Siamo [We are] ...

"Siamo la quinta!"

Maddy, in a loud, bellowing voice, imitates her teacher as we begin to make our way back to the apartment.

"We are the 5th grade!" Allie and Nick repeat loudly, but in English, with the fresh focaccia in their mouths that I brought as an after-school snack. We giggle a bit, as we always do, and await the tale.  Maddy's teacher at Redentore, her school, is very good, but she is strict and is fond of yelling at her students when they do not preform to her standards.  We look forward to Maddy's stories about her teacher; whatever the tale, it always ends with her teacher yelling, "We are the fifth grade!" 

By the time Maddy has told of the offending action to warrant the 5th grade reminder, we are in front of the corner sewing store.  There,  I push my way past the kids.  The kids know to stop and wait for me, so with a great heave they swing their heavy backpacks off their shoulders and wait for my go-ahead.  Slowly, I begin my journey onto the crosswalk: one step, two ... cars whiz past me, until I am so far out on the crosswalk the next car has no choice but to stop or hit me. Finally, I hold out an arm, and with eye contact to the stopped driver, I wave the kids to walk across the road. They run quickly, the sound of rolling backpacks and tennis shoes filling my ears until I know they are all safely on the other side. At the moment the kids are safely across,  the car might swerve around me -- in which case I gesture, Italian-style, or the car might might wait and I will  have the luxury of walking across the road, in peace, where my kids wait. In the latter situation I wave, American-style, and say "grazie."

From there, it is a quick jaunt over cobble stones and pot holes, past the Chinese joint where we eat unfamiliar Chinese food every now and again, up the elevator with tales from Allie and Nick, and finally home to Rachel and Michael [most days] for a proper 1:30 lunch together.

And so, we begin to become Italian.  Or more Italian or less American, or somehow more one way and not the other or not one way and more the other.   I have found myself  ravenous at 1:30 for a hot, full, meal and wanting very little at night.  My tennis shoes are secure in a permanent home in the back of my closet, as my sole exercise is walking around town. I don't think much about exercise: in fact, it is hard to even imagine "working out" in the traditional sense of my life at home. 

There are changes in the kids, too.  They are more patient than before.  Probably since in Italy, patience is less a virtue than a necessity: a lack of it and you will only make yourself crazy.  Unless they are in a car, Italians will wait for you to do anything. No one will comment if, as you are walking along with your child, he suddenly, and irrationally, needs to "fix" his shoe and stop all foot traffic behind you. The Italians will smile and tell you it's nothing.  No one moans if the line at the COOP supermarket extends all the way to the  deodorant and there is one check-out person. The old lady waiting behind you will simply  start talking to you about what you are buying. And nary a complaint is heard if all  have to wait for a young woman to put on lipstick and fluff her hair so car doors can be opened.  Italy is so lacking in space -- personal and otherwise -- that the togetherness of daily life requires we all calm down, wait, and go with it.

Still, even with our embrace of mid-day meals, slow life, pasta as a first course, and harsh criticism as a way of teaching, we still needed our country fix, so we planned a stay at an agrotourism in Piemonte, Italy, the weekend before Halloween. After two terrific days here in Piemonte, we can home this afternoon to a huge, orange pumpkin, in our kitchen. The agritourismo's owner, Giovanna, with whom we have become friendly,  had gone to the market and purchased a beautiful pumpkin for us to carve. "I know this American tradition. I know how wonderful it is for the children." With that, she pushed back her grey curls and told us that she had candies for the kids and they could come trick or treating tonight at her house:  the house next to the one the were renting for the weekend. "I know Halloween is tomorrow, but you come anyway."

And so, Michael carved the pumpkin, and roasted pumpkin seeds [which we gave to Giovanna to try, and she liked], and we found a candle and lit it, too, and then we sang a harvest song, all scrunched around our pumpkin and cold from the night air. Then, after a hot soup, the four kids went around the house to try and find what they could  to "dress up"  before venturing next door. In blankets, and socks on hands and heads [Nicholas wanted to wear underwear on his head, but Michael said no], the kids went out to trick-or-treat next door. They came back quickly, each with a small bag filled with Italian candies and gels, and faces filled with smiles and happiness. As they dumped their bags on the kitchen table and shared their candy, it was clear that on this day, this 30th of October, in Italy, we had had a wonderful Halloween. In between Italy and America and here and there, we had found something else, that was only for us.

***

Little Surprise

    Whenever Rachel, our two-year-old, runs away from me when I tell her to come, or throws herself on the floor in a tantrum when I tell her no second cookie, or slaps my leg when I require her to sit in her stroller, I look at my other children in earnest and say,"This is why you should never have children until you are really ready. Until you have your education and have travelled the world." I don't know if this idea of parenhood ain't all easy is sinking in, or is one of many "Mom sayings"  that they will laugh and shake their head about later. ["What the heck was Mom talking about half the time..." is the beginning of a conversation I imagine my adult children having more than once.] Still, I persist, because while I love being a mother, I also know that I am happy I went to college and saw some of the world before I was required for two a.m. feedings.

     In America, toy babies are cute. They are to be bathed, to sweetly say "Mama," and --like the Waldorf one I got for Maddy when she was two -- to stay perpetually asleep.  In Italy, they take toy babies to a whole other level.  In Italy, they have toy babies that poop. Once these toy babies are fed, a stinky poop hits their diapers. Ka-ka complete,  the baby says, "Sopresina!"  This pooping baby is advertised on T.V., and in it, the "Mom" of the "baby" holds her nose while the "baby" poops with a loud fart. In the next scene, the little girl, with an [apparently] clean baby, gives the baby's bottom a little pat and smiles at the camera. All is well again.  Until the next feeding, one assumes.  If the pooping baby isn't enough of Mommy Reality, you can also get a toy baby with a green, mucus-like liquid that needs to be wiped away every few minutes.  One can imagine that after playing with these almost too-real babies, you not only become an expert diaper changer and snot wrangler, but wary of motherhood besides.  Cleaning poop, after all,  is only fun so many times.  I wonder if these little dolls help explain Italy's small population growth, at least a bit.
                                                                                                                                                      

      Often times, Italian men are blamed for the low population growth. Their unwillingness to move out of home. Their macho outlook that requires a wife to be too many things all at once. I really have no idea about any of that, but I will say that I see more Italian men at the playground with their kids, and at school picking up their kids, that I have ever seen in America. And while their gelled hair and up-turned collars might not scream "Men Who Help Do The Dishes," they are there, with sweaters casually tied over their shoulders, pushing swings, playing peek-a-boo, reading books, being funny monsters. They are there, throwing little girls in the air and giving them raspberry kisses. Perhaps they missed out on those Italian dolls when they were kids.
                                                                                                                                                       

      Still, gender roles are more strongly defined--or at least differently defined-- than we are used to at home.  My eldest daughter, Maddy, is athletic. She is fast and strong, and can throw a ball. On the other hand, in her class of girl-jocks at home -- those hockey stars, soccer lovers, martial arts experts -- she never feels like an athlete. Nor, truth told, does she usually have much enthusiasm  for playing sports with the other kids. But here, the fact that she wants to run at all makes her unusual. In gym class, she was the only girl who wanted to and was willing to play dodge ball, and the few times she has been outside at break, she runs around the yard.  The girls, she said, stand to the side with their "party shoes" on,unwilling to take part in any athletic fun. She is enjoying this new definition of self.                 
                                                  

     Somehow, though, these Italian girls standing to the side must take command of their shoes.  For they turn into Italian women who, perhaps in defiance of their gender role or in an embrace of it, learn how to bike with speed and skill while wearing three-inch heels and gorgeous clothes.  I see them all over Mantova, looking fabulous, high-heels on the bike gears, a tight skirt with a high back slit, a baby in the seat [with a wool hat but no helmet].  They zip past cars and Vespas, flying by me while navigating Mantova's cobble streets. Me: air Nike flats, loaded-up stroller, sweat pouring down.  How do they learn to do motherhood like that?

    There must be another doll I have missed.

                                                                  *** 

It's the small things

After [almost] two months living in Italy, it is no real accomplishment to declare that I know the Italian word "freddo" means cold and "caldo" means hot. However, last weekend in the early morning, when my littlest child woke and immediately began screaming to be OUT of her crib and FED immediately, it's something to say that I got up, half-dressed and fully groggy, and turned on the "f" faucet to wash my face and teeth. Up until then, many mornings greeted me with a blast of hot water, as I turned on "c", let it run a bit, and
splashed myself, burning my hands and face.  My first morning thoughts have often been a silent string of swear words, and a fresh feeling of incompetence. When I was awake enough to realize that my morning brain knew "c" equals hot, I took it as a small, but important, gain. There are others.

Maddy has been blessed with an extremely strict teacher, who wears big, silk scarves around her neck even when it's 85 degrees outside and another 10 inside.  She screams at the kids about not knowing their math, about not being up to 5th grade standards, about this and that.  She punches her fists on desks and lets out exasperated sighs.  She assigns and assigns homework and finds fault in almost every work,
even bringing children to tears.  Beyond that, the class stays seated  for five hours straight, doing work in their hot classrooms and grembule without more than a ten-minute break. Twice a week, this is
extended to an eight and a half hour day, with a half hour break for  lunch.   Yet, as miserable as Madeline is at school [and, despite her brave face, she is certainly having a hard time] she is learning a lot. Most
noticeably, her Italian is soaring along, she is even learning about parts of Italian speech and grammar, and her math -- initially behind the class--is now almost "in the middle" of the class.  She has gone from
expecting every answer to be right [American style] to being happy when she gets more
than half the answers correct [Italian style]. 

Her teacher, who had told Maddy her art was "too small for the page -- no good," and her Italian "wrong, wrong, wrong" asked to "have a word,"  with me.  In a hushed tone, while loosening her bright scarf wrapped around her neck, she told me that she was happy to teach Madeline and found her to be a good student. I stood there, not a little surprised, and managed a confused grazie.
***


When we decided living in Italy for a year was a great idea, Michael and I promised Allie that she could continue her gymnastics.  Promises were easy to make in Montana, and much harder to execute here. After many calls, and lots of searching, we found a gymnastics team in Mantova. The only issue was she had to make the team: no problem, we thought. Allie is a good gymnast, taking first in most of her meets in most of the categories.  She is dedicated and hardworking, and has a high threshhold for hard physical work. However, when we stepped inside the doors to the Mantova "Airone" gymnastics, we were surprised.

The kids were good. Really good. They all had perfectly fit bodies [gymnastics style], incredible flexibility and strength. Kids were flipping and splitting and hand-standing all around us.  The coach, a plain-looking woman in her late 40s, said she would allow Allie to practice with them for a few weeks and then decide if Allie could join them for the year.  With that, Allie practiced, trying her best with a new set of words and expectations. When we picked her up,  the teacher shrugged her shoulders, "She is behind in some things. Keep coming. We'll see."

And so Allie came. For the past two months Allie came and worked [oh how she worked] and tried her best. Until, tonight, the teacher asked Allie to stand in front of the team. In Italian, she asked,

"Do you want to be part of this team?"

"Si," Allie replied

"You understand what I am saying?"

"Si," Allie replied.

The teacher turned to the group of kids and asked, "Do you want Allie to be a part of our team?"

"YES!" they replied loudly, in English.

Allie came home with her new gymnastics team shorts [hot pants, black] and shirt [blue, with an Italian flag] and warm-up [flared pants].

"Are you happy?" I asked, ruffling her head.

She nodded."Si."
***

Posso giocare means "May I play?" in Italian, and it's an important phrase to know if you are under 12 in Italy.  Here, the most amazing thing happens when a few kids get together and begin to play: other kids -- I have seen as young as three years old--ask to join in the play.  They are not prodded to do so by their parents:  it's just part of the culture. Add a ball, and you have every kid within a city block ready to join.

In Varazze, after a lovely birthday dinner for my mother-in-law and a shot of melloncello [say YES if you are ever offered this yummy drink] my kids and nieces and nephews began playing a game of soccer in an old piazza.  As they toured around the old stones, balls whizzing, kids yelling, other, non-family kids were suddenly in the mix, too. And off they went: ten at night on a Saturday, kicking around an old ball on a cobble-stone street, sweating, laughing, playing.  I thought of the US and our teams and coaches and Sunday morning games, our soccer shoes, and mid-game-snacks and cheering-on, our fees and jerseys and regulation balls, and it hit me:  I must bring some of this delicious melloncello back to my friends.

                                                                     *****