The Plunge

Exhaustion is my excuse for being so slow to post this week. Livia is going through a difficult period of waking up, furious every night between eleven and two o'clock, and it takes ages to get her to go back down. I hate to admit it but I have been relying very heavily on benedryl these past few days. I feel more tired than I did when Livia was a small baby, as opposed to the crawling, pulling up baby that she is now. And when I think of the fact that in a few days we will be cooped up a in plane for 9 hours, it makes me feel even more tired. On Tuesday we are all flying to the States to see my parents and take in the beauty of Target and TJMaxx. There is something rather ironic in the fact that after choosing to live so far from home, I now spend large amounts of time and money trying to get back. I view the day of travel kind of like that initial plunge you have to take when you get in the pool. It's really hot and you want to get into the pool, where incidentally, George Clooney is paddling around as well, but the water is just really cold, and you know it won't be pleasant. So you hold you breath and jump in, going deep under the water because when you come up to the surface you will be so glad that you decided to jump in and go swimming with George.
I no longer have pity for people travelling alone, or even for people travelling in couples. In my opinion if you aren't travelling with two small children for more than five hours you really have nothing to complain about. Yes, the seats are small, but have you tried to sit in the small seats with a wiggling 10 months old on your lap so you won't have to pay for a full price ticket? Ever tried to cut up your half frozen Little Debbie cherry cake as the baby grabs for the miniscule cup of water on your tray and manages to pour it in your lap? By now I should be a pro at travelling with small children. Giulio took his first flight to America when he was almost nine months old, and there was some mix-up in the seating and the bulkhead seats were given to someone else. The Italian flight crew felt terrible, Giulio wouldn't be able to take a proper nap (!) and so they gave him a seat all for himself next to me. This was right before he could crawl, and I remember him sitting up in his seat, looking around and seeming so pleased with himself. On the return flight we had an American flight crew, whose attitude towards people who had opted to fly with children was something in the lines of, "You're flying with a baby? That's your f@%##ing problem." Giulio, who in the interveening month had learned to crawl, spent the flight from New York to Milan crawling over our ankles and being pulled back from going into the aisle. He conked out, exhausted, about two hours before we landed. It was the first time that I was so preoccupied with what was going on that I didn't even think about the flight. It was also the first time that I was able to fall asleep on a plane without any sort of a sleep aid.
Fastforward to a year later, with Giulio who stood the entire flight between our knees, wide awake the whole flight to New York. My friend Theresa had sworn by this all natural sleep aide that her own son Luca, (who woke up every night for the first two years of his life,) and had told me that it would knock Giulio right out. I was so convinced that I didn't even bother trying it out, only to find that mid-flight it had no effect on him. Thinking we were underestimating the dose we kept trying to give him more drops, which only had the effect of making him more hyper. That particular trip I flew back alone to Italy alone with Giulio, Lorenzo had gone back a few weeks earlier for work. It had been a long, tiring day and in New York my connecting flight had been late so I had had to run pushing the stroller, while wearing cowboy boots (don't ask) to make the flight. I came aboard, panting and sweating, clutching Giulio and immediately came face to face with some immaculate member of the Alitalia flight crew, the tall, dark, handsome kind of man that makes women decide to move to Italy for La Dolce Vita, and who you never find working in coach. He greeted me with a courteous "Buona Sera" and I just managed to not drip sweat on him. I sqeezed past two newly-weds on the end of the aisle on their way back from their honeymoon in America, holding Giulio and still sweating, and took my seat next to them. Giulio almost immediately started crying. Not weeping, sad, needing comfort crying, but full throated screaming that nothing could stop. Trying to give reassuring smiles to the couple looking warily at Giulio, (it will only be a minute folks! I have no idea why he is doing this!) I did my best to try and comfort him, but nothing worked until I was practically in tears myself. The (luckily) Italian flight crew were sympathetic ("O, che caro! Poverino! Perche piangi?") but nothing could stop the onslaught. I managed to get half of a Melatonina tablet (we had discovered in the States that these made him sleep) down Giulio's throat, making his screams of outrage even louder. At this point one of the flight attendants came over and offered the couple next to me the possibility of two seats in another part of the plane, which they gratefully accepted. Giulio stopped crying, and 15 minutes later he was asleep, passed out on the floor of the plane. The rest of the flight, with two empty seats next to me passed without incident.
Then last November, I did perhaps the bravest-dumbest thing ever. I decided to fly alone with TWO children, with Livia just three months old, and Giulio having just turned three. "It's going to be awful," I told my mother. "Yes, it is," she said, "but you will survive." She was right, it was awful. Not that there was one peak moment of awful, at least not on the plane, but sort of a long sustained note of awfulness that lasted the entire time. That time I decided that I wasn't going to be forcing sleep pills down Giulio's throat. Two days before flying I cut the Melatonina in half, and slipped the halves into two of Giulio's favorite chewy candies, which I then re-wrapped and put in my purse. Moments after the plane had pulled back from the gate I got them out and casually offered them to Giulio who immediately accepted and ate them. I watched him chewing, feigning calm, thinking, He's eating them! He's eating them! Now he will sleep for five-six hours! The men who tried to poison Rasputin, the advisor to the Russian Tzar, must have felt much the same way-- their plan had worked! And yet, as with Rasputin, who in the end had to be shot twelve times, put in a sack and thrown into the river before he died, the melatonina wasn't enough. Giulio slept precisely one hour before being wide awake and difficult in a way that only a three year old can be for the whole rest of the flight. Livia who was still too little to be very difficult, was luckily wonderful, flashing 100 watt smiles at the people in the row behind us, and falling asleep on and off. We had started the flight with a women in the seat next to me, saying she needed to sit in the bulkhead for the circulation in her legs, but who after an hour must have decided that her circulation could risk it, because she moved, leaving us with the three seats to ourselves, so at least I had somewhere to put Livia for some of the time. What saved the day was how truly kind people were, or maybe how pathetic I looked. In New York, after getting off the plane and heading towards customs, I was carrying Livia (jfk keeps all the strollers and only gives them back along with the rest of the luggage), three bags, three coats, and Giulio's carseat which hadn't worked with the airplane seats and had become an albatross around my neck. Giulio, tired, confused, and basically fed-up, demanded to be carried, and when I said I couldn't, collapsed to the floor and refused to move. I was about to collapse too when suddenly I heard a kind voice saying "Can I help you?" It was a women from our Milan flight. She took LIvia, her husband took the car seat, and I took Giulio and so we went on to fight another day, or at least another flight. My mom said that when I came up the ramp where they were waiting for me in Cincinnati I looked like a refugee.
On the flight back home after Christmas, this time thankfully with Lorenzo, Giulio wouldn't keep his tray table up, Livia didn't want to be held and kept wiggling, Lorenzo turned to me and asked, "How did you ever do this on your own?" All I can say is that I must really like Target.
As a p.s. think of me on Tuesday 6/26 and offer up a little prayer to the airline gods that all goes smoothly. This time I am taking Benedryl with me for the kids!

Housewife

Giulio's surgery went very well, and yesterday, four days after the fact, he went back to school. Lorenzo was also granted time off because his son was having surgery, so we were able to actually have a normal weekend with Daddy home the whole time. Home of course is a relative term. Lorenzo never just hangs out at home. If he is here he is doing some sort of home improvement, putting up a book shelf, fixing a tap, painting a chipped corner of the wall, or calling around about getting new blinds for our tiny study. Otherwise he is making sandwiches and hustling us out the door to go somewhere and have a picnic or a big meal, or a hike. In two days we went up to Lake Garda for a picnic and up to the Valle Brembana which is on the edge of the Alps for lunch and a walk. He only flops on the couch, tv remote in his hand when it is too late in the evening to do anything else, and of course within minutes he is asleep. It is hard to be lazy with some one like that around, but then my life grants me few possibilities to sit around and do nothing, as does most people's, as there is always something to be done. Only a few weeks ago, both children were sick, the laundry was piling up, the house was messy, and I was sick too. As Livia whined and squirmed in my lap I turned to Lorenzo and told him that I was tired of being the Mommy, I wanted someone to come and take care of me. I was fed up with finding piles of clean laundry on the bed and knowing that if I didn't fold them, no one else would. He laughed and gave me a kiss, but what I wanted was someone to come in and whisk the children away, clean the house and let me sleep right through it. In other words I wanted my mommy. Lorenzo could keep his kisses, they weren't going to let me stay in bed for another two hours.
I am grateful that my job gives me free hours at odd times of the day, so that way I can get things done while the kids are at school. Things stay put away when Giulio is not a home, crumbs do not accumulate in and around the kitchen with Livia at daycare. Because one thing I've learned living in Italy is that housekeeping is not something done on the weekend when you have a free half hour. No, it is an on-going full time job keeping a household up to Italian standards. I always thought Americans were clean people, we pride ourselves on our cleanliness, and admit it, the first thing that we like to imply about Europeans is that they are perhaps not as clean as us. Now I can't speak for the rest of Europe, but Italians are CLEAN. Yes, it is true, they smell different from Americans, but I'm speaking to you as a shower taking-deodorant/anti-perspirant wearing-US citizen, and I've notice that I smell differently here as compared to when I am in the US, so obviously it's diet and not lack of hygene that causes this.
At any rate, when it comes to housecleaning, I have never met women so driven about cleaning as Italians. In the US, we vacuum our wall-to-wall carpet, we do laundry, we dust, and we clean the bathrooms. For most of us, if the house looks orderly, doesn't smell, and the floors aren't sticky, well, we've done a good job. House cleaning in Italy means lifting up couches each week to clean underneath them, wiping down the hood over the stove for any grease that may have gotten there, and cleaning all windows at least twice a month. Wall-to-wall carpeting is viewed as unsanitary, and so in its place there is parquet, tile, or marble, which is vacuumed and dusted once a day and washed at least once a week. Every morning the bedroom windows are flung open and the bedding is hung out the window to allow it to air out. Carpets are taken off the floors, vaccumed, and the hung outside. Sticky fingerprints are wiped off of doors and lightswitches, and children's toys are carefully cleaned and dusted off. When the show "Wife Swap" came to Italy, ( a show where for 7 days two women switch houses and families to see what happens) it shows women in their daily routine as wives and mothers, the one thing I couldn't get over was how many women get up at 6 am so they can clean the house before going to work. I'm lucky if I get all the dishes out of the sink and into the dishwasher first thing in the morning. The ultimate insult on that show is for a woman to say that she had found dust in the other woman's home, implying the ultimate shame: you keep a dirty house. Cleanliness does not stop at the inside, there are women who weekly wipe down the shutters on the exterior of the house or apartment, and mop all outside patios and balconies. Gardens, no matter how small, are tended to with military precision and are often tider than most American's living rooms. When I think of an American housewife, I think of her pushing a huge grocery cart through the supermarket, folding laundry from the drier, or driving little Cadyn to soccer practise. When I think of an Italian housewife I think of a woman dressed in old clothes down on her hands and knees cleaning the dirt that has accumulated behind her oven. And then we compare notes about it. Never in my life I thought I would have conversations with other people about housework, other than the basic, "today I cleaned the house." Now I find myself down at Terry's, having long connversations that contain phrases like," Well, I just vaccumed the floors, now I have to go mop the kitchen and outside balcony." Or I listen to Terry run down the list of things she accomplished that morning, "I mopped the whole house, organized the kids' bedroom. Now I just have to clean all the kitchen counters with bleach." Just to clarify, I clean my house once a week, with the occasional touch-up on the floor when I see too many crumbs overflowing from the kitchen,
And then of course there is the laundry. Yes, laundry is a cross that women all over the world have to bear. Men think, including my husband, that because they have put dirty clothes into the machine and pressed a few buttons they have "done" the laundry, but that is like saying because they were present at conception a man has given birth to a baby. In Italy the button pushing part is the easiest part, it's what comes after that is so time consuming and tiring. I do have a drier, but because it causes spikes in my electric bills I try to use it sparingly, only in the months when clothes take a long time to dry on their own. Therefore for the rest of the year, and especially right now, all clothes are hung up to dry, either on a drying rack on my balcony or on the clotheslines we have down in the yard. There is something suprisingly satisifying about hanging up clothes on the line, you can see all your hard work and effort right before your eyes, and there is something so wholesome about white sheets flapping in the breeze. If it's hot the clothes I hang up in the late morning are bone dry by early evening, but if the weather is sort of iffy and damp it can take several days, and while you are waiting for that load to dry more clothes pile up until you have mountains of laundry to deal with. Lorenzo is a good guy, works hard, helps in the house, but he has no problem walking right past laundry piled on the bed waiting to folded, ironed, and put away. For some reason this is "my" job, though in a pinch he will help me fold if I ask. But ironing is my responsibility. What's the big deal? you may ask. So you iron a few shirts, big whoop. In my house growing up ironing was all do it yourself, clothes came out of the dryer relatively wrinkle free, were folded and put away. Occasionally, the morning before some big meeting I would find my father ironing his dress shirt on top of a towel on one end of the kitchen counter, or my mother would drag out the board to freshen up something of ours that we wanted to wear to church minutes before tearing out the door saying we were going to be late. Ironing was optional, something done only in extremely needy cases. Imagine my surprise when coming to Italy to find that ironing wasn't just mandatory, it was a competitive sport. My neighbor irons EVERYTHING. Shirts, pants, underwear, socks, sheets, towels, baby bibs, and believe me she is not the only one. I, unable to break free from my non-ironing roots, take a more moderate approach. If it can't be seen outside the house, I don't iron it. Therefore, I iron basically "only" shirts and pants, I leave my sheets and towels with wrinkles and hope that no one will ever discover the shameful fact that I don't iron everyone's underwear. I do however have a secret weapon: I have a five star iron. Before I had your basic iron, with the little platic vial that holds about half a cup of water. Using that I felt at times like I had decided to climb Mount Everest wearing only a pair of Keds. The wrinkles, perhaps made more resistant by our calcium-heavy water, simply deepened, one shirt could take 30 minutes. My loathing of ironing made me simply avoid doing it, while Lorenzo's work shirts piled up in the closet. Then I found what I suppose would be a called a "professional" iron, basically its a small metal iron with a long tube attached that feeds into a small 1-liter tank. The iron sits on top of the tank when not in use. The tank heats the water and keeps it under pressure so the steam shoots out of the iron in hot powerful gusts. It's like watering your garden with a fire hose. Nothing stands a chance against this work of superior craftsmanship, and in under an hour I can do my week's quota. Just to prove how great this iron is, my mother when she came to visit last spring enjoyed using it so much I had to hold her back from ironing our underwear. My father said she had ironed more in those three months than she had in her entire life. It was truly a miracle.
And now I have a pile of Giulio's shirts I must attack. Sigh. An Italian woman's work is never done........

Dress Rehearsal

Giulio is set to get his adenoids out on Thursday. He has suffered from ear infections since he was four months old and by now has had more rounds of anti-biotics than I'd like to count. Along the way he has also suffered from two extreme allergic reactions to penicillian, one in which he wound up in the hospital, and another four day hospital stay over what was on its way to becoming mastoiditis. Everyone has told me that this surgery will change all that, that the rounds of antibiotics, the doctors' visits, the stress everytime he so much as coughs will vanish. Here's hoping. He was set to have the operation last week. We booked the operation 40 days earlier, and then 10 days before the set date he had to go the hospital for various tests and it was then that they gave us the definitive date for the operation. Which was just as well because organizing an overnight stay in a hospital required military precision and planning.
Our plan was that Lorenzo and I would be at the hospital all day with Giulio, and then in the evening I would go home to Livia and Lorenzo would stay overnight with Giulio. In Italian hospitals a parent or grandparent must be with the child at all times, which includes sleeping on a cot next to the child's hospital bed during the night. I remember my one overnight stay in a hospital when I was 9, they kicked the parents out at 8pm and practically barred them from re-entering before morning. (My dad still managed to sneak back in and sat by my bed until I fell asleep.) Even in Italy it wasn't always like this. Lorenzo has the horrific childhood memory when due to some illness he was isolated in hospital from his parents for something like 10 days! He remembers calling for his mother and not understanding why she wouldn't or couldn't come.
Luckily such draconian methods have gone by the wayside, perhaps to the point where we have gone a little too far in the other direction. There is nothing like trying to keep an energetic toddler entertained for four days on in a hospital ward to make you question if your parental presence is always absolutely necessary. Perhaps the hospitals smartened up to the fact that with mom or dad always present, the nurses would have more time to take care of patients, rather than running down the hallway after them. The only time we weren't allowed to stay overnight was when Livia was a few days old and being treated for jaundice. Ironically those first few days after birth is the one time when a woman is hormonally wired to not want her baby away from her for a moment, where as when they are older there are many times when you would pay to have them far away from you.....
Anyway, at least this time we had advanced notice, in the past Giulio's hospital stays have always come without any warning. Lorenzo asked for days off from work, and I moved my students and classes around in order to have the whole day free. I begged the lady as Livia's daycare for permission to leave her from 6:30am until 4pm, when Terry would go and get her and keep her until I came home, hopefully around 6:30 or 7. I felt terrible about leaving Livia all day, but as Lorenzo pointed out, Giulio was going to want his mommy. I lovingly packed his suitcase, and nervously presided over his cough that seemed to be only a cough, but was worrisome all the same. And we worried about the operation itself, how long it would take, how Giulio would feel afterwards, if he would be ok with the anesthetic. He needed the operation, WE needed him to have this operation, and would this cough keep him from having the operation because they had told us that if Giulio was sick they wouldn't do it? Then there was organizing for when Giulio was home again, how much school would he need to miss, I moved around more classes, promising to make them up the next week.
On Thursday morning we got up 5:45 and Lorenzo and Giulio were out the door by 6:15, the operation was set to take place around 7:30. I left around 6:40, left Livia at daycare and headed off to the hospital. Oh, yes, this was the other thing, the operation was not at our local hospital, the one five minutes from our house where both Giulio and Livia were born, and home to Giulio's previous hospital stays, but instead at a hospital 30 kilometers from home where they are well known for their ENTs. That was the other factor in this long day, the traffic. At any rate, I made good time and I was almost there when my phone rang. It was Lorenzo. I looked at the clock, only 7:15, still too early for any action.
"Yes?"
"CeeCee--we forgot the impegnativo from Giulio's pediatrician, I don't know if they will admit him without it."
"WHAT???!!"
The impegnativo is the pink slip of paper where your GP or Ped has to state what treatment needs to be done and why. This way the public health system pays for the treatment, it is certifying that this is a necessary operation, and it is being performed by doctors who are part of the NHS. If we didn't have it, it was very unlikely that they would admit Giulio for the operation, because it meant that the hospital would risk not being payed. Without the impegnativo the NHS wouldn't reimburse them for the cost of the operation, meaning it would be up to us to pay. But we could also just as easily promise to pay and then slip away without doing so.
I wasn't just irate about the forgotten impegnativo, I was irate about the WE. What WE?!! I hadn't known that we needed any sort of impegnativo, I had just spoken to Giulio's doctor a few days ago about a prescription and if I had known I would had asked her then for this super important piece of paper. Lorenzo had said nothing to me about needing an impegnativo, I had watched him check the list of papers we needed to bring with us just the night before. And now it seemed for a one small piece of paper, they wouldn't do the operation at all. I didn't know whether to laugh of cry. It's easy to sigh and say, oh Italy and its' bureucracy, but try getting admitted for an operation in the States saying you left your insurance information at home, but you would be sure and bring it tomorrow. They wouldn't let you into the parking lot.
At any rate, since I was practically there, I parked the car and went in the hospital to track down Lorenzo. I found him with a surprisingly cheerful (he hadn't eaten or drunk anything that morning) Giulio in tow. "Hi Mommy!" he cried, running over to me. "Hey, baby." I said, shooting snake eyes at Lorenzo over Giulio's head as I bent down to hug him.
"Ok," I said, straightening up. "What do we have to do?"
The first thing was to head up to the ward where Giulio's operation would be. There we found other parents with children and suitcases, and all surely, I thought grimly, with their impegnativi in hand. We explained our situation to Giulio's doctor, who referred us to the head nurse who did pre-surgery admittance for the ward. Her response when we told her that we didn't have the impegnativo was to beat her head on the door frame for a moment.
"I can't do anything," she said when she lifted her head. "Downstairs they won't admit him without it, meaning he won't be in the computer. For me, as long as you hear from his pediatrician and they promise to send the impegnativo over today, I don't have a problem. See what they say downstairs at Patient Admittance."
I looked at the clock, it was five minutes to 8, Giulio's pediatrician doesn't start taking calls until 8:30. You can call between 8:30 to 9:30 to get an appointment either for that day, or if you are calling about a check-up, later in the week. You call, describe your kid's symptons and she will tell you if they need to be seen that day or if you can wait and see for a day or so. Usually she will ask to see you that day. You also call about doctor's notes, prescriptions, and impegnativi, which she writes out and leaves in a basket in her office waiting room, with the child's name written on the outside for you to pick up. I decided to take a chance and go ahead and call, maybe she was answering early this morning. I immediately got her voice mail. Damn. I shook my head at Lorenzo, and then we went downstairs and outside where the phone reception was better, huddling in a tense group around Giulio's suitcase. I kept picking up the phone, calling, getting the dr's voice mail, cursing, and hanging up again. My stomach churned. Giulio needed this operation today, we had planned for today, I wasn't going to let some minor detail like an impegnativo stop me. At 8:32, the doctor picked up, I threw the phone at Lorenzo and let him ask her to help us. She was sympathetic, but she wasn't going to be in the office before the afternoon, one of us could come by and get the slip at 2, but not unfortunately not before then. It would have to do. We went back to the Patient Admittance desk downstairs, where Lorenzo had been rejected earlier to see what they would say about the impegnativo now that we had talked to the pediatrician. The lady wasn't moved. It wasn't us, she said, it was those doctors, always promising these forms, then forgetting to send them, and then the hospital gets stuck with the bill. She shook her head. I sat there on a bench next to the desk with Giulio in my lap and fixed her with my saddest,-come-on- we're-mothers,- I- know-you-have-been-here -too-look. I could see her weaken. "I will go there personally to pick up the form, this way you won't have to wait." I said. The woman was silent a moment. "Fine," she said. "It's not the parents,"she said again, typing away into the computer. "It's those doctors. Bring the form here as soon as you can!" We offered her thanks and our most dazzling smiles, and clutching the necessary admittance forms, ran upstairs once again to the third floor.
The head nurse was glad to see us, even though it was now 9:15. Smiling she ushured us into her office to start filling out forms. "Ok," she said, as I sat down across the table from her. "So, he hasn't eaten anything today, right? Any allergies? Ok......Now, how is he doing? Any health problems?" "Um," I said. "He has a bit of a cough, but other than that he is fine." She looked up from her paperwork. "Let me hear him cough." Giulio coughed. The nurse narrowed her eyes a moment. "Better check his temperature," she said, tucking a thermometer under his right arm. She continued with her questions. "Now Giulio there is a big girl in the same room as you, and you have to listen and do what she says." Giulio solemnly nodded. He knew all about listenting to older kids and doing what they said from preschool. I placed a well trained Mother's hand on Giulio's forehead and back. He didn't feel feverish. If we were at home right now, I would send him to school based on this forehead temperture reading. God Giulio, don't be sick, please don't be sick. We have made it this far, don't be sick. Giulio coughed again, this time it sounded more chesty, sick-y than the one he produced only moments before. The nurse got up and took the thermometer from his mouth. "Uh-uh." She shook her head. "He's got 98.9. Let me get the doctor." She left the room and came back almost immediately with someone in a long white coat. He looked in Giulio's mouth, ("well, he doesn't have tonsellitis.") and informed us that in doing surgery with even a low fever considerably raised the risks. Giulio would not be getting his andenoids out today. "Come back next week and we will do it then." The nurse smiled sympathetically, told us that the impegnativo that the pediatrician gave me today would still be good for next week, that she would see us soon, and escorted us out the door. It's didn't seem possible. We had overcome a lack of blood relatives, crazy work schedules, adversity, the Italian NHS, and low cell phone reception, only to be thwarted by a 98.9 fever. Defeated we slumped back to the car, Lorenzo headed off to the office, Giulio and I went home and watched "Babe".
The surgery was rescheduled, but this time Lorenzo is going by himself with Giulio, I have to work and I can't miss anymore lessons as this is the last week of school, and I don't feel like asking for any more favours from people, even if they would be more than willing to oblige. No, this time Lorenzo will be on his own. At least this time he has the impegnativo.

He's my Donkey

I went to the doctor this morning after being sick all weekend. I should have gone on Friday afternoon, but I had things to do and I remember thinking-ah, how sick could I be? My children may get sick, my husband may get sick, but Mommy, no Mommy doesn't get sick. She can't. I then spent all weekend thinking that my head was going to explode and wincing every time I swallowed, and then after a phone call with my mother, felt sure that I was succumbing to a terrible staph infection. It is also a little difficult in our house to "take it easy". Livia has started crawling and Lorenzo had to work both Saturday and Sunday afternoon. Enough said. What I really wanted was my mother to come in and sweep the children off for about 12 hours so I could stay in bed and sip orange juice, but there is no point on dwelling on that when my mother is on another continent, and several time zones away. Pumped up with ibuprophen I managed to go out and buy a birthday present, take the kids out for pizza Saturday night, and attend two birthday parties on Sunday, all the while trying not to swallow too often. Perhaps it wasn't just being sick that made me feel so wiped out, but also Giulio's end of school party that was held on Friday afternoon.
While Giulio's school doesn't officially close until the end of June, on the basis that some kids will be gone for vacation or whatever, they hold the party at the end of May, at a large outdoor pavillion on the edge of town. The kickoff was at 12, when the kids would be having their picnic lunch (no pasta!) of sandwhiches and fruit. I arrived at 12:30 with Livia, Lorenzo arrived around 1:15. The heat was intense, made worse by the fact that it had rained a little that morning, making everything excessively muddy and humid, in the end the most comfortable place to be was in the shade of the pavillion, but the teachers would have none of it. They had organized an action packed afternoon of performances by the children, along with games involving the parents, a treasure hunt and graduation ceremony. At 1:30 things got started off by the children dancing and singing along with a tape recording of "Old MacDonald", doing a carefully choreographed number. With my camera fixed on Giulio, I watched as he stood there, smiling shyly, watching his classmates sing and dance around him. It dawned on me that I would never be able to say, "Giulio always loved performing, ever since he was little!" to some journalist as I am being interviewed about my son's great Oscar win. Clearly he didn't love it, could barely tolerate standing there next to them as they e-i-e-i-o-ed around him. Then they all sat down as the 4 year olds launched into their individual number, some other song involving animals, the children serious and stern as they performed. Is there anything cuter than small children focused on a task? It is moments like that that make you glad to have children, glad to sit in 90 degree heat video tape them, glad to attend an end of the year picnic. And Giulio was going to have no part in it. I would just have to be glad to watch someone else's child shimmy around the circle. And then Giulio's group got up, and led by two five year olds went into their dance, or at least wiggled their hips around, immitating sheep and frogs and cats, in time to the song booming out of the CD player. And Giulio was right there, wiggling along with them, apparently having a great time. My Oscar fantasy, like Marcel Proust's memories, came flooding back.
After that there were games, endless games, all involving running and carrying children under the hot sun. The children all donned donkey ears, carefully made by the teachers for the games portion. Yes, it was pretty much the cutest thing I had ever seen though I am still confused about what it had to do with racing while carrying Giulio on my shoulders. Or running across the grass to some far corner, blindfolded in some gauzy material that did not block my vision but did make my face sweat, to scoop Giulio up and run back across the lawn with him. There was also a potato sack race, with garbage bags instead of sacks which resisted two hops before your legs went through the bottom. I pretended to be preoccupied with Livia and sat that one out.
Then there was the treasure hunt which ended disastrously because Giulio's prize, a small plastic gun that blew bubbles didn't work, which caused him to have a meltdown, which caused him to almost miss the "graduation ceremony" when each child was called one by one to received a medal, a class photo, and a diploma rolled up and tied with a piece of ribbon. I went up on Giulio's behalf to receive his diploma, with Giulio hanging on my leg and shrieking as I walked towards the teacher. Which ended with me telling Giulio that if this was how he was going to behave we would leave now, and me avoiding eye contact with any other parent. Everyone else's child was seated correctly, mine was a wailing mess of tears and hiccups. In the end, it was his teacher who intervened, telling us we couldn't leave now, we were about to have a special snack--bread and Nutella! It may sound ridiculously simple, but there are few things better than bread and Nutella, and nothing better for calming down a three year old. Giulio ate his snack and then we fled the hot picnic grounds for our car's air conditioning.
On Sunday was had to attend two birthday parties, one was a joint party for Alessandro and Vanda, my neighbor's children, and the other was for the daugher of Lorenzo's good friend and colleague Massimo. Italian birthday parties haven't reached the level of hype that we have in the United States. One of my favorite baby websites had a thread about planning our babies' first birthday party, six months before they were to turn one. There are women for whom it is very important that 1 year old Kaitlyn has the right hat to wear to go with her Strawberry Shortcake themed birthday cake, which she would then be allowed to smash her little fist into. Apparently no birthday party is now complete with out a smashcake for little Landon to destroy. There was no theme for Alessandro's party, Terry had not been out hunting all corners of Nothern Italy for the table cloth that would really fit a Harley Davidson themed party, nor was she using a glue gun moments before the party began to make sure that rubber ducks would stay upright and afloat in a wadding pool. No, there was none of that. Instead the party resembled more what birthday parties were like 15 years ago in the States. Terry had 3 of her sisters come with their husbands and children, she invited me and one other non-family member, plus her husband Eugenio's family, and Vanda invited 3 friends of her own. She rented the room that the local church rents out for birthday parties, mainly because our living rooms don't hold more than eight people very well, let alone children running in and out. In total there was maybe 20 people, including children. They set up a large table and covered it with pizza, chips, sandwiches, candy, three birthday cakes (but no smashcake), spumante and coke. They sang Happy Birthday, they opened presents and then the children were free to run about, occasionally splashing each other with the small fountain that sits outside the parish office. The adults ate and talked and played with the babies. There were no organized games, though apparently you can hire a teenage girl specifically for the purpose of organizing the children for games if you want, and though simple it fulfilled the purpose of what you want at a party; a time to be together with the people you like and enjoying good food in the bargain. The one fly in the ointment were the cakes. They were delicious, and had cost 190 euros all together, far more than Terry had anticipated paying. Apparently Eugenio had picked them up and paid for them, no questions asked, and Terry planned to go the bakery tomorrow and have it out with them. It seemed the baker had said she would make three 15 person cakes for the event, and instead had made what appeared to be three 30-person sized cakes and more than doubled the cost.
Our visit to the second party revealed more of the same thing, lots of food, people sitting around, and no theme, no organized games, and no one seemed to know or mind what was missing. I sometimes wonder who switched the rules on us, who upped the ante in the US. Who decided that such a simple idea like a child's birthday party was no longer valid and instead one needed themes, reception halls, smashcakes and the like. I'm sure these parties are fun too, but all the same, if you asked Giulio what he liked the most about the party he would tell you it was putting his hands in the fountain and getting his t-shirt soaked.

Festa della Polizia di Stato

Today was Festa della Polizia, at least in our house anyway. Like most organizations in Italy, the police get their day once a year. Though officially celebrated last week in Rome with the President of Italy and various ministers present, it was done here today on a smaller scale with everyone heading to Bergamo for the ceremony and reception afterwards. It was not my first Festa. The first one I went to was five years ago, when I didn't have kids and was not yet married. I went and stood in the rain to watch Lorenzo and a row of other police officers decked out in full uniform stand and salute at various intervals during the ceremony. I always get a kick out of seeing Lorenzo in uniform, as he usually works wearing his regular clothes, so I didn't mind too much standing in the rain to see him. I did mind that I was in jeans and a Northface raincoat and all the other women were much more elegantly dressed, despite the weather. The ceremony was held in the front yard of some enormous villa, its' owners long gone, now used for weddings and formal events like this. Afterwards we all trooped inside for refreshments; wine, risotto, cheeses, meat, cake, fruit, champagne, all consumed while standing up. As I lolled against the wall, sipping my champaigne and gazing up at the ceiling frescoes, I decided that living in Italy and dating a police officer had its advantages. I, who come from a town where if you don't have baked beans and potato salad at the wedding reception you cannot consider yourself legally married, was sold. I decided I would never miss a Festa if I could help it. Three years ago Lorenzo was set to receive an award so I went, properly dressed this time, with Giulio then a wriggling seven month old on my lap. That Festa always stays with me because the Chief of Police at that time gave a speech where at the end he thanked the families of all the officers, recognizing that we also make sacrifices and thanking us for our support. That year though the Festa was held in a theater so while the food was good, it lacked the ambience of the 18th century villa, even if there was more elbow room. Then I sat it out for a few years. Last year we went because my parents were here and wanted to see the whole shabang (and eat the food!) They were not dissapointed. The Festa was held at the Catholic seminary named for John the 23rd (who was born not far from there) which is in Citta Alta (the high city) of Bergamo, so we had a spectacular view of the city below during the garden reception. "This is incredible!" my father exclaimed, shoveling in his second helping of mushroom risotto in truffle oil, indicating towards the view. The only fly in the ointment on that day was that Giulio was four days into being potty trained and proceeded to wet himself three times in about 45 minutes, usually only moments after I had asked him if he needed to go and him adamantly denying that he did. In the photos he is wearing a different pair of pants in each photo, the last pair being this ancient pair of sweatpants that lived in the diaper bag for unexected bathroom emergencies. I can't say that they really went with the freshly ironed polo shirt that he was wearing.
This year we have potty training firmly under our belt, but this year we have Livia, who is battling some virus that causes high fever and never ending grumpiness. I feel a bit like the woman in the fairytale where evil gnomes come in the night and take away my happy, smiling baby and leaving me with her fussy, unhappy twin. Where was my Livia? I didn't know this grumpy baby at all. I might have forgone the nice reception and stayed at home; honestly, sitting through a half hour ceremony with a sick baby and a energetic three year old all for a free plate of pasta seemed a bit much. But this year Lorenzo was getting another award for capturing and arresting some mob guy and I wanted to be there. The Festa is the one day out of the whole year where all those long hours and lost Sundays when Lorenzo's at work seem worth it and I didn't feel like missing it. I had initially asked Vanda to come with me give me a hand with Giulio, but she couldn't come at the last minute, so I followed two women Lorenzo knows from his union on the drive up because they had offered to give me a hand with the kids.
I was glad that I had a made an effort to look nice, because the two women, Gianna and Monica, were dressed to the nines when they pulled. Head to toe elegant black clothes, manicured nails, and long dramatic earrings, I didn't think they would take to kindly to having Livia leave snot on the shoulders of their jackets.
After parking we walk up the hill to the seminary where Lorenzo meets us at the gate, all decked out in his uniform. We let Giulio check out the bomb-sniffing dog and then go into the auditorium to stake out a place on the end of an aisle where I could keep the stroller next to us. The ceremony wasn't set to start for an hour and there was lots of room. No sooner had we sat down than Giulio begins demanding food, though this time I had come prepared with drinkable yoghurts and crackers, and then he starts demanding to go to the bathroom. I give a whiny Livia over to Lorenzo (let's hope she doesn't get snot on his shoulder, won't go with the uniform) and take Giulio to the scene of so many of last year's potty mishaps. We come back and Lorenzo hands me a wailing Livia and the video camera. "Ok, so it's really important you get the moment when I get the award, and maybe also a bit of the National Anthemn, and oh!" he says, putting the photo camera in the stroller, "Don't forget to take photos!" Geez, maybe I could take a ten page introspective photo shoot on the whole event and send it to Vanity Fair while I'm at it? I'd like to see Mario Testino use a video camera with one hand and bounce a grumpy baby with the other. Monica offers to hold Livia so I can film, but Livia will have no one of it. She keeps arching her back and wailing, clearly only Mommy will do today. In the end I hold her on my left hip, while with my right hand I operate the video camera as they kick things off with the National Anthemn. The camera shakes like an elderly Katherine Hepburn is holding it. I roam over the crowd, taking in the choir singing onstage; a mix of young children wearing matching t-shirts and baseball hats and an elderly group with all the men wearing tuxedos. The combination of the two sounds is intense, part bleating, part vibrating. They sing the first verse of the anthemn, against a taped orchestral accompionment, of which most people know the words, and then they launch into the second verse of which no one knows the words. The audience promptly drops out, though all the police who rose at the first chord to salute must remain standing, though fortunately after two verses the choir has had enough and we all sit down, except for me, while the Chief of Police comes up to speak. I turn the camera off and put Livia in her stroller and try to slowly rock her to sleep, listening to the Chief go through his laundry list of numbers and statistcs for the last year. You can be sure that there will be no thanking the families of the officers today. Livia has just dropped off and I am about to sit down when the man's speech ends and suddenly there is a thunder of applause. Livia wakes with a start and immediately starts wailing. They then move into the awards, which in some way is worse, because they are now applauding every two minutes or so. I resign myself to standing for the rest of the ceremony, easing the stroller back and forth.
I look across the packed auditorium to where Lorenzo and the other officers who are getting awards today are seated together, I assume that the ones who are standing are next to be called so I think I have a few minutes before I have to do any more filming. Suddenly Lorenzo stands up, shit, shit, shit they are about to call him! I fumble with the camera waiting for it to click and whirl into life, and then it comes on and not a moment too soon cause now they are reading out Lorenzo's name and he and his superior are marching on stage and saluting, and the officials are giving him his award and the audience is clapping, and I would clap to except that I am still holding the camera one handed, while rocking the stroller with the other. I film until he comes off the stage and then I turn the thing off and throw it into the diaper bag, and just as well, cause someone had thought it would be a good idea to end the ceremony with the choir singing the gospel standard "Oh Happy Day", not exactly the sentiment I would use to describe the police. Ask Lorenzo when he comes staggering in at 2 am after working 12 hours if it's a happy day that he works for the police. And is there a choir any less suited to sing this number than the group we have before us? Italians for some reason love Gospel music, it offers something that is foreign and that they themselves are unable to produce, and yes, Gospel music can be wonderful, when sung by the righ choir with the right spirit. These octongenarians and their 10 year old counterparts are not what the composer had in mind when he wrote the piece, this all white group of non-english speaking Italians who are not used to clapping together or improvising high notes, as the skinny soloist is now attempting to do. The spirit may be willing but the flesh is weak. The song doesn't sound exhaulted, but only tired, sung by people ready to go and eat lunch. The crowd doesn't seem to mind though, they join in clapping including Monica and Gianna, but their flesh is weak too and after a few bars they lose the beat and have to drop out. I bite my lip and look down at a sleepy Livia and try not to laugh out loud. Lorenzo told me later that he had to struggle not to laugh as well.
I realize as the choir winds down that in a matter of moments everyone is going to make a run to the door and to the buffett lunch outside and that I will have to battle the crowds while steering a heavy stroller and holding onto Giulio. I make the decision to get out early, Monica rises to the occasion and offers to bring Giulio out with her, leaving me to navigate the stairs on each side of the auditorium and then enourmous flight which leads to the outside. Luckily there are some firemen present, perhaps for eventual crowd control (things getting heated in the buffet line?) and two of them take the stroller and, like the Pope sitting in his chair, lower Livia down the stairs. She and I wait outside in the blinding sunshine as people stream out the enormous door and head towards the long tables loaded with food and wine glasses. The staff seems to be mostly teenagers, no doubt brought in from one of the technical high schools which teaches, along with hotel management, catering skills. It says a lot for my self-control that I do not make a beeline for the tables but wait until Giulio arrives with Monica, followed by Lorenzo who wants to know if his hat was on straight when he went up to get his award. He has obviously never held a baby and used a video camera at the same time or he would know that such attention to detail was beyond me at that time. We take a few family photos and then head towards the now long line to get something to eat.
All I can say is that I must be becoming a little Italian because even though the printed menu lists no less than 15 different dishes, the food just wasn't as good as last year. There was no pasta dish or risotto, though there were three different cold meat dishes, including roast beef with rocket and grana. But Lorenzo agreed, this year it just wasn't as good. Last year there had been two sets of tables as well, one inside and one outside, this year there was just the one set outside meaning there was more jostling and less elbow room. And I had Livia in her stroller to wheel around, trying not to nip the well-heeled ankles of the ladies and gentleman around me. So I have come to the conclusion that unless Lorenzo gets any more awards in the meantime, I'm not going back until Livia can walk distances without a stroller.
As a post script, I am writing this now on Sunday, the good gnomes gave me Livia back and she is here smiling and crawling and being generally good humored. Instead it seems Giulio is now ill, with a fever and a new developement: throwing up. I have a feeling it is going to be a long night........

It Happened One Night

We had a broken night here on Friday. Giulio had been trying for two days with lots of tears and little success to move his bowels and by Friday night I knew it wasn't going to be good. He passed out on our friend's couch around 11 o'clock, after an evening of false alarms, running to the bathroom and the changing his mind once he got there saying, "I just fine!" My friend Theresa offered me a suppository, or what we call around my house Up the Butt, and it was very tempting to go ahead and use it. However, when we use the UTB it results in tears and screaming from Giulio before there is any action. I didn't think Theresa really wanted a 3 year old hopping and crying around her dining room in pain while the rest of us ate dessert so I decided to hold off until we got home. Once at home though Giulio was sleeping so well that I didn't feel like waking home, decided he could try again tomorrow to go, and so, exhausted we all went to sleep around 12:30.
At 2:30 I am woken by the sounds of crying. I lie there for a second deciphering which child it is. It takes a moment to realize that it is Giulio, and no sooner have I thrown back the covers and my feet have touched the floor that I hear Livia joining in. This isn't that confused-where-am-I-bad-dream crying. This is open mouthed-full throat yelling from both of them. Did I mention that it is 2:30, oh, and did I mention that we are sleeping with the windows open? Fair enough you say, but I really don't want to wake the neighbors, who are undoubtably sleeping with their windows open too. Not my neighbors below me, we're cool, I mean the neighbors in the building next to ours. Once, about a nine months after we had lived here, towards the end of August a tenant in the building next door asked me if Giulio suffered from stomach problems, as they had often heard him crying during the night. What they were hearing were not stomach problems but a jet lagged toddler still on American time, outraged that his mother had left him in his crib to cry it out, rather than letting him get up at 3 am. While I smiled and assured the neighbor that no, Giulio had no stomach problems, I got the hint. From then on, all crying jags that occur late at night in the summer months involve immediate damage control i.e. shut bedroom windows so the neighbors won't hear. Last summer I got off easy, Giulio when he would wake up would simply go and get into bed with my parents who were here last summer for four months to give me a hand before the second baby showed up. Now it's back to all hands on deck i.e. my hands on deck. My husband, Sleeping Beauty's younger brother, rarely wakes for these late night damage control sessions.
He did wake for this one, with both kids screaming to wake the dead. I went into immediate action, shutting the bedroom windows, giving Livia some water to drink and then leaving her to cry while I carried a wailing Giulio into the bathroom, closing the bedroom door behind me. She would have to wait. Giulio tried for the upteenth time to go, screaming and hopping up and down in pain, tears running down his face. "Sshhhh Giulio!" I said, closing the bathroom window. Lorenzo and I held a quick conference to Up the Butt or not Up the Butt. Lorenzo was all for waiting. I, who had no interest in passing the rest of the night getting out of bed every hour or so while Giulio tried in vain to go, quickly dismissed that suggestion. We needed to do it, and we needed to do it now. We carried a still crying Giulio to the living room, while in the bedroom Livia was still wailing away. Lorenzo got the UTB, a plastic collapsible vial with a narrow straw at one end, while I got Giulio on the couch. Upon seeing the vial Giulio started yelling even louder, "nononononono!" Like two coyboys wrestling a wild calf to the ground so they can brand it with the hot iron, Lorenzo and I pinned Giulio down to the couch, me holding his flailing body into place, while Lorenzo inserted the UTB. Giulio's yells turn to screams. Shit, we are sitting under an open window, who knows what the neighbors are thinking now? It sounds like we are either a) branding Giulio with a hot iron or b) trying to kill him. I put my hand over his mouth to muffle him, and in a moment it's over. Screams return to regular crying, and once I get his diaper back on him, Giulio ceases to cry, other than the occasional shuttering hick-up. In the kid's room there is silence; Livia has fallen back asleep. I carry Giulio back to his room and get him settled back into bed, and then I join an already sleeping Lorenzo. I am asleep before my head hits the pillow.
3:30 Crying sounds coming from the kids room again but before I can open my eyes I hear the patter of little feet running down the hallway to the bathroom and the sounds of a diaper being ripped off and then discarded. I join Giulio where he is sitting on the potty, crying. "Oh sweetie, it hurts, doesn't it?" He nods, I sit down opposite him on the rim of the tub, and he leans over and puts his head in my lap. I make some soothing noises and rub his head, he sighs and relaxes a bit. And then lo and behold! He goes! I get him cleaned up, new diaper, and then back to bed. I re-open the kid's bedroom windows, as well as the one in the bathroom, damage control no longer an issue. Both kids are now asleep, Lorenzo (who couldn't be woken for this round) is asleep too. I am sure that now Giulio will sleep late this morning...............
7:30. A small voice in my ear whispers: "Mommy, I hungry." And he was, of course, in the worst mood all day Saturday!
Today is Mother's Day, my present: Lunch out with the family somewhere in the mountains. Except that any day trip of ours is kind of like preparing for a mini trip to Rome. We have to dress the kids, pack backpacks with jackets, sweatshirts, change of clothing, diapers, and sunscreen. Lorenzo insists on making sandwiches, and I have to organize Livia's food, all while watching the clock and yelling at each other repeatedly, "We need to go! Do you know what time it will be by the time we get there....!" And then there is of course the journey; me trying to read a map and give Lorenzo directions, while Giulio demands water and breadsticks from the backseat. And once I have dug out the water bottle and filled up the cup (yes, I know a Good Mother would have a spill-proof bottle all ready for him to drink from especially for the journey) and handed it back to him, he then takes one small sip and tries to give it back to me, announcing "I fine!"
I ran into a friend of my on Friday afternoon and wished her a Happy Mother's Day, she is the mother of three boys. She grabbed my arm and looked me in the eye."Do you know what I would like to do for Mother's Day? I want to be on the top of a mountain. All by myself. Alone. I know you know what I am talking about." I did. I do. Sitting in the front seat trying not to be carsick as I look for some town on the map while Lorenzo swings the car around a hairpin turn while Giulio demands water from the backseat, I can't help but think how nice it would be to be alone today. As long of course that I knew that the kids would be home that evening. We end the day by going to a church with Romanesque frescos. It's down a lane, with high stone walls on each side and a cherry tree bearing fruit out front. Next to the church is a small cemetary which is obviously full, no one has been buried there since the 1970s, other than the row of nuns down at one end. A large number of the tombs are of the wordy, Victorian variety, something I have never seen with Italian tombs. "Most loving mother and devoted wife, goodness personified" and "Devoted to his widowed mother he was taken too soon from this life at 16 years of age." And of course, many old people. I am walking hand and hand with Giulio reading some of the gravestones when a woman comes in. She looks at me a minute with Giulio and then comes over. "These women were mothers too," she says. "Life is like a wheel, it just keeps turning." Then she smiles and wishes me a good day before going over to visit a particular grave. I smile too and squeeze Giulio's hand, happy to be a mother, with my young child together on Mother's Day.

Crystal Ball

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