, though as I said before, I like to think that he saves his difficult side only for me. I am now 2 for 3, as in I take to heart what two of his teachers have to say about his behavior (which is improving) and ignore the third one as she is old and cranky and needs to retire. And how awful can any boy who tells his mother that she is his donkey be? ( you see? What did I tell you! I am as bad as them!)
But back to my fourth graders. On Sunday most of them are doing their First Holy Communion, so I was asking them what they had planned after the Mass. Part of this is for my own private research into how things are done here in Italy, so that when my children reach that age I know what to expect. Like how some women go to weddings to get ideas for their own, I pick small children's brains about the Italian Child Experience so I am ready and prepared for when the time comes. I have baptisms down pat, and as it turned out, it didn't take that much imagination to figure out what goes into the average child's First Holy Communion. They get new clothes to wear to the service, the girls go the hairdresser they day before to have their hair done in curls or blown out straight and to have it worked into complicated hairstyles. I am already worrying if I will be able to revive Livia's upsweep after she has slept on it a night when the time comes. And then after the Mass they all go to a restaurant for a large meal with friends and family and there are party favours to give out. Ok, fine, basically like a baptism except the guest of honor can now walk, talk, and feed himself. The thing that suprised me were the gifts. When I asked the children what they were getting as presents I expected standard answers, a watch maybe or a bracelet. A new track suit or maybe some CDs. Instead the children named portable video games, a motorized scooter, computers, MP3 players, new furniture for their bedrooms, and several at the end of these long lists also said money ranging from 800-1000 euros. Wait, what? When my kids were baptized we got some picture frames, some clothes, and a necklace. Either we are hanging out with the wrong people or things really get hyped up for the F.H.C. Though, if you are getting gifts like that now when you are 9 what are you gonna do when you get married? Anything less than a quarter of a million in cash will seem like people were being cheap. Who are these parents who a)have all this money to blow and b) don't see anything wrong with spending thousands of euros on gifts because you child has finally confessed to a priest and can take communion? So I want to say it right now, I Will Be Different! I will not be the mother buying Giulio a computer, and mini-motorcycle, and a cell phone just because it's the thing to do. I will not give out 81 (yes some kid said 81) party favours to all and sundry simply because my child is having the FHC.
I was still mulling over these Daddy Warbucks style communions when I went to get Giulio from school. A large sign hanging on the bulletin board notified all parents that due to a strike on Friday among the food service company that prepares and serves all school lunches, they would be unable to guarantee a hot lunch. Lunch would instead be of the brown bag variety. I have been hearing about this strike in all the schools where I work, the children were sent home days ago with a notice for their parents so they could plan ahead. All nursery school kids eat at school, but in the elementary school a lot of children go home for the lunch hour and come back at the end of recess. Their mothers meet them at the school door, whisk them home and bring them back within the hour well fortified. Vanda downstairs comes home for lunch whenever her mother is home to cook, though she had told me that the food at school is good. No one brings lunch from home, I don't know if it is forbidden or if the idea of eating a sandwich when there is pasta available is so preposterous to the Italian family that it is not even worth considering. I remember in high school when they would read out the school menu, sloppy joe on bun, tator tots, green beans, jello, and milk. I shudder to think. I always brought my lunch, even calling my dad to bring it if I had forgotten it, rather than face those sloppy joes. This is not a predicament that any Italian child is called upon to face. When I asked some of my students if they liked the food in the cafeteria one small boy told me, "It's so-so. There is something not quite right about the tomato sauce." Ah, if only it was a question of the tomato sauce in the average American cafeteria. It was with this in mind that I asked the school caretaker if I should send Giulio with a packed lunch from home, or would he get one there. "Don't worry," Pina, the caretaker told me."They get a brown bag lunch. Unfortunately it means they don't get a hot lunch." "Honestly," I said without a hint of irony. "I'm an American and things like that just don't bother me." Perhaps she thought I was kidding because she laughed. I imagine that even the Italian bag lunch wil be 100 times better than tator tots, green beans, and sloppy joes, even if it does not constitute a hot lunch.