Down and Out in Italy

Totally nasty weather here today--cold and pouring rain, Venice flooding and the Alps getting their first hit of snow. All we've had is rain, but with the Indian summer (though can you have Indian summer in Italy?) over, we used Lorenzo's day off to do the "cambio di stagione" the change of the seasons, taking our shorts and bathing suits down to our storage room and bringing up sweaters and coats in their place. I hate my winter clothes, it's all jeans and turtlenecks, some of which I have had for years, none of the cool, adult, sexy mom clothes that I wish I owned. It was also a jarring reminder of all the cute clothes that I see in the shop windows that I either can't afford or can't fit into, the standard size for women here being a size 4. When I mentioned to Lorenzo that I hated my clothes he tells me that he hates his too, which I found surprising, I've never heard a man say what is always seen as a women-only sentiment. I can't say I blame him; Lorenzo's wardrobe is heavy on wool sweaters.
The evening news was all depressing too. Besides monks being killed in Burma, and soldiers dying in Afghanistan there was the happy news about pensioners who don't have enough money each month to get by, and how families with 2 children just can't make it to the end of the month either. It also included this bizarre story about some destitute family near Herculanium in Naples who, because their home had collapsed back in May, had been living in the town's city hall for months. The report focused on how they took baths and where the son did his homework without the reporter ever explaining why their house collapsed or why the town agreed to have them living in these offices; quite nice of them if you ask me. Imagine going to City Hall to register the birth of your child and behind the city clerk processing your form sits a man watching tv and smoking. Or at least that is how I imagine it, the camera crew went when the office was officially closed. All of this worry and unhappiness has to do with the euro, inflation, how salaries stay the same while prices rise, and the mortgage crisis touched off in the US that seems to be wreaking havoc on the rest of the world. Imagining myself in 50 years, old and destitute, living on beans and day old bread Lorenzo and I lifted a glass of red wine to toast each other and knock it back to numb the pain, Lorenzo reminding me that at least our town's City Hall is a really nice building, if we are ever forced live there. Is there anything worse than a rainy day when you are feeling broke?
At 3:10 this afternoon I started my school run, going into the center to get Livia before coming back to our neighborhood to get Giulio from the nursery school down the road. Traffice was heavy, no one wanted their little dears to get wet in the downpour, though it really was wall-of-rain out there to be fair and it was almost an hour before we got back home, both kids happy, tired, and dirty from their long day at school/nido. Due to the ugly weather I was wearing an old pair of jeans and my college era North Face rain coat, though my children, after a summer of me shopping at Target, Gap, Value City, and Old Navy looking for deals, looked much nicer than I did. I always get mad compliments on whatever Livia is wearing, which is nice because it goes a long way to make up for the fact that she always looks adorable (though maybe that is because she is a baby) and I just look OK. A few weeks ago Judith Warner in the New York Times had this whole thing about the famous Yummy Mummy, most specificallly the French Yummy Mummy, based on an essay in last months French Vogue. These are women fashionably dressed, perfectly manicured and touseled, who always get their children into the right classes with the best teachers. Their homes are tastefully decorated and clean and they make sublime pastry in their spare time. I don't know about the pastry or the tasteful decoration (another post, another time), but the moms here sure do look cute taking little Francesco and Giulia to school. Forget the faded jeans and the "I don't do Mondays" t-shirts, here they wear little blouses with cute jackets, capri jeans with high heels, or elegant boots with dresses. They always accessorize nicely too, with enormous Chanel sunglasses and matching handbags. Even casual is more restrained than our idea of casual. Ironed jeans with a sexy sweater and beautiful leather loafers. They get their hair done once a week and wax regularly. They know to go early to sign their child up for swim classes to get the desired Saturday lessons, unlike me who forgot to sign Giulio up until about four days before lessons started and all that was left was the Monday slot.
These women are also helped by their mothers, something I envy more than anything. With two sets of grandparents on hand, all things are possible. Mothers can work full time without feeling guilty because she knows her mother will pick the kids up from school and take them to swim class. Preparing lunch is never a problem either, everyone just heads over to Grandma's house for a three course meal. This week I am helping a former student of mine translate pages of his website. Yesterday at lunch time we hopped in his car and drove the two blocks to his mom's house, where she had prepared pasta, steak, spinach, cake, fruit, and coffee. This was not done specially for me, he merely told her to prepare another 100 grams of pasta since I was coming too. In Italy there is no need for the government subisidized nanny that Judith Warner claims they have in France, all you need are grandma and grandpa and everything runs smoothly. I can't help but be jealous of these women who just don't seem to realize at times how lucky they are. They sigh over how stressful if all is, trying to manage it all, and I'm sure it is, but when was the last time they hailed someone down outside their house to come in and watch the kids until their husbands got home? The family unit, including aunts, uncles, and cousins is still fundamental in Italy, they are the people you turn to first. When you need to move and assemble a new bookshelf you don't call your best friend to help you, you call your Dad who comes over while your Mom keeps an eye on the kiddies.
Lorenzo and I, with our families far away have to be our moms/dads/aunts/uncles rolled into one. There is a scene in the Nick Hornby book "About a Boy" where the main character attends a Single parents group called S.P.A.T. or Single Parents Alone Together. Lorenzo and I are not single parents, but we are alone, together. I have helped carry various heavy pieces of furniture up the stairs and stood by to hand Lorenzo tools while he fixed the car or installed ceiling fans. He in turn vaccuums, prepares ragu sauce, and goes grocery shopping. This past spring when Giulio stayed over night in the hospital to get his adenoids taken out, we took turns standing in the waiting area with Livia in her stroller (she wasn't allowed into the ward) while the other sat with Giulio in his hospital bed. Sometimes I get so fed up with it being just us, though I know my parents would move here in a heartbeat if they could. I know they are here in spirit and on the phone cheering us on, and always making us feel like the 24 hours of hell that we endure to fly to Cincinnati was worth it once we see them at the airport so excited and happy to see us. But sometimes it would be nice to take off my load and spread it out a bit amongst other people. Like having someone else to do my ironing, or knowing that if Lorenzo wants to put new blinds up on the porch he won't be counting on me to hold the ladder and hand him things. But sometimes there is something exhilirating in our Us vs. Them mentality, the times Lorenzo and I have pulled off the impossible, licked the bureucracy, pulled off a perfect wedding, completed the seemingly endless list of things to do, got Livia into the right daycare, put a down payment down on a condo using our own savings. On Monday we managed to simultanously go grocery shopping and get the car fixed all in under 20 minutes. And it is moments like these we hug and we whisper in each other's ear: Insieme siamo troppo forte. Together we kick butt.