You can't spell Open House without the word "OVERZEALOUS"

I recognize that I view 1970s style parenting through a nostalgic 1970s Instagram filter. But I can't help but wonder if parents had less guilt when the only books on how to parent  had instructions like "What to Do If Your Child Is Choking." Today a similar chapter would be entitled: "Why Your Child is Choking and How it Will Effect His or Her Psyche."

I pretend to take American parenting theories with a grain of salt, but secretly I hold them close and try to incorporate  them into all my parenting choices so that I don't fail. It doesn't matter if the instructions are contradictory. At least one of them has to be the Right One. For example, I fully accept that parents must make all the child's choices for them so that children suffer no negative consequences due to their actions. I equally accept that it is important that we allow our child to call all the shots because making choices for a child is bad. And that the only children who are happy in life are the ones left outside to play in the dirt with a stick. But first one must trim the stick with safety scissors so that the child doesn't poke out their eye. And a good parent will also have the dirt tested to make sure it has no lead or Red Dye #40  should their child wish to ingest it.

And at the latest Back-to-School/Open House night, it became clear that even while living abroad, we are Americans at heart and we bring with us this collective cultural parenting know-how.

As the various faculty presented topics throughout the school, we took notes. We nodded sagely. We wrinkled our brows to show We Were Paying Attention while in reality we were bookmarking  teacher's gifts on Pinterest.

The Italian moms entered late, if at all. They stood in the hallways talking and laughing, eating the school-prepared panini and drinking coffee and sparkling water.

In between presentations, the Americans grabbed and discarded cups of water like athletes running a marathon. We knew that our child's education depended on our ability to claim the center seat in the front row.

During one such lecture, the music teacher explained what the curriculum would look like for the students this year, played a few selections from her last performance on Broadway, and then asked if there were any questions. Of course we had questions! How would she know our child was a prodigy waiting to be discovered if we didn't show enough interest to ask questions? Every American arm waved high: "My daughter isn't bringing her instrument  home every day! How can I wash it?" "My son didn't get a solo for the fall concert; will he be getting one for the Christmas performance?" "Is there extra credit?" "How many hours each night should my child be practicing for music class?""Why did last year's class get to sing four songs and this year's only gets to sing three?"

I won't share which question was mine, but I will tell you that it was completely valid.

"Did you see the music teacher?" one Italian mom asked me as I raced by on my way to attend a lecture entitled "Gym Class: How to Make the Leap from Badminton to The Ivy League".

"Um, yeah," I fumbled for my Power Point print-out to share with her, which she politely ignored.

"Why?" she asked. "Why do we meet the music teacher? What does that tell us?"

"Um...the dress code for the music concert?" I guessed.

She took a bite from a peach and shook her sadly. "There is no reason! The children wear what they wear. There is no reason for these meetings."

I  placed my hand over my quickly sketched diagrams of various outfit choices for the fall concert. Such a relaxed attitude had to be a ruse and I for one was not going to be tricked into giving away my genius ideas for sartorial perfection.

During the library technology speech, we applauded when the librarian explained that books could be borrowed from the library. We murmured with excitement when we were shown how students could use a color-coded stick to mark the place of a book they had removed from the shelf while browsing. With the stick marking the place, the students could easily re-shelve the book without having to use the call letters or the alphabet. We typed "buy color-coded sticks to practice at home" on our i-phones.

"Any questions?" asked the librarian.

For some reason she seemed not to see the sea of extended American hands and focused on the languid wave of a bangle covered arm. "Yes?" she asked.

"When do they get to write with the..." the bangled arm woman broke-off and looked around for help with the English word.

"La penna!" another Italian told her eagerly.

"Yes, yes!" agreed another.

"When do they get to write with pens?"

The librarian seemed confused. "They are writing with pencils-" she tried to explain.

Another Italian shook her head and clicked her tongue, "Oh, they will never use pens!" All the Italians nodded in agreement.

Frustrated with not being acknowledged when her arm was clearly still in the air, an American called out: "Will there be prizes if your child brings back their library book early?" We other Americans put down our hands, relieved that someone else had tackled the important question.

The librarian seemed equally confused by this. "Well, no," she said slowly. "But we do encourage the children to bring their books back on the day they are due.We haven't implemented monetary fines if the books are late, but if need be that is always something we can consider in the future."

There was a rustling of rapid Italian whispers and a woman asked, "Do they have to bring back these library books on the same day of every week?"

Two Italian women spoke over each other. "No, no, " said one, " they can save them and bring them back at the end of the year." "Oh yes," said the other, "I had to pay fines all the time last year because of the late books. How can you know when they are due?"

And while I wish I had something pithy with which to end this, I don't. But I suspect I'm gaining insight as to why the lifespan of the average Italian is longer than that of the average American.

a few completely unrelated tales

Over the summer, I ran into ( you don't yet know it, but that is going to prove itself to be a pun) a few unexpected problems while navigating (wow. so punny) the differences between America and Italy where parking was concerned.


The American car I had rented was a "small" SUV, so if you were to add together 3.72 cars in Italy, you would be right on target size-wise. Spacious parking lots are the norm in suburban America and   yet I had a very difficult time parking in them. I discovered that I found parking to be much easier when I was forced to defy the laws of physics and wedge a car into a space that was smaller than said car by a good 6 or 7 inches.

parking in America. See the wide open spaces? See the white lines I am not in between?

parking it Italy. I am second from the top.  That's right. You couldn't slide a piece of paper between those bumpers. 

parking in Italy...

and parking in America. Okay, these two look pretty similar. But only the one in America required a tow-truck.

So, I tried to buy a light bulb the other day. The cashier scanned the light bulb once, twice, three times a lady (if you don't quite get that reference , please refer to "Hello, is it me you're looking for?". Still nothing? How about "Dancing on the Ceiling"? Oh for goodness sake, "Brick House"? ) and the computer did not beep and light-up in recognition. The cashier shook his head at me sadly and told me that I would be unable to purchase the light bulb.
"But it's for sale. In your store," I pointed out helpfully.
"No, it does not show-up in the computer. It is not possible to buy. What? You wish for me to type in the little code on the package? Ahhh...no. No. It is not possible. No light bulb for you. NEXT!"

 Luckily I am no longer so American-ized as to be stumped by this sheer lack of logic and I was able to successfully purchase the light bulb by going to a  different cashier.

Now lest I make it sound like a certain Italian cashier has the corner market on the absurd, allow me to share with you this tale: A day or two prior, I had stopped in Camper, a fairly mainstream shoe store.

I have had the same pair of Birkenstocks ( *cough* residual of  too many Grateful Dead concerts *end cough*) for a long time. But the strain of all the kilometers --see how I did that? I can totally use the metric system in a sentence--my Birkenstocks have tread ( pun-o-rama) over the last year was too much for them and the sole cracked in half. So I was making the rounds of sandal shopping. An American couple was in the Camper store as well and while I was muttering under my breath about the stupid retail schedule that removes sandals from the shelves during the summer and replaces them with winter boots, I couldn't help but overhear the American woman as she addressed the salesperson. "Can we haggle on these prices?" she asked, holding up a boot. To his credit, the salesperson smiled and regretfully informed her that the prices were universally fixed in all Camper locations.  Because It Is What is Commonly Referred to as A Store.

 The woman was quite annoyed and left in a huff, presumably to go buy a light bulb.

Do you know what is beautiful in September? (Hint: it's Italy)

sunset at aurelian wall

san felice circeo

san felice circeo

beaches are empty, water is warm
sabaudia

sabaudia

ponte sisto

trastevere

Spell check doesn't recognize "'kryptonite"

This spring, my son was drowning in mosquito bites. His body swelled into termite mounds before deflating into bruises before lingering as yellow-green splotches. We took him to the pediatrician where ointments and jungle-worthy repellent were prescribed.

Other than slathering him with mosquito kryptonite, I couldn't do anything about the insects  that targeted him at recess or during classes held outside (in my head, the insects look like cartoon villains and have white napkins tied around their necks, rubbing their hands together like Dr. Evil), but gosh darn it, I could protect him in the sanctity of our house.  I could step-up and knock off this European open-air nonsense and put in some damn screens.

I distinctly recall that in the Little House on the Prairie series (books, not television), the Ingalls  family opened the door during a blizzard  and there stood Mr. Edwards. He had walked from New York to Idaho or Wisconsin or wherever in order to bring them Christmas gifts. And those gifts were a bag of real sugar and panes of glass for the windows. Proof that even in the days of yore, Americans liked a little somethin' somethin' as a barrier between the indoors and the outdoors.  Because not only would those panes of glass protect them from the weather and the wolves and the claim jumpers, but those windows would also protect them from The Mosquitoes. Because seriously, can you imagine anything worse than laying on your straw-stuffed "mattress" that you have to share with your sister while eating your fake sugar and crossing your fingers that someday you won't die during childbirth, and in addition having to suffer the indignity of being drained by mosquitoes?

So to protect our family, I first searched the Internet for those infomercial screens, the ones where the mom walks through the patio door carrying lemonade and not one of her lazy kids jumps up and says: "Hey Mom! Let me take that! You always do everything for everyone, so we've all chipped in and are sending you on vacation to the Bahamas!" and after none of that happens, the screen doors magnetically close behind her. Unfortunately, the reviews of those screens were pretty damning, which is really a shame because I think they were throwing in a free pitcher of lemonade with every purchase.

And then I remembered that right here in Italy was the Italian answer to Home Depot!
( http://asoccermommovestorome.blogspot.it/2012_12_01_archive.html )

Unfortunately, I couldn't recall how in the heck I had previously found my way there, so I went to a different yet similar store that I believed to be Italy's answer to Lowe's.


While I was at Italian Lowe's, I  decided to pick-up some WD40. I don't know that I have ever had an occasion to use WD-40, but it seems like the kind of thing one should have on hand.

Carrying WD-40 also kept the pesky salespeople at bay, because when you see someone with a can of WD-40 it clearly signifies that they know what they're doing. After wandering around aimlessly because I didn't know what I was doing, I saw a display that consisted of a curtain rod with overlapping screen door sized screens. It was exactly the type of thing I had been hoping to find. I drove home (only  got off at two wrong exits on the roundabout!), found my Ikea allen wrench,  and prepared to put those babies together.

However, it turned out that the display in the store did not at all hint at the fact that one had to use a jackhammer to install the curtain rod bracketing into the wall. I had incorrectly assumed that the curtain rod would be a tension rod. Which then gave me the idea of going to the store and buying tension rods. Mustering all I had learned in 6th grade home economics, I started carefully sewing the screens together.

"You should just use a stapler, " said Mike as he and John played Mario Party 9 and ate potato chips.

And you know what? He was right. So I did use a stapler. It totally worked and was way easier. And it's not like I duct taped them. Now that would be tacky. Staples are much more sophisticated.

infomercial worthy

Our dog enjoying the the beautiful weather.  With the screens hung, she can't figure out how to get into the house so now she lives on the balcony.

cliched but true: what a difference a year makes

Last year we walked to the bus stop, uncertain of how a bus could navigate through the traffic on the narrow streets, uncertain of where it would wait for its passengers. We were uncomfortable in the unrelenting heat, the heat that the locals claimed was unusual, the heat that we thought would never end.  The faces we passed were stony and foreign, the sidewalks crowded with cigarette smoke and hand gestures.

Last year our son stepped onto a bus in the midst of cars jockeying for position, the noise of their horns competing with the noise of sirens, the noise we didn't know, the noise of a city. We watched our son leave on the journey past the Coliseum, past Circo Massimo, past Castel Sant'Angelo. We watched him on his way to a new school in a new city in a new country on a new continent. It was terrifying.

But this year, this year we wore jackets and pants in the cool morning air, walking on a path we had traveled hundreds of times. 

And this year we said buongiorno, ciao to smiling familiar faces and pet dogs that wagged and wriggled under our hands, we thanked the neighbors who welcomed us back. Our son raced up the steps of the bus, a flash of purple hair and backpack, eager to see his friends. The bus driver greeted him by name.

On the way home we stopped at an often frequented cafe and our order was known before we placed it. The proprietor scolded me for being away from my husband this summer and asked if we had cornetti as good as hers in America.

She smiled knowingly, pleased when we told her that nothing we had even came close.

rientro

And I'm back, back in the beautiful land of the beautiful people. As soon as we reached our gate,  waiting for the flight to Rome, I began to play Italian or American? It is just like the license plate game, except not really.   I am proud to announce that I did not miss a single question in the Italian or American game, not even during the lightening bonus round where people were so well-dressed that to an untrained eye they could have passed for Italian; but someone as studied as I could surmise that they were American because their clothing did not fit in that seemingly careless but perfectly tailored Italian way. But for the most part, the differences were obvious.

The middle-aged  clearly-much-older-than-me gentleman wearing a crisp pink shirt under a blazer with well-cut jeans and cool shoes? Sure, that was one was plain as day even before I saw the not-a-baseball-hat hat in his hand.  The college kids looking like an ad for Abercrombie and Fitch? Again, easy-peasy.

Although I don't really know what Abercrombie and Fitch clothes look like because the one time that I went in the store it was so dark and the music was so loud that I thought I was going to have a seizure and I had to leave before the bored salesperson could even finish her greeting. So the whole concept of that store is lost on me. How can you try on clothes that you can't see? What is the appeal of shopping in the dark? And is there an extremely high employee turnover due to tinnitus?

I once spotted an Abercrombie and Fitch in Italy and of course I had to go in because I quite enjoy going into American stores in foreign countries. Don't ask me why. It's probably the same reason why my husband has eaten in a McDonalds in China. And while it was fun to see the bored but slightly more glamorous salesperson welcome me in an Italian accented surfer drawl, the store was still too dark and loud for my delicate middle-aged 40s-are-the-new-black self.

In anticipation of our return to Italy, I had stepped up my summer uniform of sloppiness. I wore long pants, despite the 90 degree temperature; make-up, even though I was travelling overnight on an airplane; and a shirt in which my fashion bra straps were clearly visible--even though in America I feel it just looks like you didn't know that for every style shirt there is a bra that can be concealed.

And of course I felt smug that I was so accustomed to travelling between countries that I was practically jaded and I felt sure that I finally could not be spotted as an outsider and would be viewed instead as practically a native. After all,  I knew to have 2 euro on hand to rent a luggage trolley. And of course I had my special card in addition to my passport because I lived there, I was no longer just visiting. And obviously I had mastered the careless Italian glamour. Well, almost. Okay, not really.

But when the passport stamper person frowned at my son's passport because it is just about 5 years old and he no longer resembles his picture and then asked me in Italian if he was my child and I knew what she was saying and was able to answer her and then she asked my son in Italian if I was his mother and he turned a jet-lagged face to me and I was able to translate for him? Oh how superior I felt to my year-ago-self who would have panicked at being questioned by the passport person in a language I didn't understand!

 Except then, because I had confidently behaved with foolish pride as though I knew what was what,  the passport person was smiling and speaking to me in a friendly fashion. So of course my blank, non-comprehending face gave me away and she nodded sympathetically and said something in Italian along the lines of Oh okay! You were just acting like you knew what was going on and in reality you don't understand Italian even though you have lived here for a year and taken two intensive courses and private lessons with an instructor who could teach Italian to a tree and  I had to sadly admit that I was not really in the know more than anyone who was visiting Italy for the first time.


So, I am not really as worldly and multi-cultural as I had fancied myself.

But still, when we arrived home, it was felt like home. And Mike had purchased an amazing breakfast cake-ish treat that we had never before eaten and it was really really good.  And the dogs couldn't find enough places to kiss us to convey their joy and our apartment looked much better than I remembered.

And so our Italian re-entry was fairly painless, even after a summer in America with central air and stores that never closed and garbage disposals and toasters and dishwashers and microwaves and ice makers and M&Ms in new flavors and phones and lights and motor cars and every luxury. There was no culture shock this go-round. I know that Italy is Italy and America is America and there are trade-offs and positives and negatives no matter where I live.

And there is one American convenience I will no longer miss. Having hung our laundry to dry for a year, through months of rain and days of cold, I thought I would pass out from the sheer ease of throwing everything into a clothes dryer.  But I did not. It would seem I have turned the Italian corner on this one as I said "Bah!" to the electric clothes dryer and continued to use a stendino even in America. Stendini forever! Clothes dryers never!

it's coming

For Italians the re-entry is undoubtedly weeks away. For me the reentry is approaching like a souped-up Honda in The Fast and The Furious Part 42.

America is apparently conspiring with my adopted country in order to make the re-entry as seamless as possible.

My slack-jawed fascination with television has all but disappeared ( in fact I am pretty sure I am missing The Real Housewives of NJ as I write this--but no worries, it will be on again at 10:00. Whew.); I have eaten my fill of all my well-missed American food, both real and junk; I once again know Target's inventory like the back of my hand and the novelty of running errands and being able to find the items for which I am looking has lost its novelty.

 The four songs on the radio vying for title of Summer Anthem 2013 make my head ache and the one tune that I can almost tolerate is loathed by my son.

And I found the throw pillows for which I have been searching and now I need to reunite with my couch in order to complete the picture. Unfortunately I do not have room in our suitcases for said throw pillows ( I have bought every extra-soft toothbrush, lone type of vitamins that don't make me nauseous,  and my favorite brand of eye make-up remover in the tri-state area), so I packed a box and prepared to ship it overseas.

"Would you like a price quote?" asked the woman behind the counter.

"No," said I, "I just want to ship it."

"You probably want a price quote," another woman chimed in.

"No, I just want to ship it."

She punched some buttons. And then some more. She asked if I was shipping to a business and I said I was shipping to a residence. More buttons were pushed.

"It will cost $500.00 to ship this box to Rome," the woman said hesitantly.

"Okay," I replied, absently searching through my bag. "Wait, 500 dollars?!?"

And the moral of this lesson is that while I may be satisfied that I enjoyed every minute of my summer vacation, I have to remember to leave behind not only the American things with which I am sated, but also any expectations of American ease and efficiency. Because it's Italy or bust, baby.