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.

Few minutes in the head of a two year old - Alcuni minuti nella testa di un bimbo di due anni

Do you know what goes through the mind of a two year old? Chaos. My two year old is constantly jumping from thing to thing and from being over the moon to being crushed as though someone had set fire to his favorite stuffed animal Bambi. With his changes of mood he is able to cover a thousand of emotions in few hours. And there are times I feel I have a broken record next to me, saying the same thing over and over again.  Hey, I want to give you the feeling of what it's like to spend nine hours a day - nine! - with a two year old and why most people, no matter how much they love their child, go back to work, at least on a part-time basis.

Mamma? Can I have... the moon?

On a good day, Tronk goes through fifteen of these in an hour period.

1. Dammi Bambi? Dammi foca? Can you give me Bambi? The seal? Poi.. dammi ba-lena? Now... can you give me the whale? Dammi...Can you give me... Opps, I have got them all... Now, can you give me... ino? (non-sense) [while pointing at something nonexistent in the room]
2. Pull-up? Poi Ciabatte? Can you give me a pull-up? Then... my slippers?
3. Maglia macchine? Can I wear the Cars t-shirt I see in the laundry basket? Who cares it's dirty
4. Pimpa? Pimpa? No Pimpa. Pimpa YoYo? Not Pimpa the book.  Can I watch Pimpa on the Italian kids channel?
5. Scarpa mamma? I want to wear one of your flip flops and drag it to the other room under the bed [while you are coming out of the shower and need your flip flops]
6. Now I wanna throw every single piece of the puzzle in the floor and make the most annoying noise I can possibly make [while you are on the phone having a serious conversation with someone]
7. There are no more pieces to throw. Idea: I'll throw these shoes in the kitchen! [while you are in the kitchen cooking]
8. Instead of reading that book on the table I'll climb on it. Yeah!
9. The man outside is mowning the lawn. Great! I'll say this 20 times. Taglia l'erba! Taglia l'erba!...
10. I NEED TO PLAY WITH SOME GODDAMN COINS IN MOM AND DAD'S ROOM
11. I'm tired. IM NOT TIRED!  
12. Macchina grande, Yeah! (read the full story on macchina grande here) No matter what I'll see, I'll keep saying macchina grande for another half an hour. Macchina grande!
13. HOLY SHIT I’M STARVING. C'e' mango? No mango? I want mango! Are you telling me that I cannot eat mango? [desperate tone]
14. OK, I NEED TO PLAY WITH SOME MORE COINS IN MOM AND DAD'S ROOM
15. I AM NOT GOING TO EAT THIS!  NO!
16. All right, all right, I am going to put it in my mouth. Then I'll throw it away
17. Vai? Vai? Go? Go? I want out of the stroller [while I am waiting to pay in the queue at the till]
18. Cacca? Cacca? I want to poop. Here it is, a fart. Ho vinto! (I have won!)
19. STOP TRYING TO TAKE MY PANTS DOWN MOM! 
20. Ten minutes later. Cacca? Cacca? Too late. I have already done it
    
21. No lena, no lena! I don't want to go on the swing, I wanna spend all afternoon pushing this chair around the playground. Yes, and that stroller too! [until the owner comes to claim it]
22. Canzone? Metti canzone? Can you play a song? [while pointing at my laptop] 
23. Mamma, Cane? [while handing me the red marker] Ok. This time I decide to make more effort. I draw a dog that looks like Pimpa, his favorite cartoon character. For some reason he doesn't like the eye. "Occhio! No occhio! Occhio No!"[and he erases everything as fast as he can]
24. DOV'E' MACCHINA ROSSA?  DOV'E' MACCHINA ROSSA? Where is the red car? Where is the red car? [and runs away in the opposite direction of where the car is while panting]
25. Aha, macchina rossa. Yeah! Yeah! [still panting]
26. Three minutes later. Ok, I'll throw it in the toilet now
27. DON'T YOU TRY TAKING MY PANTS DOWN AGAIN! NO PIPI'! PIPI' NO!
28. Acqua? Can I have water? You don't get it. I don't want to drink water. I want to make a  mess
29. Dov'e' Daddy? Where is Daddy? Oh my God, Daddy left! [desperate tone]
30. Daddy is leaving? So what? I am playing with cars now
31. Wow, I’m starving.
32. Ciuccio? Ciuccio? Dammi ciuccio! Binky? Binky? Give me the binky! [desperate tone]
33. Aha, la luna! Aha, here is the moon! Dov'e la luna? Where is the moon? C'e' la luna la'! Aha, there is the moon there! [binky totally forgotten]
34. Soup? See? I can eat by myself
35. Two minutes later. What did you think?  I need to play now!
36. Pipi'! Ho vinto! I peed! Yeah!
37. Dov'e' pipi'? Where is it? [after I flashed the toilet]
38. I wanna use daddy's electric toothbrush now
39. I wanna unscrew the mirror. Oh, one more time please!
40. I don't wanna go to sleep. I wanna turn on and off the lights
41. Mom, keep on reading, I wanna keep on jumping on the bed
42. Acqua? Can you give me water? No, blu'. Acqua gialla! Not the blue one, the yellow bottle please. Can you give me the blue bottle again?  [while I am about to say good night and close the door of his room]

And as I hear him say "I want..." all day long, over and over again, I can't help thinking of a phrase that I heard from my parents at least one million times: "L'erba voglio esiste solo nel giardino del re". (English translation: The herb "I want" only exists in the garden of the king).  It's just that as a child (and later as a teenager) I somehow always assumed that that king had the privilege of asking for things without having to do anything at all in return and that I could just pretend to be him. Let me put it this way. I will make sure that Tronk does not make this assumption.

Domenica - Sunday

Turin city center on a Sunday morning

Sunday in Italy was always the same. With deserted streets and silence, as if the outside world was temporarily paralyzed. Beautiful but melancholic at the same time. Here in Boston, a big hurricane on its way (like Irene this past weekend) can create a similar effect. Still, despite the weather warnings on the radio, on the web and on the roads, here on the east coast of America, a few courageous surfers were challenging the big waves of the ocean and a few people were throwing private parties on their boats. So, not quite the same as in Italy but all the shops closed, the public transports dead and being forced to stay at home drinking tea and eating biscuits brought me back to Sunday a few (ok many) years ago.

Boston city center on a Sunday during the hurricane

Sunday in Turin (Italy), always the same, with mass in the morning at the local Church with Grandma (later dad) falling asleep half through the service. Me trying not to star at anyone but what else could I do while asking God to forgive me for my bad deeds? Ten-fifteen minutes before the end, me looking at the watch with the twelve o'clock stomach's cramps, hoping that the minutes would go faster and that I would soon be at home diving into my mother's risotto. Sunday lunch, always the same, lack of conversations, the TG's news and incredible boredom. My slow paced Sunday would continue with food (even if I was not hungry), a meat dish from heaven served with fresh vegetables cooked in simple but delicious sauces, followed by seasonal fruit, already washed and cut for me, served in a bowl.

Double espresso, thank you!

Then, just like in the opening scenes of I am Legend, where Will Smith and his dog leave the house to find a eerie lifeless and silent world, I would start looking for signs of life, first in the house, then outside in the neighborhood. Nothing apparent. Two available options: (1) Join the Turinese people's catwalk in Via Roma in clothes you want to be seen wearing (2) sleep for an hour or so, until TV program Domenica In (variety show with half naked women dancing and top models interviewing politicians) wakes you up.

Later in life, Sunday in Turin always the same, except for when friends were coming over to our house, same conversations, same dozing off in the afternoon and incredible boredom until 6 pm, when the TV screen with Domenica In was suddenly off, mom was in the kitchen pouring lemon tea in the cups next to my favorite butter biscuits and I was convinced I had gotten away with it but no. It was time to go to Church!

After Church, same routine, my mom hungry, my father not, me taking my mother's side. "Yes, I will eat the minestrone mamma!" My room still untidy, my homeworks still unfinished. Same, I have forgotten to review the previous chapters. My mom: it is midnight, you should be in bed. Same, I have forgotten the oral exam! Same, Oddio (My God), tomorrow is Monday! No! Same, accept the guilt, prepare the books for the day after and ask God to pick someone else for the oral exam.

Then I grew up, moved to London and Sunday became a non existent day. A day for either recovering from the night before mojitos or for drinking more at someone's else house to feel better about the hang-over, as my British friends were putting it. A day with some shops and the local Tesco grocery store open, just in case you need one more drink.

Then came the PhD Sunday at Imperial College. A large deserted building, long empty corridors and the vending machine dispensing cheese and onion (or salt and vinegar) crisps every few minutes or so. Once inside, from time to time a  new PhD face would appear, behind a computer screen but nobody would say anything to anyone. That was about it. Equation: sunday equal to silence.

When I moved to Boston, Sunday turned into a beautiful day. A day for cooking meals for him, for going on a long car trip, going sight-seeing, walking on trails, sitting on the grass to watch a show, swimming in lakes, walking on the beach with a straw hat and picking up heart shaped shells. Sunday with him turned into a day for love, outdoor fun and, above all, pleasure.

Now (two years later) Sunday, whether we like it or not, is Tronk's day. The time for his discoveries, for looking at his laughs for seeing him running around with daddy at the playground, at Costco,  in the streets of whatever town. A day out of the house.

But yesterday, that was not possible because of the hurricane, so I had to come up with a few tricks to keep Tronk entertained, while daddy managed to build a brand new cabinet for our small office room. It wasn't too difficult. Tronk and I spent the afternoon setting up a train station and a large car park outside his bedroom door, then producing abstract art on a white board. That way we managed to stop looking outside the window. And by the time Tronk was done with the bottom of the sea (as he called it), the hurricane was gone.

Tronk's first creative attempt

I must say Irene has been very kind to us and I feel we have been incredibly lucky. Still alive, with no injuries, no house flooded and we are not one of the 4 million people left without power. 

Perhaps, in more simple terms, Sunday is (and always will be) a space for what matters most at the time, whether that is indulging to pleasure, praying or just surviving. And above all, a day to forget that the day after is Monday.

Favourite Toys and Other Fetish Objects - Giochi Preferiti e Altri Oggetti Feticcio

"The objects you choose to surround yourself with tell your story", this is the quote cut out from the newspaper La Stampa that my father pinned on the side wall in the entrance of his house. When a guest knocks on his door, my father opens the door and reads this quote. He then says "Welcome to my house".

I was raised  surrounded by beautiful things, old statues from Ancient Egypt as well as a large collection of paintings from great artists. I can close my eyes and picture many things with sentimental value: the faces in the painting who were looking down at me as I was falling asleep, the beautiful portraits of my great grandparents in the living room, the Brionvega stereo with the big pile of vintage 45 RPM records and many other things that trigger emotional memories.

Unfortunately, it often happens that the things that have made someone's life special  are forgotten, sold or given away. Perhaps with time they become worn out, or from an American point of view, if you keep everything, at some point there will be no room for yourself.

Yesterday I was thinking that it is not the objects that count. It is the relationship that you have with the objects and what you do with them that make the objects special. In many cases, especially for a child, these relationships are ephemeral.

Winnitu', a popular doll in Italy in the late 1970s

My mother reminded me that for a year or so I could not be parted from a little American-Indian doll that would sing a song when you pulled her string. Her name was Winnitu'. And I remember now fantasizing about being a member of her tribe. Two years later, the doll ended up in a basket of the forgotten toys. Yet I can still remember the song she was singing with nostalgia. So why not try to capture the essence of the passing relationship with the objects while it is possible?

It is not by chance that the other day I picked up the Nikon and started shooting photos. I wanted to record the toys Tronk plays with, his favourite toys, the objects he leaves abandoned in specific places of our house, the things that have become part of his world. I wanted to capture the beauty and the special meanings that Tronk has given these objects as a two year old child, so that one day, he will be able to see them and, perhaps, remember these moments.

"Foto mamma?" (Pictures mom?)

"Si, sto cercando di fotografare le cose che ami" (yes, I am trying to photograph the things you love)

"Tante foto mamma?" (Many pictures mom?)

Gigio!

Cento!

"Tante foto mamma?" (Many pictures mom?)

"Tante foto mamma!" (Many pictures mom!)

"Basta foto mamma?" (No more pictures mom?)

"Dammi Ciuccio? Dammi Ciuccio?" (Can you give me the bink? Can you give me the bink?)
"Foto ciuccio? Nooooooo! No foto ciuccio!" (Bink picture? Nooooooo! No binky picture!), Tronk repeated.

Tronk tells nothing but the truth - Tronk dice sempre la verita'

He used to make babbling noises all day long, the cutest background noise I can possibly think of. Innocent and cheerful, like the happy chirping of a bird early in the morning outside your window on a sunny day. At times, it sounded like an over excited baby lamb and it had the power to grab my heart and squeeze it until there was nothing left to squeeze.

Baby Tronk making his baby lamb noises

Well, I have come to the realization that that little guy is no longer my child. Instead, I now have a boy who talks, talks and talks and continues to talk, to try to make sense of the world. He talks even when he is alone. Exciting but also overwhelming. Whatever the situation and whatever the location, Tronk has the urge to talk, to flirt, to discuss, to agree and to disagree, with me and with everyone else who happens to be near him. I see him trying to describe what people do, the things he sees, the things he wants, to ask and answer questions. He is like a talking machine. The problem is that in most cases, beside his requests for food, water and his ability to name body parts and things around the house all I can make sense of in his orationes is this: "macchina grande!" (which in English translates into "big car!"). He says this all the time, at home, at the playground, at the post office, at the grocery store, on the bus, when I take him to art festivals. Now even going to buy furniture leads to "macchina grande!"

What would you do if you were me? Would you disagree with him? How many times would you argue that there are no cars in the furniture store? 

When I can no longer make comments on the invisible "macchina, grande!", I almost always end up saying: "c'e' la macchina grande, hai ragione!" (meaning: That's right, there is the big car!) and I convince myself that there is a big car, perhaps in the clouds in the sky, or in the folds of my dress. There must be one if he says so. Then, after another 50 "macchine grandi", what do you do? Keep smiling? I don't. I start ignoring him. Then, he allegedly looks at me with his slightly annoyed Harvard Professor look and he goes:

"Dannatido', dannatido', vushibi' macchina grande!" (complete non-sense ending with "macchina grande").

"Dannatido'??" I ask him completely lost, in my attenpt to understand what he is is saying

"No, dannatido'! No, dannatido'! Nitadiba' macchina grande!", he says while nodding, with a frustrated and slightly disappointed look on his face.

"Macchina grande Mamma!"

It always happens. As soon as I convince myself that there is no point in trying to make sense of what he says, I hear things like these coming out of his mouth:

"E' arrivata zia Pina Italia? Aniamo zia Pina?" (Has aunt Pina come back from Italy? are we going to aunt Pina?) [on the day aunt Pina called to say that she was back in Boston]"

"Mamma male?" (Mom, you are not feeling well?) [he asked me while I was taking my allergy pills]

"Ino Ino!" (meaning: stroller! stroller!) [as soon as he saw a City Mini stroller that looked like his] 

"no Ino Mina Kruse, no! chello brutto!" [while standing next to the owner] (no, that one is not Mina Kruse's stroller, no! that one is ugly!)

"Dov'e' la luna?" (Where is the moon?), John asked the other day.

His reply: "E' in Italia!" (It's in Italy)

"Fatto puzza uomo?" (has the man farted?) [while pointing at someone in the store]

"Ohh... Donna grande! Donna grande la''!" (ohh... big woman! Big woman there!) (while pointing at a woman who was overweight)

"Perche' hai smesso di fare la cacca?" (why did you stop pooping?), asked the babysitter.

His reply: "C'e' cacca la'! C'e' cacca la'!" (there is poop there! there is poop there!) [while pointing at his pulled down diaper]

I was going to finish this posting when John came to tell me Tronk's latest remark while they were playing in front of the mirror. He said: "Vecchio che daddy!" (meaning: che vecchio che sei papa'! Daddy, you look really old!).

I guess the era of Tronk's memorable phrases has began and - I must say - his new habit of thinking out loud is at times cuter than his former babbling noises. 

Half-Assed Job in Provincetown - Figura di cacca a Provincetown

I always thought ill of those people (in Italy, off-course), who have no problems letting their dog defecate on the street, in front of everyone, and then go without taking the stinking steaming crap with them.  Not that looking at the cringing disgusted British collecting their crap makes me feel any better but I do have some sort of admiration for the happy nonchalant Americans who yank out their plastic bags, thrust their hands inside, grab the crap, quickly pull the bags inside out and make it disappear in half a second, while they are talking about the latest red sox game.

We decided to partly spend this past weekend (Ferragosto), which in Italy marks the end of the summer, on a Cape Cod Bay tour with destination Provincetown, a town at the very tip of the Cape. I love this town because it is a place where you cannot just pass by but a place where you are forced to stop (you cannot drive any further),  a place where you are forced to  relax, walk  on the beach, eat lobster, browse through the hidden gems (and unconventional junk) in the small stores, drink all afternoon in front of the ocean and where it is ok to go against the rules.  There, you might see a man walking down the street with a green wig, a Portuguese fisherman drinking a beer outside in the fresh air,  Japanese tourists taking a gazillion photos of their lobster and two Mexican-American lesbians with an Asian baby. It all seems to come together in this small town, where everyone lives their life side by side like in London, and where if anyone does something abnormal, who cares.

The strange thing about Provincetown is that when you are there, it is hard not to let your guard down. Once there, you know that sooner or later, you'll find yourself either buying something that you were not supposed to buy or you'll miss the last boat to go home. Well, this time a far more awkward thing has happened to us.

We decided to take the ferry to Provincetown after reading this ad: it is fast, luxurious and takes 90-minutes (half the time it would take to drive)! Truth is... we managed to get there in two hours. Not a big problem if the sea hadn't been so unkind to me.

Once my feet were back on the ground and I could think clear again, I decided to hit the Lobster Pot, my favorite restaurant in Provincetown (fresh seafood but fuss free). There, it didn't take me long to relax... until William - typical! - started calling my attention.

"Fatto cacca, fatto cacca mamma! (I have pooped, I have pooped, mom!)

Aniamo cacca?" (are we going to crap? meaning: are we going to the toilet?)

"Can you at least wait until I am done with my lobster bisque? Can the potty wait?"

"Vai! Vai! Vai!" (Go! Go! Go!)

John was the one on potty-training call, so I took the time to enjoy the remaining sips of my lobster soup, while John was dealing with the unpleasant matter. After a while I saw a giggling William coming back to my table.

John: "His diaper was all dry but I changed it anyway. Waste of time!"
Ten seconds later...

William:"Fatto cacca, fatto cacca! Vai! Vai! Vai! (I have pooped, I have pooped! Take me to the toilet!)

We figured that William was not so desperate to use the toilet. He was probably only trying to find a way to escape from the high-chair. So we decided to stop listening to his irrational requests and tried to finish our lunch without thinking twice about toilet matters. Before leaving the restaurant I checked Tronk's diaper one more time. Everything was under control.

After lunch, we spent few minutes in an art gallery. Then I saw a store selling silver jewelry, the antique type that my mother loves, so I dragged John and William there and managed to find my mother's birthday present! In Boston it would have taken me months to find something with that antique look. While the shop assistant, who was talking with a foreign accent, was putting my precious gift into a cute little bag, William was running around the store to look at the shining pieces of jewelry through the windows, when John, all of a sudden, made an abrupt movement with his legs and said something, first in a state of surprise then in a state of panic that I rarely see on him.

"Who is this coming from? Was that dog who did it?" He then quickly put one leg in front of the big piece of crap to stop others from stepping on it and we both looked at it inquisitively.

"Oh my God! " The green and orange tones of the carrot and of the zucchini couldn't be more truth revealing! "That's what we feed Tronk!" At this point, John, who no longer has a dog, whispered anxiously, "Give me a wipe, give me a wipe!", in the true American style, and in less then seconds, the guilty object disappeared.

"How did it happen?" I asked John on the other side of the street, while trying to escape from the crime scene.

It turned out that John had literally done a half-assed job with Tronk's diaper in the restaurant so poop came out from one side of his diaper in the jewelry store. Luckily, I don't think anybody understood that there was a big piece of shit in the floor in the middle of the jewelry store and even if someone did, nobody cares in Provincetown.