Now that Giulio is about to be four I thought it was time to move onto a new phase in his childhood: afterschool activities. Well, just one activity actually; swim class. I got the idea when I ran into the mother of Giulio's little friend Daria, who told me that Daria was taking lessons on Wednesday afternoons and she would just love it if Giulio could be in the same class as her. The classes were being held at the town's public pool, a place that any woman who has had a baby here or in the surrounding area knows because they also offer special swim classes for pregnant women. There is something wonderful about being in a changing room with a bunch of women all as pregnant and uncomfortable as you are, everyone's body being hijacked by this little demanding foetus. Friendships are born, confindences are exchanged. But later after everyone has had their baby it is more than likely that you will pass one of these women on the street and not even recognize them, no longer do they have a big belly, swollen ankles, nor are they wearing a swim cap. But I digress. Let me just say that after six years and two children, I knew the town pool quite well. It is a beautiful, 7 lane olympic length tiled pool, with spectator stands on one wall, and two walls of floor to ceiling glass on the other. You don't feel like you are swimming down in the basement, shut out from all light as you swim back and forth, instead with the sun reflecting off the water and illuminating your legs and making them look white and fleshy, you feel almost as though you are outside. There is also a smaller, shallow baby pool, which in my expecting mom swim class we used for relaxation exercises that I completely forgot once I went into labour.
Along with its beautiful pool and well stocked upstairs cafe' the pool is famous for something else: its' lines on enrollment day. Apparently twice a year they open the various courses, not just swim class but also something called aqua gym which is hugely popular with women. There are also swim classes for the elderly, swim team, and private lessons. On the day they do enrollment the lines are legendary. Apparently you go, get a number, and wait. It's the aqua gym wait that gets really brutal. They only offer it twice a week so people go early to be sure to get a number that guarantees them a space, arguments have been known to break out, though I have never been there to witnessed them. Its similar, maybe not quite as heated for spots on the Saturday children's swim classes, for obvious reasons. This way your child can go swimming without having to worry about school, homework, staying late at the office, or other afterschool activities getting in the way, and it is also when parents have the most free time. Fridays are also popular, no school the next day, at least for the preschool-elementary school kids. By the time I saw Daria's mother and booked it over there to sign Giulio up Enrollment day sign-up had been ages ago, classes started the following monday, leaving very little open. Daria's class was all full, as were all the Friday classes. The women in charge of signing people up merely gave an evil laugh when I asked about Saturdays. Thursday? Two spots left at 5 o'clock. Tuesday? Full. Monday? There was one spot left for the Monday 4:30 beginners class. I did some mental calculations. The class lasted half an hour. The time it would take to get Giulio showered, changed and back at home would put me at about 5:30, which would give me time if I had to be at work at 6.
"I'll take Monday at 4:30."
There were nine lessons in a package, which would mean the course would finish in mid-november. However now that Giulio was signed up it would give him priority over any new child signing up for the first time in November, so that if a spot opened in Daria's class, then Giulio could possibly be moved.
That was three weeks ago, and the good new is that Giulio LOVES swim class. He has this tall, bronzed goddess of a swim teacher who has them play games that involve splashing and jumping into the water one at at a time. Right now the focus is just on getting the kids comfortable with being in the water, and not on breathing or doing any kind of strokes. The mothers can watch the lessons from the lobby where one wall has windows that overlook the pool and from here I can see Giulio following the teachers instructions, playing games, and generally having fun. It would be perfectly pleasant if it was just me and Giulio, but unfortunately I have Livia with me as well, and that makes everything much more difficult. To start with Livia is walking now, a kind of staggering walk, that still gives way to crawling. She is still experimenting, while crawling is her preferred method of getting about.
On this past Monday we mange to get there early and in the locker room I have no choice but to kind of prop her up against a bench while I help Giulio change into his swimsuit, swim cap, and sandals. Then I have to change into flip-flops because you are not allowed past a certain point in the locker room wearing regular shoes. The cleaning lady who is always lurking around, sighing because someone just walked over her newly washed floor, will ream you out if she sees you headed towards the pool wearing "outside" shoes. So you have women elegantly dressed with their gold jewelry and their Armani Jeans rolled up wearing either some kind of water shoes or these blue plastic bag type things for shoes that they have in hospitals for people to wear when they go into a sterile environment. The first two weeks it was hot so I was wearing sandles and it only took a second for me to slip them off and put my flip flops on. On Monday it had gotten a bit cooler and so I was wearing sneakers which I had to take off, hurling them into the locker along with Giulio's stuff, all the while trying to keep Livia from crawling underneath a changing booth. We just use the general, open changing room when we get dressed. I take Giulio down the long hallway towards the pool, walk gingerly through the shower stall that we have to pass through to get to the pool, though luckily the shower is off, over to the bench next to the baby pool. We are early, way early, 10 minutes by my watch, and fifteen judging from the official pool clock mounted on the wall. Giulio is fine waiting on the bench, watching the other children trickle in through the shower stall, it is Livia who wants to move, making determinedly towards the baby pool which is not more than 3 feet away. I reach over and snatch her up and try to get her interested in the direction of the windows, but it doesn't fly with her. I then try and just hold her but she squirms and squawks until I put her down again. I feel myself starting to sweat and no wonder the temperature in here, according to the official thermometer is 84 degrees and the sun is pouring in from the windows directly onto us. Fine if you are wearing a swim suit, not fine if you are wearing jeans and a long sleeved shirt. After what feels like an infinity of struggling with Livia and telling Giulio to get back from the pool's edge, the goddess swim teacher shows up so I can leave. Livia and I go back through the locker room where I change into my sneakers and head out to the lobby to wait. As the lesson is only half an hour it should pass in no time but I'm with Livia in her tired-yet not ready to give up the fight-time of day. Which means she either wants to walk or crawl. She will tolerate being held, but only if I am standing up while I do it. I try and watch Giulio through the glass while at the same time keep an eye on Livia and her staggering. Now she is down on the floor which for some reason seems littered with hair. No,no, no, I bend down and pick her up, trying to interest her in the swimmers on the other side of the glass. Livia will have none of this, she wants to walk so down we go again, step, step, step, step, steeeeeeeep, fall, and she's down, and I'm bending over and picking her up and trying to distract her and she wants down and so......and so it goes on for the what seems like an almost endless half hour. By the time I head back to the locker room to meet Giulio as he comes out of the pool I am tired, and hot too as the locker room is like ten degrees warmer than the lobby. But now the hardest part is about to come, the showering and dressing. Not hard because Giulio won't cooperate, hard because you are fighting 20 other mothers for showers and space as you try and get your child ready. Giulio comes through beaming about his lesson, telling me he went under the water and as much as I would like to find out more we get in the shower room and find all the showers are taken by small children in various stages of bathing suit undress standing under the shower heads while their mothers shout instructions at them. Or in some cases shout and then go ahead and do the washing themselves. I wait, holding Livia with one arm, the towel and plastic bag with the shampoo and soap in the other, while some mother helps her pubescent daughter wash her hair. I roll my eyes in disgust, is this how they do it at home too? Finally they finish and I get Giulio under the shower, and as I am holding Livia I have to shout instructions and gesture as Giulio is not used to washing his own hair.
"Ok Giulio, put on the shampoo. Now rub! No, don't rinse! Rub! Rub Giulio! Rub! That's it..keep going! A little more! Ok rinse." Here I have to stick a hand in the shower and help him get all the shampoo out of his hair.
"Ok, now this is for your body. Rub it on your belly! Your belly, Giulio, your belly! Now your arms! No, don't rinse yet! And your legs! Good! OK, rinse now!"
It is not the most thorough cleansing, but he has been swimming, not playing in mud, so he comes out of the shower dripping wet, and I try and wrap him one handed in the towel, but can't do it right and suddenly half of the towel is dragging on the floor. We move onto the next stage of mayhem, the locker rooms where the benches and hooks are covered in bags and shoes and clothes. Some mothers ignore the signs telling you to keep everything put away in the lockers and instead keep everything out to guarantee themselves a place on the bench. We fight our way in and I put Livia on the floor where she is immediately drawn to the drain and I decide I won't think about it, and instead focus on getting Giulio dressed. He is still quite damp, but at that moment, with the heat, and the noise and Livia on the floor, and the fact that I am sweating, I don't bother to dry him anymore but just start tugging his clothes on. Why do clothes always take longer to put on when you are in a hurry? And especially when you are in a wet hurry? Ignoring the looks from the mother next to me, I have taken HER spot, I get Giulio into his clothes and start stuffing his feet into his shoes. This is no time to work on getting dressed by himself. I see Livia start to head out the door back towards the showers and bellow at Giulio to stop her. They both sit together on the locker room floor giggling. With my hair in my eyes and sticking to my nose I frantically tie my shoes and start stuffing things into the bag. I don't bother to seperate wet from dry, or to wrap up Giulio's suit in the towel. Nor do I dry his hair. It's short, he will be fine.
"Come on, let's go, let's go!' I call and hauling Livia on one arm and the swim bag on the other I make towards the exit with Giulio wailing behind me that he wants to carry his bag. We get out to the car and after getting everyone buckled in I flop into the front seat with a deep sigh. I'm exhausted, how is this going to work when I actually have to go to work immediately afterwards? Giulio however is happy, it seems that the swimming lessons are a big hit.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Baby Hold On
I blame my lateness for posting on mental and physical exhaustion. Yes, the white flag has flown and I admit defeat, my children have kicked my butt. As I write this Livia is happily flinging our DVDs from their cabinet and onto the floor. Far from being the coveted "Yummy Mummy" I am officially Grouchy Mommy, Constantly Saying NO Mommy, Screaming Mommy, In Therapy for the Rest of the Their Adult Lives Mommy. Ok, well maybe not that. But being on my own with the kids since getting back to Italy has been HARD, compounded by the fact that Lorenzo is working hard at the office and the children have been home working hard on me every day. Last Saturday Livia woke up in bad mood and proceeded to yell/scream/express displeasure for much of the morning, mostly over the fact that I strapped her into her high chair while I cleaned the house. Around the time I was trying to spoon lunch into her I broke down, and called my mother, not giving a damn that it was 6am in the states and sobbed my frustration and exhaustion to her over the phone. She assured me that it was normal to feel like a mental breakdown was in order after four and half hours of wailing toddler. There are times when I see myself from an outside perspective thinking, this is not the mom I wanted to be. Giulio grates on my nerves as well, with his constant "why?" whenever he is asked to do anything. Last night we went out to a pizzeria for dinner and when dinner wasn't immediately forthcoming Giulio did his new way of expressing discontent: breath coming out in short puffs, bouncing up and down at the knees, arms held up towards me, a kind of "Mommy, want hug! " wail coming from his mouth. Lorenzo couldn't understand my impatience with this dance until I asked him how much he had seen Giulio awake in the last week and a half. He offered up a sad smile and was silent.
Relief is on the way though, Giulio started school on Monday doing half days all week before he starts full time next week. And this year he really seems to like school, the teacher is young and pretty and looks just how you think a nice nursery school teacher should look. Best of all the school is just around the corner, about a five minute walk from our house. Hello Bicycle, good bye car! But his time out the house was largely un-noticed because while he was at school I was helping Livia complete her day care placement period. Yes, we have switched day cares, Livia will now be going to the city run public daycare where Giulio went. She even has the same two teachers that he had, Rossella and Daniela. The word for daycare in Italian is nido, which means nest, a really great word to describe what you hope your child will see as a protected place, a kind of sanctuary, and they really go out of their way to make the child feel safe and comfortable there. Livia started her placement two weeks ago, and for the first week I wasn't allowed to leave the room where she was, not even to run to the bathroom. The point is at first to just get the child comfortable with the surroundings. Around Thursday she started having lunch, which I fed her the first time. It wasn't until this past Tueday (they never try anything new on a Monday after the kid has been home for two days with Mommy and Daddy) that I was allowed to leave the room for an hour while she played and then had lunch. I spent the last half of the week in the Parent's room, with a book, waiting for the occasional update as Livia went through her daily routine in the room across the hall. The first time she stayed for nap, I had to lie down with her which she seemed to find to be one big joke and proceeded to crawl all over me. On Wednesday and Thursday she went to sleep on her own. On Friday came the final challenge, if she could do her whole day, including nap and the snack that followed without me. She passed with flying colors. Actually home now must seem so boring to her after that place where everything is arranged for a small child. There is nothing she can't touch or play with or climb on. And she has gotten very attached to Rossella, just as Giulio was, which is just as well, as she will be with Rossella and Daniela for the whole two years (though for children who start when they are younger it is three years) that she is there. So no, I don't feel guilty or bad at all about leaving Livia there, with people who, compared to me as of late, are calm and aren't trying to prepare meals, do loads of laundry, or put away groceries while trying to take care of chidren.
There are two public day cares in our town, which means about 70 spots in total, and I still don't know how we managed to get in. Seeing as they are run by the town, they assemble a group of chidren that cover the whole socio-economic graph. There is a sliding pay scale, and they take a certain number of people from each braket so in the end you have a complete democratic mix of people, a doctor's child who is paying the full fee in the same class as an unemployed single mom's kid, who isn't paying anything. Much more democratic than anything I ever found in the States, including the concept that poor people should have access to top-notch childcare because they are probably the ones who need it the most. It is kind of interesting who you rub shoulders with, but that is how I have found Giulio's preschool to be as well, rich people have no problem sending their kids to the free public pre-school to be alongside their cleaner's children. Thanks to Lorenzo's policeman's salery and my 9 months out of the year job, we are paying the same amount for Livia to go full time that we were paying for her to go part-time at her old nido.
Yes, I'll admit it, there are times I think about leaving Italy. Not alone of course. I think about loading Lorenzo and the kids into the Boeing 767 and heading off to live in Cincinnati in my parent's basement until I can get a Master's degree and a good paying job. And Lorenzo can become the stay-at-home-dad that he is meant to be. But then I think about the nido and, to quote "The Sound of Music", then I don't feel so bad. And thinking that as of Monday I will have both kids being pleasantly occupied, fed, and tired out by other people from 9-3:30, well, I feel even better.
Relief is on the way though, Giulio started school on Monday doing half days all week before he starts full time next week. And this year he really seems to like school, the teacher is young and pretty and looks just how you think a nice nursery school teacher should look. Best of all the school is just around the corner, about a five minute walk from our house. Hello Bicycle, good bye car! But his time out the house was largely un-noticed because while he was at school I was helping Livia complete her day care placement period. Yes, we have switched day cares, Livia will now be going to the city run public daycare where Giulio went. She even has the same two teachers that he had, Rossella and Daniela. The word for daycare in Italian is nido, which means nest, a really great word to describe what you hope your child will see as a protected place, a kind of sanctuary, and they really go out of their way to make the child feel safe and comfortable there. Livia started her placement two weeks ago, and for the first week I wasn't allowed to leave the room where she was, not even to run to the bathroom. The point is at first to just get the child comfortable with the surroundings. Around Thursday she started having lunch, which I fed her the first time. It wasn't until this past Tueday (they never try anything new on a Monday after the kid has been home for two days with Mommy and Daddy) that I was allowed to leave the room for an hour while she played and then had lunch. I spent the last half of the week in the Parent's room, with a book, waiting for the occasional update as Livia went through her daily routine in the room across the hall. The first time she stayed for nap, I had to lie down with her which she seemed to find to be one big joke and proceeded to crawl all over me. On Wednesday and Thursday she went to sleep on her own. On Friday came the final challenge, if she could do her whole day, including nap and the snack that followed without me. She passed with flying colors. Actually home now must seem so boring to her after that place where everything is arranged for a small child. There is nothing she can't touch or play with or climb on. And she has gotten very attached to Rossella, just as Giulio was, which is just as well, as she will be with Rossella and Daniela for the whole two years (though for children who start when they are younger it is three years) that she is there. So no, I don't feel guilty or bad at all about leaving Livia there, with people who, compared to me as of late, are calm and aren't trying to prepare meals, do loads of laundry, or put away groceries while trying to take care of chidren.
There are two public day cares in our town, which means about 70 spots in total, and I still don't know how we managed to get in. Seeing as they are run by the town, they assemble a group of chidren that cover the whole socio-economic graph. There is a sliding pay scale, and they take a certain number of people from each braket so in the end you have a complete democratic mix of people, a doctor's child who is paying the full fee in the same class as an unemployed single mom's kid, who isn't paying anything. Much more democratic than anything I ever found in the States, including the concept that poor people should have access to top-notch childcare because they are probably the ones who need it the most. It is kind of interesting who you rub shoulders with, but that is how I have found Giulio's preschool to be as well, rich people have no problem sending their kids to the free public pre-school to be alongside their cleaner's children. Thanks to Lorenzo's policeman's salery and my 9 months out of the year job, we are paying the same amount for Livia to go full time that we were paying for her to go part-time at her old nido.
Yes, I'll admit it, there are times I think about leaving Italy. Not alone of course. I think about loading Lorenzo and the kids into the Boeing 767 and heading off to live in Cincinnati in my parent's basement until I can get a Master's degree and a good paying job. And Lorenzo can become the stay-at-home-dad that he is meant to be. But then I think about the nido and, to quote "The Sound of Music", then I don't feel so bad. And thinking that as of Monday I will have both kids being pleasantly occupied, fed, and tired out by other people from 9-3:30, well, I feel even better.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
The Letter
I'm starting to get back on track here, we are alll sleeping at normal times now, even Livia. Now when I start singing "Baby Mine" she puts her head on my shoulder for a moment and pats my back, then sort of straightens up, looks at me as if to say, "You are still singing?" and then tries to free herself from my arms to drop into bed. And this is when I've barely sung the first verse! Guess my singing is worse than I thought, though Giulio likes me to sing the whole song anyway. I've also started running again, eager not to let go of the endurance I worked so hard at pounding the hot streets of downtown Cincinnati with my brother, and after the heat of the mid-west the cool air here makes running feel really easy. Something has changed since I first came to live here. Six years ago when I would try and go running around town I would get these cool looks from people like, "Whatever you are doing, please don't do it around me." I would occasionally see the odd dedicated, weathered male jogger about but otherwise I felt so conspicuous, like I was doing The Wave at a funeral that I joined a gym so I could do my running in peace, free to sweat as much as I liked. The memory of these stares has kept me off the streets and in the gyms for over six years now, rarely, if ever venturing out into the open air to pound the pavement, but in the meantime suddenly lots of people, at least in Northern Italy, have taken up running. And not just men either, women too, young, old, middle aged. Yesterday was a gorgeous day, the sky swept clean by the strong breeze which shows off the Alps to its' best and clearest advantage, and running down country roads with meadows and cornfields all around me and the sun warming my back was, well, let's just say, Cincinnati it was not. Maybe it was the good weather but I couldn't get over the scores of people I saw out running, including people running in packs. I felt like something out of The Wizard of OZ, Glinda the Good Witch waving her wand and telling us joggers to "come out come out wherever [we] are..."
Terry, my downstairs neighbor, has her sister Marta, Marta's two children, and Marta's dog staying with them for the week. It also turned out to be a blessing for me to have them because each morning this week and next Livia is doing "orientation" at her new day care center. As this daycare will have to be a topic of its' own posting I will leave it for now, but in any case I couldn't take Giulio with me so he's been staying downstairs with Eugenio and Marta and all the kids until I get home around 12. Giulio doesn't start school til Monday, but as he loves Terry's daughter Vanda, he's really enjoyed playing with her and her cousin Federica in our yard each day, and so when Marta asked me if I would be able to help Federica with her English summer assignment I quickly agreed.
This was not the first time I have been asked to help with homework. Occasionally, late in the evening there will be a quiet knocking on our door and Vanda or Stefano will be standing there clutching an English textbook and smiling sheepishly, needing help on a homework exercise. Once my neighbor across the street asked me if I would mind translating her niece's account of her class trip to Rome. Apparently she was expected to tell all about it in her 8th grade English class and just didn't feel up to the task. While I did suggest that if this niece didn't feel up to it then she probably often didn't "feel up to it" when she was in class and therefore the teacher would certainly know when the girl who had probably never used the past simple test correctly in her life suddenly presented this gramatically correct essay using all kinds of tenses, including ones she had never even been taught. Not to worry, my nieghbor said, showing me a neatly handwritten report, the niece would just be so relieved if I could do it! In the end I agreed to do it, though not because I think it is OK for an adult to do a child's homework for them, but because, as many of you are painfully aware, I never know when a babysitting emergency might strike and it might be good to have a favour owing from this woman. Ten days later she rang my bell and over the intercom told me that the niece got an "Ottimo" on her homework. Good to know that college education was good for something!
Federica's summer assignment was similar, the topic of so many back-to-school essays the world over, What I Did On My Summer Vacation. I was pretty sure I knew what to expect from Federica; a dull, straight forward account of her summer, most of it centered on her two weeks down in Calabria at her grandmothers. I told Federica just to write the letter like she was writing to someone in Italian and not to worry about translating it, we would do that together. The children and I were invited to lunch at Terry's house today, and as we were cleaning up the remains of the lasagna it came out that Federica still hadn't written the letter much to her mother's despair. "At this point," she said to Terry, "I will just let her get the bad grade at school and let her deal with the consequences." Terry snorted. "Is that what you want?" she asked her niece, "Nice way to start off the school year. Haven't even done your homework for the first day. You don't have to tell the truth, you know. Make something up, keep the teacher interested. Say you went all over Italy, seeing the amazing landmarks of each region. That way your teacher will know that you know something about history and geography too." In the end, with Terry wrangling the girls it was decided that at 2:30 Vanda and Federica would come upstairs to me, Vanda would keep Giulio entertained and I would help Federica with her letter.
At home I got Livia down for her nap, put a DVD on for Giulio, and went to work attacking my week's ironing, including one of Lorenzo's uniforms. (Do policemen's wives in the US have to iron their husbands' uniforms or do they have a laundry service?) At precisely 2:30 there was the timid knock announcing the girls' arrival. I should mention a little about Federica, she is two years older than Vanda, so she will be going into the eight grade this year and she seems like a nice enough girl, a little on the heavy side, polite, nice to Giulio, doesn't talk back to her mother, but very quiet around me.
"You got your letter?" I asked.
"My Aunt Terry wrote it."
An act of love? Or an aunt not knowing her boundries? I still can't decide but Terry's love/inability to respect limits filled two pages, single spaced. The letter started out Dear Chiara, and went on to tell a lively (fictional) account of Federica's fun filled 24 hours in Rome, complete with a tour of the Coloseum, breakfast in a "typical and characteristic Roman bar", a shopping spree in the Porta Portese market, and dinner at "quaint and delicious trattoria." Great attention was paid to what was eaten at meals, Pasta all'Amatriciana and a typical Roman dish involving fish at the trattoria, a cornetto and a frothy capuccino at the bar. Then it was back in the car and onto Calabria where they drove through the night, arriving in time to find that Grandma had lunch all ready. (Tagliatelle with tomatoes and peas, oven roasted potatoes, and fresh mozzarella.) Days passed on the beach taking cool, refreshing swims, and evenings spent at the outdoor candy stands that sold cotton candy before walking around with girlfriends through the town, engaged in wonderful conversations, until Mamma, sometimes passed midnight, called her home to bed. The letter closes with "Federica" saying she could fill a whole book with all the interesting things she had done that summer, but unfortunately dinner was on the table and getting cold so she had to sign off here. While Federica did spend two weeks at her Grandmother's, one would have been hard pressed to get even the barest details of her vacation out of her, and there was something remarkably touching about this hearty, epic letter complete with its detailed accounts of meals, as though it was the vacation Terry wished her niece had actually had, rather than the quiet, hum-drum one that had passed in its place. And now I was going to have to translate it.
My plan had been to see how much Federica could say on her own, and then help her shape that into complete sentences, but it turned out, in part because of the wordy text, that there was little if nothing that she could get out herself. When I help Vanda she always manages to come up with some possibilty of the answer, heading in the right direction if not immediately completely correct. Federica chocked on the first word and never recovered, though maybe she never had it in the first place, starting the opening sentence with "This summer..." and writing "this" as "dis." With my eye on the clock and an actual paying student coming within an hour, our little translation exercise quickly became a dictation exercise, a long tedious one at that. Part of the problem was that Federica had great difficulty spelling in English, perhaps nerves, or being unfamiliar with my pronounciation, or just not really knowing what I was trying to say, but whatever the case "and" kept showing up as "end", "at" as "et", "the" as "de". Due to the length of the letter and the waning time I found myself writing whole sentences myself without explaining what I was writing, and as she didn't seem very interested or bothered to know why something was written the way it was, I kept on doing it. When we ended with Love, Federica I reminded her again that "and" always starts with an "a", she nodded, took the letter, said thank you, and fled. The letter, written by her aunt, translated into English by her Aunt's neighbor and without a trace of the Real Federica will fool no one, but at least she did her homework for the first day. I'm hoping for another "Ottimo."
Terry, my downstairs neighbor, has her sister Marta, Marta's two children, and Marta's dog staying with them for the week. It also turned out to be a blessing for me to have them because each morning this week and next Livia is doing "orientation" at her new day care center. As this daycare will have to be a topic of its' own posting I will leave it for now, but in any case I couldn't take Giulio with me so he's been staying downstairs with Eugenio and Marta and all the kids until I get home around 12. Giulio doesn't start school til Monday, but as he loves Terry's daughter Vanda, he's really enjoyed playing with her and her cousin Federica in our yard each day, and so when Marta asked me if I would be able to help Federica with her English summer assignment I quickly agreed.
This was not the first time I have been asked to help with homework. Occasionally, late in the evening there will be a quiet knocking on our door and Vanda or Stefano will be standing there clutching an English textbook and smiling sheepishly, needing help on a homework exercise. Once my neighbor across the street asked me if I would mind translating her niece's account of her class trip to Rome. Apparently she was expected to tell all about it in her 8th grade English class and just didn't feel up to the task. While I did suggest that if this niece didn't feel up to it then she probably often didn't "feel up to it" when she was in class and therefore the teacher would certainly know when the girl who had probably never used the past simple test correctly in her life suddenly presented this gramatically correct essay using all kinds of tenses, including ones she had never even been taught. Not to worry, my nieghbor said, showing me a neatly handwritten report, the niece would just be so relieved if I could do it! In the end I agreed to do it, though not because I think it is OK for an adult to do a child's homework for them, but because, as many of you are painfully aware, I never know when a babysitting emergency might strike and it might be good to have a favour owing from this woman. Ten days later she rang my bell and over the intercom told me that the niece got an "Ottimo" on her homework. Good to know that college education was good for something!
Federica's summer assignment was similar, the topic of so many back-to-school essays the world over, What I Did On My Summer Vacation. I was pretty sure I knew what to expect from Federica; a dull, straight forward account of her summer, most of it centered on her two weeks down in Calabria at her grandmothers. I told Federica just to write the letter like she was writing to someone in Italian and not to worry about translating it, we would do that together. The children and I were invited to lunch at Terry's house today, and as we were cleaning up the remains of the lasagna it came out that Federica still hadn't written the letter much to her mother's despair. "At this point," she said to Terry, "I will just let her get the bad grade at school and let her deal with the consequences." Terry snorted. "Is that what you want?" she asked her niece, "Nice way to start off the school year. Haven't even done your homework for the first day. You don't have to tell the truth, you know. Make something up, keep the teacher interested. Say you went all over Italy, seeing the amazing landmarks of each region. That way your teacher will know that you know something about history and geography too." In the end, with Terry wrangling the girls it was decided that at 2:30 Vanda and Federica would come upstairs to me, Vanda would keep Giulio entertained and I would help Federica with her letter.
At home I got Livia down for her nap, put a DVD on for Giulio, and went to work attacking my week's ironing, including one of Lorenzo's uniforms. (Do policemen's wives in the US have to iron their husbands' uniforms or do they have a laundry service?) At precisely 2:30 there was the timid knock announcing the girls' arrival. I should mention a little about Federica, she is two years older than Vanda, so she will be going into the eight grade this year and she seems like a nice enough girl, a little on the heavy side, polite, nice to Giulio, doesn't talk back to her mother, but very quiet around me.
"You got your letter?" I asked.
"My Aunt Terry wrote it."
An act of love? Or an aunt not knowing her boundries? I still can't decide but Terry's love/inability to respect limits filled two pages, single spaced. The letter started out Dear Chiara, and went on to tell a lively (fictional) account of Federica's fun filled 24 hours in Rome, complete with a tour of the Coloseum, breakfast in a "typical and characteristic Roman bar", a shopping spree in the Porta Portese market, and dinner at "quaint and delicious trattoria." Great attention was paid to what was eaten at meals, Pasta all'Amatriciana and a typical Roman dish involving fish at the trattoria, a cornetto and a frothy capuccino at the bar. Then it was back in the car and onto Calabria where they drove through the night, arriving in time to find that Grandma had lunch all ready. (Tagliatelle with tomatoes and peas, oven roasted potatoes, and fresh mozzarella.) Days passed on the beach taking cool, refreshing swims, and evenings spent at the outdoor candy stands that sold cotton candy before walking around with girlfriends through the town, engaged in wonderful conversations, until Mamma, sometimes passed midnight, called her home to bed. The letter closes with "Federica" saying she could fill a whole book with all the interesting things she had done that summer, but unfortunately dinner was on the table and getting cold so she had to sign off here. While Federica did spend two weeks at her Grandmother's, one would have been hard pressed to get even the barest details of her vacation out of her, and there was something remarkably touching about this hearty, epic letter complete with its detailed accounts of meals, as though it was the vacation Terry wished her niece had actually had, rather than the quiet, hum-drum one that had passed in its place. And now I was going to have to translate it.
My plan had been to see how much Federica could say on her own, and then help her shape that into complete sentences, but it turned out, in part because of the wordy text, that there was little if nothing that she could get out herself. When I help Vanda she always manages to come up with some possibilty of the answer, heading in the right direction if not immediately completely correct. Federica chocked on the first word and never recovered, though maybe she never had it in the first place, starting the opening sentence with "This summer..." and writing "this" as "dis." With my eye on the clock and an actual paying student coming within an hour, our little translation exercise quickly became a dictation exercise, a long tedious one at that. Part of the problem was that Federica had great difficulty spelling in English, perhaps nerves, or being unfamiliar with my pronounciation, or just not really knowing what I was trying to say, but whatever the case "and" kept showing up as "end", "at" as "et", "the" as "de". Due to the length of the letter and the waning time I found myself writing whole sentences myself without explaining what I was writing, and as she didn't seem very interested or bothered to know why something was written the way it was, I kept on doing it. When we ended with Love, Federica I reminded her again that "and" always starts with an "a", she nodded, took the letter, said thank you, and fled. The letter, written by her aunt, translated into English by her Aunt's neighbor and without a trace of the Real Federica will fool no one, but at least she did her homework for the first day. I'm hoping for another "Ottimo."
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Landing
It's now 9:25 and after two hours of false starts the kids seem to have finally fallen asleep. We have been back in Italy since Monday afternoon and I had hoped that rising at 8 and having no nap to speak of during the day would be incentive enough to make Livia fall asleep immediately. And in fact, initially that was the case, I read the kids their story, gave kisses all around and both of them rolled over and went to sleep. For five blissful minutes I sit on the couch, reading my old copy of "Anne of Green Gables" brought back from the States and enjoy the silence. The the doorbell rings, it's Lorenzo bearing pizza. Giulio comes running out of his bedroom like a shot yelling "Daddy! Daddy!" and Livia starts sceaming like she just got smacked. In the end I have no choice but to let the kids hang around and say hello to Daddy, Livia's face breaking out in a huge smile at the sight of her papa' even though there are still tears on her face. I feel like Hillary Clinton on the campaign trail whenever her husband shows up. All the savvy and know-how gone and forgotten as people crawl over each other trying to shake Bill's hand. I was the one who get the night lights right, took away the "scary" pillow, gave my best rendition of "Baby Mine", and all for me only to have to do it all over again in a moment. If he wasn't bearing dinner I would be more hostile, but as my pizza marinara (with just a little tomato sauce) smells pretty awesome I decide to let it slide. The kids are coaxed back to bed, but then, within minutes Giulio is up again, padding down the hall to talk about how his bed seems scary and setting Livia off again too. Another rendition of "Baby Mine", another discussion about how Giulio's light blue IKEA bed spread with a bubble pattern is the happiest, non-scariest thing around, and how I wish I had one just like it before they are out again. Or so I think. I hear the pitter-patter of little feet, groaning inwardly wait for Giulio to stick his little head round the doorway. "Mommy? My toys are scary." Livia yells out again from the next room. Sigh.
In all due respect they are doing rather well, coming all this way, re-adjusting to being back home. Livia obviously doesn't remember much about the apartment, though she does remember her Daddy. And Giulio? He's the happiest I have seen him in ages, agreeable, co-operative for the most part, and loving being re-united with Thomas the Tank Engine. It also reminds me that this, here, Italy, is their home, and that my home, Cincinnati, is not. They like the States, like the pools, the museum, and the zoo, love the grandparents and the Oreos, but here in Italy is where they belong. For me it always takes a bit of adjustment, though this time I only cried once and that was after unpacking four suitcases and rotating the children's winter/summer wardrobes on only three hours sleep. While sweating profusely. Maybe I was just missing the air conditioning.
The flight over went suprisingly well. Cincinnati-New York had its' usual awfulness, Giulio whining and squirming in his seat, Livia not quite standing but refusing to sit on my lap and squawking, me not daring to look at the teenager at the window seat on the other side of Giulio for fear of what he might say, and then a miracle: both kids fall asleep about half an hour before landing in New York. Peace. I listen to the flight attendant seated in the kitchen space behind me complain about last week when she was called back to do another flight when they were already technically on lay-over when the call came through, and stare down at Livia asleep against my chest, her mouth open.
At JFK we book it over to the gate from where our plane to Milan will leave, even though we have over an hour and a half, I'm hoping to nab the bulkhead before someone else does. The place is swarming with Italians, most wearing newly purchased sweatshirts or sneakers. It seems that they have put the Milan gate and the Rome gate right next to each other, though the change in accents you hear just by moving five feet to the left or right is startling. The gate desk is empty so I walk up to a guy wearing a tie standing by the walkway entrance and ask about who I need to speak to about the possibility of getting the bulkhead seats, especially the ones with the little crib that latches onto the wall for the baby. For once in my life I have asked the right question to the right guy, the guy with the authority and computer codes to unlock these seats and within moments he has handed over new boarding passes and sent me on my way. I cannot believe my luck, and try to walk away while still kow towing before him on both knees.
I go stand over in one corner of the waiting area and take in the view of largely young, corporate Italy with disposable incomes waiting to fly back to Milan. I know these people, I mean, I don't really know them, but I teach people just like them back at home. People who are in life long engagements with their partners, yet still live at home with their parents, waiting for the time to present itself for when it will be right to get married. In the meantime, their company job covers their car payment and leaves a lot of money left over for trips to places like California, Bali, and biking tours through Northern Europe. Lorenzo, who always felt it was important to save money, never revelled much in this lifestyle before meeting me, a policeman's salary really can't take you to Bali more than once, but sometimes I wonder what it would have been like it we had waited 10 years before saddling ourselves with two kids and a mortgage. Then I think of flying with a pre-schooler and a baby to America and back when I am 38 and realize that perhaps I have really done what is best for me and my life.
We eventually board the plane, and it is 3/4 full of Italians, all jolly and happy about going home and eating well again and showing off the crazy deal they got on a pair of Nike Shocks. I find that the heavens have blessed us again by having us share our seats with an Italian named Davide, young, friendly, and who apparently really likes children. I'm initially weirded out. Why is he being so nice to Giulio? What does he want? I realize that my two months in America has made me paranoid about men and small children and that actually this guy Davide is just acting how most men in Italy act around young children: outgoing and attentive. It is also clear that he loves speaking in English to Giulio, even trying to read "A Baby Sister for Frances" to him when Livia is demanding all my attention. At one point during the flight I compliment him, asking if he has kids of his own.
"No."
"Nieces or nephews?"
"No. I have a girlfriend."
"Oh, and SHE wants to have kids someday?"
He nods. It seems a strange logic, is he taking parenting classes or something? Whatever the reason it is nice to be next to someone who doesn't mind when Giulio's feet kick him in the leg. Giulio, aided by Benedryl sleeps until I wake him up when we land.
We finally stumble off the plane in Milan, me staying loudly upbeat to Giulio (Oh look! A moving sidewalk!) so he won't have a meltdown but he seems to know that Lorenzo is nearby, or maybe because I keep saying that Daddy is nearby but at any rate he is in a fantastic mood as we get on line at immigration. My phone rings, it's Lorenzo.
"What line are you on?" he asks.
"I'm on the non-EU line."
"Claire, just use your Italian ID card and go through the other line."
I should explain that I have dual citizenship, American and British, and I'm actually in Italy legally as a British-European Union citizen. (Thanks, Mom!) My ID card in Italy also lists me as British, and you can use an ID card when travelling between EU countries instead of a passport. But I didn't think that would work just then.
"Lorenzo, how am I going to do that? They will never let me in with just the ID card. And what about the kids? All I have is their US passports."
"The kids have Italian names. Trust me." He says and hangs up.
I look around. The line I'm in is stopped dead, the EU line is practically empty. I fish out my ID card and move Giulio and the stroller towards the booth where a police officer meets me at the doorway.
"Passports, Madame?"
I hand him the ID card which he looks at and then asks to see my British passport and I have to tell him that I only have my American one with me.
"Well then, you will have to go through the other line. Maybe someone will let you cut ahead, since you have children."
I stand there for a second, trying to ignore the stares from the other non-EU passengers who are surely thinking, "Whose this @#$hole who tried to jump the line?" when I see Lorenzo standing over by the baggage carousel on the other side of the glass. I wave. He sees me, and I try to mouth to him "They won't let me though, I'll have to go around, this is all your fault." He nods and comes closer and calls something out to another officer who has just taken the place of the one who negged me. "That's my wife." I hear Lorenzo say. The officer looks at me and gestures me over. "Prego, Signora." (I wonder what the other passengers are thinking now.) He quickly stamps our passports, bam, bam, bam, and we are through. Giulio races up to Lorenzo who I see has tears in his eyes. We are together. Back in Italy.
In all due respect they are doing rather well, coming all this way, re-adjusting to being back home. Livia obviously doesn't remember much about the apartment, though she does remember her Daddy. And Giulio? He's the happiest I have seen him in ages, agreeable, co-operative for the most part, and loving being re-united with Thomas the Tank Engine. It also reminds me that this, here, Italy, is their home, and that my home, Cincinnati, is not. They like the States, like the pools, the museum, and the zoo, love the grandparents and the Oreos, but here in Italy is where they belong. For me it always takes a bit of adjustment, though this time I only cried once and that was after unpacking four suitcases and rotating the children's winter/summer wardrobes on only three hours sleep. While sweating profusely. Maybe I was just missing the air conditioning.
The flight over went suprisingly well. Cincinnati-New York had its' usual awfulness, Giulio whining and squirming in his seat, Livia not quite standing but refusing to sit on my lap and squawking, me not daring to look at the teenager at the window seat on the other side of Giulio for fear of what he might say, and then a miracle: both kids fall asleep about half an hour before landing in New York. Peace. I listen to the flight attendant seated in the kitchen space behind me complain about last week when she was called back to do another flight when they were already technically on lay-over when the call came through, and stare down at Livia asleep against my chest, her mouth open.
At JFK we book it over to the gate from where our plane to Milan will leave, even though we have over an hour and a half, I'm hoping to nab the bulkhead before someone else does. The place is swarming with Italians, most wearing newly purchased sweatshirts or sneakers. It seems that they have put the Milan gate and the Rome gate right next to each other, though the change in accents you hear just by moving five feet to the left or right is startling. The gate desk is empty so I walk up to a guy wearing a tie standing by the walkway entrance and ask about who I need to speak to about the possibility of getting the bulkhead seats, especially the ones with the little crib that latches onto the wall for the baby. For once in my life I have asked the right question to the right guy, the guy with the authority and computer codes to unlock these seats and within moments he has handed over new boarding passes and sent me on my way. I cannot believe my luck, and try to walk away while still kow towing before him on both knees.
I go stand over in one corner of the waiting area and take in the view of largely young, corporate Italy with disposable incomes waiting to fly back to Milan. I know these people, I mean, I don't really know them, but I teach people just like them back at home. People who are in life long engagements with their partners, yet still live at home with their parents, waiting for the time to present itself for when it will be right to get married. In the meantime, their company job covers their car payment and leaves a lot of money left over for trips to places like California, Bali, and biking tours through Northern Europe. Lorenzo, who always felt it was important to save money, never revelled much in this lifestyle before meeting me, a policeman's salary really can't take you to Bali more than once, but sometimes I wonder what it would have been like it we had waited 10 years before saddling ourselves with two kids and a mortgage. Then I think of flying with a pre-schooler and a baby to America and back when I am 38 and realize that perhaps I have really done what is best for me and my life.
We eventually board the plane, and it is 3/4 full of Italians, all jolly and happy about going home and eating well again and showing off the crazy deal they got on a pair of Nike Shocks. I find that the heavens have blessed us again by having us share our seats with an Italian named Davide, young, friendly, and who apparently really likes children. I'm initially weirded out. Why is he being so nice to Giulio? What does he want? I realize that my two months in America has made me paranoid about men and small children and that actually this guy Davide is just acting how most men in Italy act around young children: outgoing and attentive. It is also clear that he loves speaking in English to Giulio, even trying to read "A Baby Sister for Frances" to him when Livia is demanding all my attention. At one point during the flight I compliment him, asking if he has kids of his own.
"No."
"Nieces or nephews?"
"No. I have a girlfriend."
"Oh, and SHE wants to have kids someday?"
He nods. It seems a strange logic, is he taking parenting classes or something? Whatever the reason it is nice to be next to someone who doesn't mind when Giulio's feet kick him in the leg. Giulio, aided by Benedryl sleeps until I wake him up when we land.
We finally stumble off the plane in Milan, me staying loudly upbeat to Giulio (Oh look! A moving sidewalk!) so he won't have a meltdown but he seems to know that Lorenzo is nearby, or maybe because I keep saying that Daddy is nearby but at any rate he is in a fantastic mood as we get on line at immigration. My phone rings, it's Lorenzo.
"What line are you on?" he asks.
"I'm on the non-EU line."
"Claire, just use your Italian ID card and go through the other line."
I should explain that I have dual citizenship, American and British, and I'm actually in Italy legally as a British-European Union citizen. (Thanks, Mom!) My ID card in Italy also lists me as British, and you can use an ID card when travelling between EU countries instead of a passport. But I didn't think that would work just then.
"Lorenzo, how am I going to do that? They will never let me in with just the ID card. And what about the kids? All I have is their US passports."
"The kids have Italian names. Trust me." He says and hangs up.
I look around. The line I'm in is stopped dead, the EU line is practically empty. I fish out my ID card and move Giulio and the stroller towards the booth where a police officer meets me at the doorway.
"Passports, Madame?"
I hand him the ID card which he looks at and then asks to see my British passport and I have to tell him that I only have my American one with me.
"Well then, you will have to go through the other line. Maybe someone will let you cut ahead, since you have children."
I stand there for a second, trying to ignore the stares from the other non-EU passengers who are surely thinking, "Whose this @#$hole who tried to jump the line?" when I see Lorenzo standing over by the baggage carousel on the other side of the glass. I wave. He sees me, and I try to mouth to him "They won't let me though, I'll have to go around, this is all your fault." He nods and comes closer and calls something out to another officer who has just taken the place of the one who negged me. "That's my wife." I hear Lorenzo say. The officer looks at me and gestures me over. "Prego, Signora." (I wonder what the other passengers are thinking now.) He quickly stamps our passports, bam, bam, bam, and we are through. Giulio races up to Lorenzo who I see has tears in his eyes. We are together. Back in Italy.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
50 Random Things to Know if You Plan on Living in Italy
1) You can buy real maple syrup in Italy, but you cannot find the fake imitation Aunt Jemima kind.
2) Italian supermarkets do sell Jiffy peanut butter and some places also sell organic peanut butter.
3) What we call bread, they call toast, or Pan Carre. Their bread is much better.
4) I have never been able to find Zip-Loc bags.
5) Fresh milk goes off after a few days, though lately you can find longer lasting fresh milk. Otherwise buy UHT milk which lasts for ages, and I honestly think tastes OK. It's in a cardboard cartons on the shelf, near the dairy freezer.
6) Skim milk ( scremato) can only be found in the UHT form.
7) Whole milk is called intero, while 2% is called parzialemente scremato.
8) They sell Philidelphia cream cheese, Honey Nut Cheerios, and Kraft cheese slices.
9) Kids clothes are expensive, so unless you are ok paying 30 euros for a sweater, you do better buying them in the States.
10) Never go the gym and then dash into the supermarket. The Italians will be weirded out by you looking disheveled and sweaty in their midst.
11) Never drop the kids off at school looking like you just came from the gym, the other well made-up mothers will look at you funny.
12) Your stroller is your friend.
13) Italian women really will look after small children in 3" heels and immaculate white suits and stay clean. We non Italians lack the genes to do this.
14) It is OK to go two or three days without washing your hair. It is not OK to have hairy legs.
15) Your child needs to keep his undershirt tucked in at all times. Otherwise other women will do it for you, telling you that your child risks having a stomach ache or that you have left his kidneys exposed to the elements.
16) Children's colds are not treated with syrups but with liquid drops of medicine mixed with sterile water and then blown out in vapor form through a mask by an aerosole machine. It is your responsibility to hold the mask over your screaming child's face.
17) Italian children don't have bedtimes. People will assume that the fact that your child goes to sleep at 7:30 it is because he asks to go to bed then.
18) Italian children are welcome at all restaurants at all hours.
19) Italian children are welcome just about anywhere at all hours. And it is OK if they make some noise, they are children, that is what they are expected to do.
20) No one wears all white gym shoes.
21) Women don't wear baseball caps.
22) Italians always wear slippers or flip flops when they are home. Walking around barefoot is kind of a no-no.
23) When at home, most Italians change out of whatever they were wearing and hang around the home in sweatpants and t-shirts, especially when cleaning.
24) Men only wear white gym socks when they are in the gym.
25) Italian women don't drink to get drunk.
26) They are also good at resisting dessert.
27) At movie theaters you get an assigned seat when you buy your tickets. People will ask you to move if you are in the wrong one, even if the rest of the theater is empty.
28) Movies also have an intermission half way through.
29) Most stores are closed on Sundays and Monday mornings, though that is starting to change at least among the big supermarket chains.
30) All phone calls from land lines, even to the person across the street are expensive.
31)The FAX machine is still a valid and popular way of sending documents.
32) People rarely, if ever, write personal checks.
33) It is completely normal to go to someone's house for dinner and they leave the TV on while you eat.
34) Always bring something when invited to someone's house. If it is for Sunday lunch it will be assumed, though never said, that you will bring pastries that you buy on your way to their house.
35) Italian network television is terrible. Walker Texas Ranger is a popular show. The Runaway Bride is a frequently shown film.
36) Get cable if you want to see something decent.
37) Always say "Buon Giorno" when entering a shop and say it again when you leave.
38) Don't expect an outpouring of help from shop assistants.
39) Waiters will never introduce themselves by saying, "My name is Paolo and I will be your server for this evening." Nor will he ask you if you are "still working on that?"
40) Sugar is just fine to give to children.
41) Italians tend to do things in droves. If you are going on vacation in the summer, probably 17 million other people had the same idea. If you go to IKEA on a Sunday, expect half of the region to be there as well.
42) If you plan to drive you need to know how to parallel park. Really.
43) It is hard to find a real Christmas tree, most stores only sell fake ones. The real ones will be small and most likely in a large pot so you can keep it for next year if you want.
44) Family always comes first, even if the members of the family don't seem all that fond of each other.
45) Italians fear strong breezes and drafts, especially in the presence of children. A breeze + sweating= certain illness.
46) When you buy fruit at the grocery store wear the provided plastic gloves before touching anything. NEVER start handling fruit yourself at a market or the fruit seller will go off on you.
47) At a supermarket you are expected to weigh your own fruit.
48) Italians are generally friendly welcoming people who tell you that you speak Italian well, even if it's not true.
49) The food is always soooo good.
50) You should always have a second glass of wine.
2) Italian supermarkets do sell Jiffy peanut butter and some places also sell organic peanut butter.
3) What we call bread, they call toast, or Pan Carre. Their bread is much better.
4) I have never been able to find Zip-Loc bags.
5) Fresh milk goes off after a few days, though lately you can find longer lasting fresh milk. Otherwise buy UHT milk which lasts for ages, and I honestly think tastes OK. It's in a cardboard cartons on the shelf, near the dairy freezer.
6) Skim milk ( scremato) can only be found in the UHT form.
7) Whole milk is called intero, while 2% is called parzialemente scremato.
8) They sell Philidelphia cream cheese, Honey Nut Cheerios, and Kraft cheese slices.
9) Kids clothes are expensive, so unless you are ok paying 30 euros for a sweater, you do better buying them in the States.
10) Never go the gym and then dash into the supermarket. The Italians will be weirded out by you looking disheveled and sweaty in their midst.
11) Never drop the kids off at school looking like you just came from the gym, the other well made-up mothers will look at you funny.
12) Your stroller is your friend.
13) Italian women really will look after small children in 3" heels and immaculate white suits and stay clean. We non Italians lack the genes to do this.
14) It is OK to go two or three days without washing your hair. It is not OK to have hairy legs.
15) Your child needs to keep his undershirt tucked in at all times. Otherwise other women will do it for you, telling you that your child risks having a stomach ache or that you have left his kidneys exposed to the elements.
16) Children's colds are not treated with syrups but with liquid drops of medicine mixed with sterile water and then blown out in vapor form through a mask by an aerosole machine. It is your responsibility to hold the mask over your screaming child's face.
17) Italian children don't have bedtimes. People will assume that the fact that your child goes to sleep at 7:30 it is because he asks to go to bed then.
18) Italian children are welcome at all restaurants at all hours.
19) Italian children are welcome just about anywhere at all hours. And it is OK if they make some noise, they are children, that is what they are expected to do.
20) No one wears all white gym shoes.
21) Women don't wear baseball caps.
22) Italians always wear slippers or flip flops when they are home. Walking around barefoot is kind of a no-no.
23) When at home, most Italians change out of whatever they were wearing and hang around the home in sweatpants and t-shirts, especially when cleaning.
24) Men only wear white gym socks when they are in the gym.
25) Italian women don't drink to get drunk.
26) They are also good at resisting dessert.
27) At movie theaters you get an assigned seat when you buy your tickets. People will ask you to move if you are in the wrong one, even if the rest of the theater is empty.
28) Movies also have an intermission half way through.
29) Most stores are closed on Sundays and Monday mornings, though that is starting to change at least among the big supermarket chains.
30) All phone calls from land lines, even to the person across the street are expensive.
31)The FAX machine is still a valid and popular way of sending documents.
32) People rarely, if ever, write personal checks.
33) It is completely normal to go to someone's house for dinner and they leave the TV on while you eat.
34) Always bring something when invited to someone's house. If it is for Sunday lunch it will be assumed, though never said, that you will bring pastries that you buy on your way to their house.
35) Italian network television is terrible. Walker Texas Ranger is a popular show. The Runaway Bride is a frequently shown film.
36) Get cable if you want to see something decent.
37) Always say "Buon Giorno" when entering a shop and say it again when you leave.
38) Don't expect an outpouring of help from shop assistants.
39) Waiters will never introduce themselves by saying, "My name is Paolo and I will be your server for this evening." Nor will he ask you if you are "still working on that?"
40) Sugar is just fine to give to children.
41) Italians tend to do things in droves. If you are going on vacation in the summer, probably 17 million other people had the same idea. If you go to IKEA on a Sunday, expect half of the region to be there as well.
42) If you plan to drive you need to know how to parallel park. Really.
43) It is hard to find a real Christmas tree, most stores only sell fake ones. The real ones will be small and most likely in a large pot so you can keep it for next year if you want.
44) Family always comes first, even if the members of the family don't seem all that fond of each other.
45) Italians fear strong breezes and drafts, especially in the presence of children. A breeze + sweating= certain illness.
46) When you buy fruit at the grocery store wear the provided plastic gloves before touching anything. NEVER start handling fruit yourself at a market or the fruit seller will go off on you.
47) At a supermarket you are expected to weigh your own fruit.
48) Italians are generally friendly welcoming people who tell you that you speak Italian well, even if it's not true.
49) The food is always soooo good.
50) You should always have a second glass of wine.
Friday, August 10, 2007
SAHM
I have a whole new respect for Stay at Home Moms now. (Hereafter SAHM). Since Lorenzo went back to Italy two weeks ago it has just been me with the kids. Except it hasn't been just me. It has been my parents taking the kids first thing in the morning so I can sleep in 'til 7 or 8 because now, God help me, Giulio wakes up at 6:15 wanting breakfast and Livia is rising now around 7. I am very curious to know how I am going to handle this when we are together again---oh, wait--yes I do know, it will be ME who will be getting up at 6:15 to get Giulio his breakfast. So right now it isn't just me in the morning, and it isn't just me when at 5 o'clock my father puts a glass of wine into my shaking hand, but it is me throughout the day. Every day since I got here I wake up in our basement guest room (my brother's bedroom on the 2nd floor is the 1st guest room and Giulio is sleeping there) and hear Giulio scurrying overhead, followed by Liviaon all fours. Giulio is usually giggling uncontrollably and Livia is saying "Daaaaaaa! Daaaaaaaa!" Talk about the pitter-patter of tiny feet. And my goal for the rest of the day is to do what I can to tire out those tiny feet.
And yet, how does one manage to coordinate two different children at very different stages of their lives? By the time everyone has eaten, dressed, and I've cleaned up the kitchen and gotten Giulio excited about going somewhere, Livia has started to fuss and it is time for her morning nap. When she wakes an hour later, usuallly around 11 we then begin a whole new round of eating and changing to make another attempt to go out. Somewhere in there we have Giulio going into Time-Out a few times and those scenes drag on and on, and I'm also trying to convince him that he needs to try and go to the bathroom which takes some coaxing, and then there are also the snacks and the spats, and cleaning up a bit so the house doesn't look like someone with an anger management problem came by, and then you realize it is 2 o'clock and it is time for Livia's second nap and we still haven't gotten anything really DONE and I am wishing I could take a nap myself. I have also realized that there is an advantage to having a small apartment when you have two children; you can do other things like make the beds or clean the bathroom and the children are never more than a room away. While I love the fact that my parents' home is large enough to absorb my family and all its stuff, there there are times when I have to dress Livia and I'm on the groundfloor and her clothes are down in the basement but somehow the box of wipes has wound up upstairs in Giulio's room. Rather than leave the children to their own amusements which usually involves Giulio hugging Livia round the head, I heave her on my hip as we lurch downstairs to retrieve clothing before stomping upstairs to get the wipes.
There there is the dance of the shoes. As a way to keep Giulio moving towards the door I have him get his shoes or sandals and tell him to put them on while I'm rushing around trying to grab all the water bottles, snacks, diapers and wipes that go into an average family outing. Putting on his shoes is part of him being a Big boy, independent, capable of doing things on his own. I watch him run to retrieve his shoes and then his sits on the floor looking dejectedly at his sandals but making no attempt to put them on. "Come on, Giulio" I call. "Put your sandals on." He then makes a sort of half hearted attempt, Livia crawls over and sits down next to him, picks up a sandal and chews on the strap. "Mommy I can't." This is his new thing now, he can't. He can't go to the bathroom, he can't help me pick up his toys, he can't put his shoes on. Except that he can, and my patience is running thin. I hurriedly help him into one, and then he somehow finds the strength to put on the other. Finally we are ready. We head out the door to what is my car while I am in town, my brother's ancient Volvo stationwagon. What it lacks in engine power it makes up for with a top of the line sound system and cd/mp3 player. With Johnny Cash singing about how it ain't him, babe, we head over to the nearby museum, aka my home away from home. Pools are a good choice for tiring out the kids but I don't like to go alone, it really takes two adults to wrangle two small children in the water. I should also add that since Lorenzo left the weather has gotten unbearably hot so most outdoor activities are out and we are all taking refuge in the a/c, while Lorenzo, who left us in Ohio to escape the heat (yes, I know, a contradiction in terms) is enjoying breezy, pleasant temperatures in Italy. He even claims that he sleeps with a blanket at night. So the museum is our destination today. I pull into the parking lot, free Giulio from the car and get Livia into the stroller and in the steamy heat we begin the long, uphill treck to the museum.
We head inside, breathing a sigh of relief for the air conditioning. We go to the Children's Museum and to the Little Sprouts room, which is specifically designed for children 4 and under. Something always happens when we move into the children's museum: time stands still. On one hand it is wonderful to watch the kids play. Giulio is quiet and focused as he plays at the sand table, moving the sand from the dump truck into the bucket, and it is great to let LIvia crawl about without worrying about her knocking over a lamp. Or wrapping a cord around her neck. Or trying to get into the fridge. But then she discovers the slide and all she wants to do it climp UP it, and despite countless attempts to distract her she keeps heading back there. And suddenly I can't stop yawning and I keep glancing at my watch, waiting for the Promised time of 5 o'clock when the museum closes and we can go home, and I swear I looked at my watch 20 minutes ago and now I just looked again and only 5 minutes had passed. At least Giulio is happy here, this place is perfect for pre-schoolers. Instead it is Livia who gives me fits. The girl just wants to move and she manages to turn the child friendly, carpeted, padded play areas into the site of death defying stunts as she tries to go head first down three steps where I catch her in the nick of time or crawling over to the entrance gate where excited toddlers running past just miss stepping on her hands. I pick her up, carrying her back 20 feet only to have her leap forward like a race horse from the starting gate the moment I put her down and head right back towards the entrance. Eventually I lose patience with fielding Livia or Giulio gets bored and we head over to some other exhibit. Here Giulio loses himself again playing but now I have to focus constantly on Livia. Outside of the Little Sprouts Room is not set up for babies so I must protect Livia from being run over by big kids or putting something tiny in her mouth. She isn't OK with being held for long periods of time and we wrestle for a while before I finally give in, put her down, only to have her try and put a small peg in her mouth so then I go and pick her up again. I can only really stand doing this for about 30 minutes and then I have to go. My head starts to hurt, the kids get hungry and I have to try to convince Giulio that it is actually his idea to leave. "Come back tomorrow?" he always asks, and I can truthfully answer yes, if we want to.
We get home and I'm exhausted as if I just climbed a mountain and then if someone askes me what I did all day all I can come up with is,"We went to the museum." And along the way I got impatient, lost my temper, surely yelled at some point too. I would make the worst SAHM, I just lack the motivation and energy to entertain and keep my children busy all day. Next door to my parents lives a young couple with a little boy named Steven, the mom Nora is a SAHM she always seems to me to be such a shining example. She doesn't yell, is very patient with Steven, takes time to do interesting craft projects with him. They watch a tiny amount of television, eat limited amounts of sugar, and seem to truly take pleasure in each others company. Nora would never turn on the TV for Seasame Street and "forget" to turn it off because it kept Steven quiet. Or distract him from a melt down by offering him a Newman-Os. Or maybe she would. Maybe I seem like the perfect SAHM when I am in the Little Sprouts room, patiently removing Livia for the 10th time from the bottom of the slide or playing super market with Giulio. Meanwhile on the inside I am counting down the days until Giulio goes back to school and Livia goes back to daycare, and the minutes until I can sit on the couch with a glass of wine in my hand and let my tired parents deal with--I mean enjoy--the kids. Tomorrow, I promise myself, tomorrow I will get it right.
And yet, how does one manage to coordinate two different children at very different stages of their lives? By the time everyone has eaten, dressed, and I've cleaned up the kitchen and gotten Giulio excited about going somewhere, Livia has started to fuss and it is time for her morning nap. When she wakes an hour later, usuallly around 11 we then begin a whole new round of eating and changing to make another attempt to go out. Somewhere in there we have Giulio going into Time-Out a few times and those scenes drag on and on, and I'm also trying to convince him that he needs to try and go to the bathroom which takes some coaxing, and then there are also the snacks and the spats, and cleaning up a bit so the house doesn't look like someone with an anger management problem came by, and then you realize it is 2 o'clock and it is time for Livia's second nap and we still haven't gotten anything really DONE and I am wishing I could take a nap myself. I have also realized that there is an advantage to having a small apartment when you have two children; you can do other things like make the beds or clean the bathroom and the children are never more than a room away. While I love the fact that my parents' home is large enough to absorb my family and all its stuff, there there are times when I have to dress Livia and I'm on the groundfloor and her clothes are down in the basement but somehow the box of wipes has wound up upstairs in Giulio's room. Rather than leave the children to their own amusements which usually involves Giulio hugging Livia round the head, I heave her on my hip as we lurch downstairs to retrieve clothing before stomping upstairs to get the wipes.
There there is the dance of the shoes. As a way to keep Giulio moving towards the door I have him get his shoes or sandals and tell him to put them on while I'm rushing around trying to grab all the water bottles, snacks, diapers and wipes that go into an average family outing. Putting on his shoes is part of him being a Big boy, independent, capable of doing things on his own. I watch him run to retrieve his shoes and then his sits on the floor looking dejectedly at his sandals but making no attempt to put them on. "Come on, Giulio" I call. "Put your sandals on." He then makes a sort of half hearted attempt, Livia crawls over and sits down next to him, picks up a sandal and chews on the strap. "Mommy I can't." This is his new thing now, he can't. He can't go to the bathroom, he can't help me pick up his toys, he can't put his shoes on. Except that he can, and my patience is running thin. I hurriedly help him into one, and then he somehow finds the strength to put on the other. Finally we are ready. We head out the door to what is my car while I am in town, my brother's ancient Volvo stationwagon. What it lacks in engine power it makes up for with a top of the line sound system and cd/mp3 player. With Johnny Cash singing about how it ain't him, babe, we head over to the nearby museum, aka my home away from home. Pools are a good choice for tiring out the kids but I don't like to go alone, it really takes two adults to wrangle two small children in the water. I should also add that since Lorenzo left the weather has gotten unbearably hot so most outdoor activities are out and we are all taking refuge in the a/c, while Lorenzo, who left us in Ohio to escape the heat (yes, I know, a contradiction in terms) is enjoying breezy, pleasant temperatures in Italy. He even claims that he sleeps with a blanket at night. So the museum is our destination today. I pull into the parking lot, free Giulio from the car and get Livia into the stroller and in the steamy heat we begin the long, uphill treck to the museum.
We head inside, breathing a sigh of relief for the air conditioning. We go to the Children's Museum and to the Little Sprouts room, which is specifically designed for children 4 and under. Something always happens when we move into the children's museum: time stands still. On one hand it is wonderful to watch the kids play. Giulio is quiet and focused as he plays at the sand table, moving the sand from the dump truck into the bucket, and it is great to let LIvia crawl about without worrying about her knocking over a lamp. Or wrapping a cord around her neck. Or trying to get into the fridge. But then she discovers the slide and all she wants to do it climp UP it, and despite countless attempts to distract her she keeps heading back there. And suddenly I can't stop yawning and I keep glancing at my watch, waiting for the Promised time of 5 o'clock when the museum closes and we can go home, and I swear I looked at my watch 20 minutes ago and now I just looked again and only 5 minutes had passed. At least Giulio is happy here, this place is perfect for pre-schoolers. Instead it is Livia who gives me fits. The girl just wants to move and she manages to turn the child friendly, carpeted, padded play areas into the site of death defying stunts as she tries to go head first down three steps where I catch her in the nick of time or crawling over to the entrance gate where excited toddlers running past just miss stepping on her hands. I pick her up, carrying her back 20 feet only to have her leap forward like a race horse from the starting gate the moment I put her down and head right back towards the entrance. Eventually I lose patience with fielding Livia or Giulio gets bored and we head over to some other exhibit. Here Giulio loses himself again playing but now I have to focus constantly on Livia. Outside of the Little Sprouts Room is not set up for babies so I must protect Livia from being run over by big kids or putting something tiny in her mouth. She isn't OK with being held for long periods of time and we wrestle for a while before I finally give in, put her down, only to have her try and put a small peg in her mouth so then I go and pick her up again. I can only really stand doing this for about 30 minutes and then I have to go. My head starts to hurt, the kids get hungry and I have to try to convince Giulio that it is actually his idea to leave. "Come back tomorrow?" he always asks, and I can truthfully answer yes, if we want to.
We get home and I'm exhausted as if I just climbed a mountain and then if someone askes me what I did all day all I can come up with is,"We went to the museum." And along the way I got impatient, lost my temper, surely yelled at some point too. I would make the worst SAHM, I just lack the motivation and energy to entertain and keep my children busy all day. Next door to my parents lives a young couple with a little boy named Steven, the mom Nora is a SAHM she always seems to me to be such a shining example. She doesn't yell, is very patient with Steven, takes time to do interesting craft projects with him. They watch a tiny amount of television, eat limited amounts of sugar, and seem to truly take pleasure in each others company. Nora would never turn on the TV for Seasame Street and "forget" to turn it off because it kept Steven quiet. Or distract him from a melt down by offering him a Newman-Os. Or maybe she would. Maybe I seem like the perfect SAHM when I am in the Little Sprouts room, patiently removing Livia for the 10th time from the bottom of the slide or playing super market with Giulio. Meanwhile on the inside I am counting down the days until Giulio goes back to school and Livia goes back to daycare, and the minutes until I can sit on the couch with a glass of wine in my hand and let my tired parents deal with--I mean enjoy--the kids. Tomorrow, I promise myself, tomorrow I will get it right.
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