Cars or Princesses? - Macchine o Principesse?

I know this will sound like a posting from 1955 but unfortunately, since then, not much has changed. I was thinking about toys, after reading a mom's comment on Facebook and after visiting a few toy stores to find a gift for Tronk's birthday. I was thinking about the long shelves filled with toys, all rigorously grouped by genre: boys here, girls there. Cars, monsters and robots for boys; dolls, dolls' houses, strollers, mini washing machines, and dolls related things for girls. Almost as if they were saying: "You, girls, the ones with the maternal instinct, take care of the children and do the house chores! You, boys, go have fun and play with the cars, machines and gadgets!". All right, all right, this sounds a bit extreme, but you know what I am trying to say. All toys are grouped by genre and color coded to draw the attention of both the parents and the children to a genre specific section. I have never thought about this until now.

Not for Boys. Sorry.

 

Not for Girls. Sorry.

Yet, I ask myself how many of these genre specific choices are not also a bit natural. I mean, my three year old boy has played with dolls three or four times in his life; once he put a baby in a high chair and prepared dinner for him,  he pushed a baby in a shopping cart a couple of times, and once I saw him intrigued by the look of a naked Barbie that came out of a pirate ship. I would have not stopped him to play with other dolls if he had chosen to do so. But he didn't. Like most boys I know and regularly meet at the playground, he naturally developed an interest for cars and trains. Not so much for tractors and bulldozers. He has now moved onto legos (which I like much better than cars). His girlfriends? According to their mothers, they are all moving onto dolls and princesses but, as far as I know, nobody imposed this choice to them. So, tell me, what are the boundaries between what has been imposed by society and the natural disposition of both boys and girls towards genre specific toys?

An answer to this has come from the AIJU, a Spanish private, non-profit organization that promotes research on children and play. The AIJU studied 1507 children consisting of 757 boys and 750 girls. They found that princesses, fashion and personal appearance interest more than 95% of girls while boys are more attracted to sports and watching TV. Not surprising. They also found that technologies (computers, cell phones, video games and any new technology) interest both boys and girls equally. I bet the toy companies know this. Yet, they regularly assign genre specific colors and characters to the high tech toys as well. So, if you have a girl, you are stuck with either Cinderella and Snow White for long long time. If you have a boy, you should hope that Cars and Winnie The Pooh are still around, otherwise your house will get filled with monsters.

Who said that men and women are equal? - Chi ha detto che uomini e donne hanno pari opportunita'?

Men and women are equal and have equal opportunities. Yeah, sure. Only a career woman chasing her dream job could come up with such a lie. Really.

Bullshit. Men and women are NOT equal. At least it isn't true for most women. As a friend often said to me in London, women, whether they like it or not, are made to have (and raise) children. Having and raising babies should become their top priority, whether they like it or not. I remember my friend saying: "You are a girl, not a boy. Don't kill yourself with work. Come out with us. Do what the girls do! Sorry to disappoint you but, whether you like it or not, women are made to experience the joy of (or bear the cross of) motherhood!"

I also remember the words of my first landlord, a Turkish woman in her fifties with long dark hair. "Don't waste your time studying. One day, you'll meet a nice man and that's it. You'll have a bambino and all your efforts, gone! " I remember trying not to laugh at her. What a backward, sexist, narrow-minded loser. 

Yet last night, those remarks were haunting me. I could not let them go.

Yesterday, I went to see my gynecologist and soon after found myself in such excruciating pain I couldn't breathe. They gave me the highest dosage of Motrin allowed and it still took an hour for my cramps to subside enough so that I could leave. No, I am not pregnant with a second child. No. Three months after I gave birth to William, in order to avoid unexpected children, the gynecologist persuaded me (with all the good things she said) to have an IUD put in place... Yes, the one with hormones. The alternative choices would have been (1) go back to the unbearable devastating side-effects of the past birth control methods I used, or  (2) accept the risk that I might become pregnant again and resign myself to the idea that my London friend is right - women are made to have and raise babies, whether they like it or not.

Although there were few problems for the first two years, the IUD has turned out to be as bad, if not worse, than any of the other birth control methods I have used in the past. Recently, I have even come to feel that it has played a role in my difficulties in walking and the mysterious swelling in my extremities. So I went to see the gynecologist to ask her to have it removed.

So yesterday, after screaming several times while the gynecologist was trying hard to remove the damned thing, each time without the slightest hint of success, I finally had to settle with cramps up to my throat and with a half a smile on her face, while she was making her conclusive comment: 

"I am sorry to have to tell you this, but one option could be to take you up o the 8th floor to have it removed in the surgery while you are asleep. Sorry, but I don't know what else to do". On that same day, I had just finished reading a list of horror stories, written by women, on this particular worse case scenario. 


Back home, in addition to dealing with all this, here he was, my three year old, more upset than ever, as a result of seeing me in so much pain.
 

And then they say that women are equal to men?

De Gustibus! is a relative concept - De Gustibus! e' un concetto relativo

"Dress Casual!", says every store I visit

I cannot continue to make fun of the Bostonian fashion. In the last six months or so I noticed a strange phenomena in my wardrobe. It slowly seemed to have changed from a well of colorful treasures to a closet that I barely recognize. I pick one thing, then another, then another, yet I don't seem to be able to find anything I fancy wearing.

Something similar happened to me when I moved to London. After only a year I was living there, I couldn't help finding stuff that I wasn't keen to wear, mostly large, straight cut Italian garments. Although classy, they were ideally suited to old Italian widows crying behind a Saint in religious processions. "Io quella pelliccia li' che mi hai dato per Natale non la indossero' mai! Guarda che vivo in Inghilterra, non in Italia! De Gustibus Mamma!" (There is no way I will wear that furry coat you have just given me for Christmas!  Don't forget I live in England, not in Italy! De Gustibus Mom! ) Amazing how perspectives and matters of taste change relatively to the country where you live. Winter was not winter in London without me wearing my extra small double breasted long black coat alongside my chunky black leather boots. Similarly, summer was not summer in Ireland without me wearing my khaki Capri pants with cargo pockets. Funny how I used to dislike those before moving to Ireland! Same with my pairs of big ass Indian women's pants I could not do without when I was living in New Delhi. I was keeping them in my wardrobe hoping to find an occasion to wear them. Few months after my return in the UK, I remember hiding those pants in a suitcase on top of the wardrobe.

I now look at the first shelf of my wardrobe and all I am able to find is a pile of long sleeved striped tops. If they don't have big ass stripes either in the colors or in the pattern  - not that the prep thin blue stripes on a cream color from Anthopologie look any more stylish! - they have a washed out look from the colors fading away or some other hippie details which make my clothes look all old and worn out. Then on the top shelf, I see a couple of intimidating looking polos starring at me as if they were saying: "I know I am casual but at least I am plain! Go on, wear me! ". Then my eyes go to the bottom shelf of my wardrobe and I see a large collection of tee-shirts with either sport themes or comics printed on them, the sort of thing which only children would wear these days in Italy.  What happened to my former look?

Buy them, use them and chuck them away. Understood?

Yet another top with stripes, just more expensive

Here in the US I simply cannot help sticking everything in the washing machine and in the dryer constantly. As a result, the nice sweaters I used to wear (and not wash) in London have now all turned into rags for cleaning floors. How about my pretty tops and dresses from French Connection and Monsoon? Where are they? They are in the attic, for this simple reason. What is the point of wearing expensive and uncomfortable clothes to cook spaghetti ragu', to walk in neighborhoods where there are only houses and few people jogging in sweats and to wash dirty clothes? See what I mean? There is no point.

And, to tell you the truth, now that I have a broken sesamoid in my left foot I cannot help but praising the advantages of the Bostonian look. Quick and easy and, above all, pain free! And now, if you would like to excuse me, I am going to the nearest mall to see if I can buy more tops with stripes to put in my wardrobe.

On the verge of a nervous breakdown - Sull'orlo di una crisi di nervi

There are days when things just don't go your way. I have just had one of these days. The day started with William waking up early in the morning, when all I was longing for was thirty, maybe twenty, ten... even five  more minutes of sleep would have been so damned good. "I am still dreaming, let me sleep please!", I implored. But Tronk was there,  running around the house in his PJs, asking for me and for all the things that come to his widely-awake head in the morning:

"Pullat? (that's how he calls the "pullup diapers") "No, Tronk, you are not ready for those!"  and I am not willing to follow you to monitor how wet is your bottom! Aha! There are no diapers here. We have to go to the basement to pick some. "Here! You'll have your pullat!"

"Aranciata?" "Mi dispiace, non c'e'"
(Orange juice? Sorry, there isn't any)

"Latte? Latte?" "Ok, eccolo".
(Milk? Milk? Ok, here it is)

"Biscottino?" "Eccolo. Uno solo."
 (A small cookie? Ok, here it is, but only one.)

"Cartone Pimpa?" "No, e' troppo presto."
(Can I watch a Pimpa cartoon? No, it's too early)

"Dov'e' macchina viola?" "E che ne so io???"
(Where is my purple car? How would I know???)

Stop! I suddenly realized that I needed the strongest dosage of caffeine that my manual espresso machine could possibly deliver. So I had one and I decided I would get the next one at the local coffee shop later in the day.

Then I was hit by one of those flattering and inquisitive emails that needs a carefully crafted reply. I started typing few letters in reply. Tick, tack, tack, tick, tick.  "Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaammmma! Ahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" Tronk got hurt. His little hand was hanging on one side as if he was no longer able to feel it. Fortunately, the little actor was ok.

Me: "Vuoi andare al potty adesso?" (Do you want to go to the potty now?) Forget about the potty, there is poop here all over the floor. Who is having to clean the floor?


Some of the subsequent thoughts haunting me:
11:00 am. Hopefully, he will sleep.
11:30 am. I'll give him some yogurt. Maybe, that will make him sleep.
12:00 pm.  Forget it, he won't sleep. "Cartone Pimpa?" "Eccolo!." (Can I watch a Pimpa cartoon? Here, watch it!) Now, hopefully, I'll have my shower.
13:00 pm. What? My jewelry box, empty? Tronk? Where did you put all my jewelry??

I was almost sure my day would end in tears. The chicken I cooked for him was not up to his standard and he would rather throw it on his nice sweater or on the floor than to try to make a genuine effort to eat it. It was becoming clear that everything was an excuse for us to fight: sleep, food, toys (he wanted to use my permanent markers to color the couch)  and, at the end, I was almost sure, we were fighting even on the story I was going to read to him at bedtime.

For some unknown reason, perhaps the fact that you cannot argue against a two year old, I was able to keep it together. I was hoping that the storytime, my favorite moment of the day with Tronk, would have soon put an end to our fights and to our anger and that we would soon be able to make peace. I was imagining that after reading the first book together, we could then magically laugh, forget all the unpleasant things that we did to each other on that day and hug. That's all I was longing for to get over such a daunting day. But I had the sense of foreboding that  no peace would come between us on that day. So I asked John to come to sit next to us during storytime. In order to avoid having to change the book three or four times, I picked a new book, the one that had just arrived from Italy. The new book was keeping Tronk's eyes glued to the pages. Great choice!, I thought. After all, how could he not enjoy a story about a binky, his number one favorite toy? This is how Tronk's face changed throughout the story.

First page. Ecstatic smile
Second page. Still smiling
Fourth page. Worried
Oh shit, this book is about giving away the binky
Fifth page. Very worried
Hopefully, he will not take it badly
Last page - The girl decides to let the binky, attached to a balloon, fly away. He burst into tears. "Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! Il ciuccio e' andato via!" (Noooooooo! The binky is gone!) 


"She is grown up now! She no longer needs a binky!", I said to Tronk with a positive tone of voice.
 "Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! Nooooooooooooooo! Nooooooooooooooo!" he uttered in complete despair.


"There is no way Tronk and I will make peace now. I have fcked everything up ", I said  to John, who was still trying to pay attention to the book I had just finished reading.

I was crushed. Tronk? He couldn't have cared less. While I was soaking, he had jumped off the bed and he was happily pushing his shopping cart around the house as if nothing had happened. He had already moved on.

Sweet Pumpkins and Witches for Halloween - Zucche e Streghe per Halloween

Halloween + Italian children + friends + a sweet pumpkin + magic = let's party!

Who said pumpkins have to be scary?

Daddy tried to scare me with this

What is mom doing?

White pages magically turning into colored drawings

No time to look scary, I have to do my job here!

I am the assistant of the magician

Grown-Up Statements And Non-sense - Dichiarazioni Adulte e Frasi Senza Senso

"Prepara pappa mamma?" (Are you not supposed to prepare lunch now?)

In the last two months or so Tronk has taken his language skills to a higher level. He can now ask for things in a meaningful way with a few pronunciation mistakes.

Here are my favorite ones:

La Pizia (instead of la polizia, meaning: the police car)

Pantontole (instead of pantofole, meaning: slippers) 

I also heard him sing three songs, surprisingly almost complete: Fra Martino (Italian version of Frère Jacques), the jingle of the cartoon La Pimpa and recently also the Italian version of the ABC song. In the latter, he ends the song like this: din don bam! din don bam! Too cute to deserve a correction.

What I wanted to say though is that he has also started to produce a few grown-up statements, which often consist of snappy comments.

Here are my favourite ones:

Tronk:  "C'e' uomo taglia erba!" (Here is the man mowing the lawn!)

Mamma: "Dov'e'?" (Where is he?)

Tronk:  "E' andato via!" (He is gone!)

Tronk: "C'e' furgoncino rotto. Ho dato pezzo a daddy! Non aggiusta?" (The little truck is broken. I have given the pieces to daddy. He hasn't fixed it yet?)

Tronk:  "Anche occhiali bimbo daddy?" (Can daddy get  my sunglasses and bring them to me in the street?) [after I got husband to come out of the house and bring me the sunglasses I forgot in the house]

Tronk: "Ho trovato Anna!" (I have found Anna!)  [Anna is a fairly overweight little girl Tronk often meets at the playground]

"Questa e' Anna! E' Anna questa!" (This is Anny! It is Anna!) [with a glorious smile he shows me one of the three little pigs]

At naptime:

Tronk: "Deve fare la nanna William Kruse!" (Willliam Kruse has to nap!)

At the libary:

Tronk: "Tu libro! Bimbo libro! Va bene?" (Mom, you read that book! I read this other one. Let's make this clear)

Dad: "Perche' non mangi quando sei da solo?" (Why don't you eat when you are alone?)

Tronk: "Sono un santo!" (I am a saint!)


During storytime:
A little worm was alone and sad. See how alone and sad he is? Then he found a big apple and decided to live in there. Then came a female worm to knock on his door. She went to live with him.
Tronk: "The worm is not sad! He is not sad!"

Tronk: "Bavo Mina Kruse!" (Well done William Kruse!) [after he accomplishes something]

Zia Pina: "Cosa canta mamma?" (What does mom sing to you?)

Tronk: "Mamma canta Ninna Nanna! Io cresciuto!" (Mamma sings lullabyes! I am grown up!)

Tronk: "Dov'e' ambulanza?" (Where is the ambulance car?)

After few seconds:

Tronk: "L'ha presa mamma!" (Aha, Mom took it!)

Mamma found one of William's favorite cars under the couch. It was covered in dust.

Tronk: "Sporca macchina! Non mettere macchina qui mamma. Pulisci macchina?" (That car is dirty! Do not put that car here mom. Can you please clean the car?)

Zia Pina ate a candy and made it look as if she was eating one of Tronk's colored letters of the alphabet

Tronk: "Non mangia le lettere zia Pina!" (The letters of the alphabet should not be eaten, zia Pina!)

Mamma: "Mi dai un bacino?" (Can you give me a kiss?)

Tronk: "No. Devo lavorare!" (No. I have to work!) [He was building a tower with his lego blocks. Five minutes later, he came to give me a kiss]

He makes comments like these with such a serious expression, we call him "ometto" (little man) constantly and we cannot help laughing (and worrying at the same time). I mean, what is Tronk gonna say next? "Mamma, your period is due tomorrow"? Help!

Today I have started to realize that it might not just be a language thing (see video below).

Zia Pina bought him some cream for his rash on the chin. Today, he managed to grab the tube of cream, unscrew the cap and was applying the cream to his chin. He is a two year old for God's sake! I would expect him to at least put the cream on his favorite stuffed animal but no. He reminded me that he should not put Bambi on his chin after he put cream on it. "Non metti Bambi su mento con crema!" (You should not put Bambi on my chin after I put cream on it!) Frightening.

It then happens that we are sitting in the car and Tronk makes a speech, with his usual serious straight face.

Here is a small chunck of the ten minutes speech in the video below:

"Gioca bimbo paletta sabbia Porta la pappa Fa la cacca pa-stel-la la luna!...  tante macchine!" (Child plays scoop sand Brings food Poops Crayona the moon!... so many cars!) A complete non-sense ending in "so many cars".

At that point, I relax and stop worrying about the future.

Espresso for my two year old, thanks - Caffe' per il mio bimbo, grazie

I had just managed to get out of the house and to survive a crowded bus ride, when I finally saw Starbucks a few yards away. I could already imagine how nice the coffee tasted there and the lifting of my soul after my first sip. Right in that moment, I heard William scream, "Bambi! Bambi! Bambi!"

I need a fix! Give me Bambi!

"I said No!", I replied trying to keep a firm but not angry tone.

There is no way I would walk all the way home (or wait for another crowded bus) to go to pick up Bambi! Bambi is a little fawn stuffed animal Tronk has fallen in love with. He sleeps with it, eats with it, puts it in his toy shopping cart and carries everywhere in the house. The dirty bugger has swept our floor, cleaned our glass windows, mixed with the residues of our coffee after falling in the sink, was dropped by mistake in the toilet, has visited every corner of our house, rubbed his nose first against ragu' and broccoli then against Tronk's face. If I wasn't standing at the door with a firm "No!", I am sure Tronk would take the damned thing outside the house and who knows where else he would throw it.  Though I tried to wash it twice, I am sure it carries layers of dirt and deadly bacteria. We suspect his irritated red chin might have resulted from the constant rubbing of Bambi on his face.

Before leaving the house, I offered him a Ferrari and a Lamborghini car. No, he had to have Bambi!

Me: "Mi dispiace, non ho Bambi. Bambi e' a casa!" (Sorry, I don't have Bambi. Bambi is at home!)

Tronk: "Nooooo! Bambi! Bambi! Bambi!"

Me: "Mi dispiace ,Bambi e' a casa!"  (Sorry, Bambi is at home!), I repeated

Tronk: "Ciuccio! Ciuccio! Ciuccio!" (as soon as he heard that Bambi was not available he started asking for the binky)

Me: "Non ho un ciuccio, mi dispiace William" (I don't have a binky, sorry William) 

Tronk: "No, ciuccio! No Ciuccio! Noooooo! Bambi! Bambi!" [desperate tone] (as soon as he heard I didn't have a binky he switched back to asking for Bambi)

"Basta! You need a coffee! I am going to get you one!" I joked out of frustration while I was trying to tell the barista at Starbucks what type of coffee I wanted. I looked at my change. The amount was less than I expected. "I must have given them a five!" I was then hit by total surprise when my order arrived: instead of one cappuccino there were two cappuccinos with my name on it! "Excuse me, there must be a mistake", I  said puzzled.

Apparently, the barista thought I ordered a second cappuccino for Tronk! I just could not imagine that the joke of a stressed mother could be taken so seriously. It turned out that it wasn't the first time that a mom had ordered a coffee for a toddler. The barista admitted with a slightly embarrassed look on his face that another mom (a coffee addict like me) has recently turned her two year old into one of Starbucks's most faithful customers!

At the end, I had to drink two coffees while Tronk was only allowed to take a sniff.

The barley drink with coffee flavor given to children in Italy

What a shame Starbucks does not sell Orzo Bimbo, the healthy barley drink with coffee flavor I was drinking as a child. If they did, I am 99% sure an entire army of Massachusetts moms would order it. Mothers and toddlers would get their fix together and there would be peace for all.

Five minutes, then leave! - Cinque minuti, poi esci!

Only Five minutes. Promised? - Solo cinque minuti. Promesso?

Ogni sera alle 7-7:30, si ripete la stessa storia. Io ancora ai fornelli a cercare di finire di preparare il sugo per la cena. John che imbocca William per farlo finire di mangiare prima di noi. Finalmente e' arrivato alla frutta! E mentre Tronk sta masticando gli ultimi bocconi di melone, avendo notato i miei lenti movimenti prima nel tagliare la cipolla e poi nel fare il soffritto e gli sbadigli che mi sono scappati tra un passaggio e l'altro  - ecco, splendido, e' caduto qualcosa per terra!- John mi dice con tono repentorio e autorevole: "Cinque minuti di fiabe, poi chiudi la luce ed esci. Promesso?" Five minutes storytime then leave! Promised? "Promesso!" Promised!

Ed ogni volta succede la stessa cosa. Cinque minuti si trasformano in dieci, poi in venti, poi in trenta - a volte, finiscono per diventare 45. Ed io non mi stupisco piu' quando John viene a dirmi che e' da piu' di un'ora che racconto storie a Tronk! 

Eppure e' cosi' difficile prendere in mano un libro e cominciare a leggere dopo una giornata intensa passata con un bambino di due anni. Dopo che ho sentito i suoi pianti, che l'ho fatto giocare, l'ho fatto mangiare, gli ho fatto fare il numero uno (pipi'), il numero due (cacca) e tutti i numeri che ci stanno in mezzo, gli ho fatto rimettere a posto le cose che non doveva prendere nella nostra camera da letto, l'ho fatto uscire, l'ho fatto saltare sulle ginocchie mentre scrivevo emails in tono formale, l'ho fatto dipingere mentre cucinavo, ho smesso di cucinare per andare a metterlo a dormire, ecc. E' difficile, a volte quasi impossibile, riuscire ad assumere di colpo quel ruolo di cantastorie immacolato. Ma poi succede che quella mezzoretta/45 minuti passate insieme a leggere - mi impongo sempre un minimo di due libri - con lui che mi guarda con occhi spalancati, con lui che ascolta attentamente quello che gli racconto, con lui che commenta "Pesce Toto'!" non appena vede il pesciolino rosso, di secondaria importanza alla storia ma di cui si ricorda il nome, con lui che sorride e ridacchia quando vede le api che fanno pick! diventa un momento speciale tra me e lui, quasi un rito di trapasso dal giorno caotico con lui sveglio alla calma sacra della sera con lui angelico che fa la nanna, che raramente mi pesa, neppure quando o per l'influenza o per la sniffata letale di polline della mia zona, mi viene la voce di Dracula. Qualsiasi lo stato d'animo, la stanchezza, il malessere o la scojonata del giorno, so sempre che leggere quei due o tre libri a Tronk prima della nanna e' uno dei regali piu' grandi che gli posso fare. Mi basta questo pensiero per continuare a farlo.

Cosi' il mio bimbo impara l'italiano e questo per me non e' una cosa da poco! E poi la lettura delle fiabe, dei racconti e delle poesie e' sempre stata, fin dai tempi antichi, l'unico modo per entrare in contatto con le emozioni dei piu' piccoli - nei tempi antichi, persino per iniziarli alla vita adulta! E' quel contatto che molti oggi lamentano di non avere.  Forse per questo non ho ancora imparato a guardare l'orologio quando leggo le fiabe a Tronk.

Alcuni scienziati parlano del valore educativo e terapeutico del raccontare ed inventare storie. Educativo perché induce il bambino ad accostarsi alla realtà, osservando ciò che accade senza sentirsi troppo coinvolto. Terapeutico perché, attraverso l’osservazione creativa della realtà, il bambino sperimenta emozioni nuove, o familiari, mantenendo la giusta distanza che lo aiuta a rafforzare la propria identità. E ci avranno pure ragione sti scienziati, no?

Giudicatemi all'antica o come vi pare ma secondo me accorciare, registrare o trascurare un momento cosi' speciale con il proprio bambino mi sembra di mettere il ruolo di mamma in cantina. Detto questo, c'e' una canzone che ascoltavo da bambina e che forse sa spiegare questo concetto meglio di me:

C'era una volta un mondo un po' migliore

piu' cose vere, meno televisione

c'erano le fiabe, quelle che tu

da qualche tempo non mi racconti piu'...

Once upon a time there was a better world

more true things, less TV

there were the fairy tales, the ones that you

in the last period or so you don't tell me anymore...


Il fatto e' che, rispetto alle nostre mamme, nonne o bisnonne, mi sono resa conto che io proprio non ci ho i cojoni per dire no al secondo, a volte al terzo, a volte al quarto libro. Certo che pero' io John a volte lo ammiro. Lui, quando rimane solo con Tronk, alle 7 in punto precise, prende un libro (quello piu' sottile che trova), lo legge senza ulteriori commenti, dice buonanotte, chiude la luce ed esce dalla camera di William, senza il minimo senso di colpa. Io non ce la faccio.