Breathing Again

I've been running a four-month long marathon.

The routine. Wake with much difficulty, eat while Luca clings to my leg and asks for pieces of my toast, diaper change and dress, put him in front of a video while I shower. Then out of the house for some combination of stimulus pre-nap. Library, friend's house, park, Children's museum.

Run, chase, laugh, say no, clap, lift, snack, change diapers, wipe buggers, clean hands.

Make lunch, try to eat while Luca steals pieces of my lunch instead of eating his own. And then, finally, after 5 hours, a break. Nap time. But only after many shhh's, backrubs and books. Quickly, I jump on the computer to check work emails. All too quickly, the up from nap cry. Diaper change, snack, leave house.

Run, chase, laugh, say no, clap, lift, snack, change diapers, wipe buggers, clean hands. Shop for dinner. And then, Lorenzo returns home.

He makes dinner while Luca and I run, chase, laugh, say no, clap, lift, change diapers, wipe buggers and then clean hands. Eat dinner while simultaneously feeding Luca.

And then, I start my work day. Until I can't keep my eyes open any longer.

But that was then. Today, Luca started school. Yes I'm happy I get time to breathe, but I was also really excited for him. This is the first step in what will be his long and healthy relationship to education. He literally ran into that classroom and didn't look back. I wasn't sad. I feel implicit trust in his teacher and in the environment and I know they will teach him things I can't (including Spanish).

Now I feel compelled to explain that while this has been a tough re-entry back to "real life" post Rome, I have also been incredibly lucky to have a flexible job, working with people I love. It gave me the opportunity to run, chase, laugh and teach my son new things. It has been invaluable time with him that I have loved. He is a very funny person and I adore him.

The Fog

This post is long overdue. In fact, exactly two weeks overdue. I haven't had the words, and that is a rarity for me. I have sat in front of this screen multiple times and they still have failed to come. It's hard to describe what it means to relocate twice in less than a year, and by relocate I mean to move from one country to another, across an ocean, across a vast cultural landscape, and to arrive back where you started. Well, almost where you started.

Let's look at just one piece to what it means to move from the US to Europe or vice versa. Jet-lag. According to our pediatrician, it takes an adult up to 10 days to recover from jet-lag and a child up to 22. Your body confuses day for night, your metabolism speeds up at the wrong intervals and your melatonin levels increase when you should be awake. But most people don't get 10 days of recovery time to adjust. Most people have to start back to work or get up in the middle of the night with a crying baby. Which means that for a good two weeks you walk around in a fog. And when you move from sunny Rome to cloudy Portland that fog saturates both your head and your physical being. It's unsettling and a bit like living in a dream.

And when you walk around the place you left 8 months ago in a fog, you notice that things are the same, albeit with a slight variation. This variation is just enough to set off the alarm that says you've been gone while other people have continued on. Babies have been born, buildings have been built, streets have closed down, people have moved; all subtle reminders that some time warp has occurred. And then you have to reintroduce your newborn, the bald kid you left with who still threw up at regular intervals and laughed with a toothless grin; who is now babbling and walking and eating adult food.

Then there's that other huge thing; the fact that people here speak a different language. I don't think I can address that part yet, it's a little bigger than I can handle.

You may want to know why we moved back or you may wonder if we feel like we gave up or if we regret anything. The short answer: work. We took an 8 month sabbatical from it, and now we both have it. Regret is a strange word. Yes, there are things I would change, but going to Rome for 8 months, taking trips to France, Germany, Spain and 10 days in Sardegna; that I would not change. There are moments when I miss Rome a lot. And there are moments when I realize that I'm home. If you have a connection to two countries there will never be an escape from the feeling that you are missing something by being away from one of them.

There are just some people who are difficult to satisfy. People who need a steady stream of stimuli and increasingly difficult challenges. People who don't find contentment in the day to day joys like other people. People who are always looking for what's next. Perhaps an undiagnosed disorder like ADD would explain it. Whatever it is, it's exhausting. At some point I have to find solace in knowing that about myself and just deal with it. It's just too hard to always miss some other place or some other opportunity. It's high time I understand that the grass will always be greener over there and that my little piece of dry grass can be watered and manicured and appreciated.

All of that means, in a roundabout way, that I'm happy to be home. And yesterday when I asked the bus driver where the next stop was, he replied, "I can drop you off wherever you want." Ah, this is Portland.

Stages

When Luca turned one, it felt strange. How can I still feel like a new mom when he's already one-year old? How do I recapture and hold onto each stage one by one? The sleeping all the time stage (that was nice), the learning how to smile, then how to laugh; how to grab something, then how to put something in his mouth (this will continue to go on for awhile I suppose). Next he learned how to roll himself over and in Germany he sat on his own for the first time. His first tooth broke through at Benedetta's wedding - during which I had to stand outside for the crying, and once back in Rome he started rolling across the room as it got him where he needed to go quickly. At 6 months he had his first taste of solid food and hasn't turned back. His next step was crawling military style - pulling himself with his elbows, and at 8 months he pulled himself up and started walking using the furniture for assistance. In Sardegna he learned how to throw a tantrum, which makes me desperately miss that first sleeping stage. A week after his first birthday he started standing on his own and taking an occasional step. One week later he has mastered walking and has finally become an upright citizen and fellow biped. Weighing in at a solid 22 lbs., my aching back thanks him.

This is the moment every parent looks forward to, and again I'm grasping at the air trying to make the moment last. This is the event that quickly transitions your baby to toddler. And toddlers become adolescents who quickly turn into pre-teens. So when does my transition from new mother to resident expert make its shift? I keep waiting for that big lightbulb to go on when I tell myself, "Ah, yes, this is how it's done. Now I get it." (Fellow mothers, don't laugh). There must be various levels of difficulty that you bypass with each stage right? From green circle to blue square to black diamond? Once the black diamond is conquered (even clumsily) and one returns to the green circle; it can be completed with grace and ease. Where is the green circle that I can go back to; the stage that he passed so quickly but that I didn't quite get right. The one that would be easy if I had a second chance to do it again. Is that why people have a second kid, to correct or perfect what they didn't get right the first time?

With each stage I've had to learn how to keep Luca busy and stimulated while simultaneously navigating the shifting tide in my relationship with Lorenzo, my relationship to myself (with the loads of physical and emotional changes), and my relationship with my son. My son. He's a year old. He has 8 teeth. His name is Luca (these are the phrases I've perfected in Italian). I am a mother and I have a son. I have to keep reminding myself. It took me years to feel comfortable using the term husband. Now my husband and I have a family. The Gennaro's.

6 Countries, 2 Islands, 12 Months

The United States, Canada, Italy, Germany, France, Spain; Sardegna, Maddelena

One year ago I was in labor. Three days of breathing, burying my face in Lorenzo's shirt, and pushing; resulted in the birth of a healthy, sweet, fun, happy baby boy. And now, my not so little boy is eating solid foods, pooping like an adult, speaking (albeit in a language all his own) and one step away from walking unassisted. His baby passport is already worn out. Six countries, two islands, three road trips, six flights, countless buses, trams, subways, and two ferries in twelve months.

My first year as a parent. The twelve months that most people use to get accustomed to the biggest change of their lives. The year during which most mothers allow their bodies to recover from the trauma that is childbirth by doing very little. The time with which you build a network of mommy friends with which you can organize playmates and share stories of diaper explosions and midnight awakenings. Instead? For better or worse we piled the fairly large additional stress of moving to a new country on top of new parenthood after five months. Strangely, Luca has lived in Italy longer than he lived in America.

As we decide our next move, the better or worse question continually comes up. Did we do the right thing? Are we f-ing crazy? My answers: yes and yes. We had to do it. We had to test ourselves, our relationship, our ability to manage with very little money. We had to remember how to shed the need for things and how to enjoy the moment. We had to learn some lessons. I like to think of the time we've spent here as an extended maternity leave. We have had the opportunity to spend time with Luca that we never would have been able to had we stayed in Portland. I have no regrets. As much as I complain about the bureaucracy, Italians definitely know how to take it easy. After years in a fairly stressful job which consumed a lot of my personal time, it's been good to see that it's possible for work to be second to life.

Luca is a little splendor. We revel in watching him discover new things everyday. We love all of the attention he draws to himself with his constant smiling at strangers and his fake 'look at me' laugh. I am proud of his table manners. The crossing of his little hands while his mouth awaits the next spoonful, wide open. I am enamored with him and with the man Lorenzo has become as a father. It's beautiful to watch them together, laughing, playing, hugging.

Yes, parenting is hard. Relationships take a beating as two people with separate upbringings try to come together to make decisions about raising a new little person. And all of the decisions have to be made between feedings and diaper changes as the time you used to have to discuss the future has all but faded. Any concept of free time is lost, unless your lucky to have a good napper. I never had more than 30 minutes to myself, twice a day for the first 7 months. You forget what it's like to sleep through the night. After 12 months, Luca still wakes up around 1 or 2 for no reason. And I lose patience.

But then Luca walks over to me holding onto the coffee table and puts his head on my thigh and the lost patience is a distant memory. He opens the door, sits down, sees me and says, "Mamma". When he's in Lorenzo's arms and I walk up behind him he smiles big and leans over so that I'll hold him. He stands at the couch and when I reach out my arms he tries his hardest to walk over to me before falling over; then once he reaches me he starts laughing.

Tonight, after his bath, I was reaching for his diaper while he flipped himself onto his stomach and started lowering himself off the side of the bed. He made it to the floor and started peeing. I could have gotten a little irritated, but when he started laughing I started laughing too. Then he tried to walk in his puddle of pee and slipped. He held himself up so he didn't fall but he started laughing even harder. Once he heard me laughing, he could barely stand anymore. Tears were rolling down my face, watching my naked little baby, pee still streaming out of his little peter, trying to walk, while laughing so hard it made him wobble.

It was top ten favorite moments. Until I had to clean up the mess. Honestly, I really love this little kid. And not just because I'm his mom. He's funny. He's actually a pleasure to hang out with. Yes, it gets boring sometimes, watching him put things in a box and take them back out. But if you saw him do it, you'd see how smart he is, how quick and developmentally advanced. Yes that's his mom talking. And I really love being his mom.

A Change of Season

As you may have noticed, there has been a small trace of melancholy to my posts. Nothing tragic, but less excitement than one would expect from a person who just picked up and moved to Europe. It's just so much to get used to. But with the change of weather here in Rome, so too have I a change in attitude. There is something about the sun that makes a city more beautiful. And there is so much more to look forward to: beach excursions, road trips, picnics, strawberry festivals and rosé.

Now that we live in an apartment, we rotate taking Jackie out for her walk at night. I always dread it. In fact, we both do. But once I get outside, I'm happy to be out. The night air has warmed up quite a bit and now the smell of jasmine and orange blossoms have permeated the air in our neighborhood. It is a smell that reminds me of the stint I spent living in Pasadena. In the Spring the smell of orange blossoms was almost overwhelming. It always made me smile and continues to.

I have been surprised by the number of parks in Rome. Lorenzo knows how much I need to get out of the chaos of the city and so he makes an effort to tour me around the various natural oases. Each and every morning, as part of our dedication to Jackie, we take a 30-40 minute walk around Villa Borghese on my way to work. It's amazing. Every time we walk past the Galleria Borghese, I remember where I am.

Last night I had some time to kill on the way to a friend's house. I decided to stop in Piazza San Pietro since it's on the way. In the evening there are very few people so you can actually take it in. I'm not religious, in fact, quite the opposite, but it's impossible for me to fight the power of this place to move me close to tears. There are days when, lost in the routine of day to day, I keep my head down. When you see something everyday it loses it's luster. But in the middle of St. Peter's it's impossible to keep your head down. While Bernini's square welcomes you, Michelangelo's dome screams at you to look at it. It pulls you in, makes you stop what you're doing and proceeds to drown you in its beauty.

There are truly too many monuments to list here, they are all beautiful in their own way. But I don't spend a lot of time in the center during the day. It's just too hectic and crowded with tourists; getting on the metro with Luca is a challenge that is sometimes too hard to face. I do however spend a lot of time in my neighborhood, Parioli, and the Auditorium is my favorite landmark. Built by Renzo Piano in 2002, it's contains three concert halls, a park with a playground, a bookstore and two cafes. Besides music concerts, they also host lectures and film screenings. Most recently Wes Anderson gave a talk and screened 'The Fantastic Mr. Fox" (for 5 Euros) and I saw Alice Waters from Chez Panisse talk about building school gardens and sustainable food (for free). The concert halls are famous for having the best acoustics in all of Europe. We saw The Swell Season, this weekend we're going to see Wilco and I'm hoping to scrape together the 40 Euros to see Erykah Badu play in their outdoor ampitheater. I adore the architecture. Three big bugs! In a city of ancient ruins, modern buildings stands out.

This is the view of the Auditorium from the bus stop I frequent. One day I had the pleasure of meeting a ninety-one year old man named Signor Lasagna. He told me all about the time he spent in England during World War II. When we boarded the bus he patted the seat next to him. I had a lovely time listening to his stories during my ride to work. When I described this charming old man to Lorenzo he explained that Signor Lasagna was responsible for beautifying our street. People are so disrespectful here it amazes me. They litter, they leave their dog shit on the sidewalks, they leave old car batteries on the side of the road. But Senor Lasagna took it upon himself to clean out the side of the road that was being used as a trash pile and to plant trees and shrubs. Did I mention he's 91? On a good day you can catch him pruning the plants. Unfortunately I didn't catch him there today.

In these last days I've put my tourist glasses back on so that I can see where I am more clearly. And under the sun, it's a beautiful sight.

Nostalgia

I'm having a hard time coming to terms with getting older. I like that I'm through the period of trying to figure out who I am. I don't miss that part of my revolting youth - the struggle, the search, the confusion, the pessimism. I like knowing who I am and what I need. I like being mature and responsible, in theory. And I don't even mind the wrinkles. But I miss the firsts. I miss the open-ended possibilities. I miss wondering what might be...

Lately I've been watching old movies. Not movies that I'm proud of loving like Godard and French new wave or classic Bergman. No, I've been watching John Hughes, Cameron Crowe and Emile Ardolino. Would you know Ardolino if I said, "No one puts Baby in the corner."? Like I said, I'm not proud. But these movies came out when I was on the cusp of being a teenager. When I was right on the edge of my first kiss. When my idea of romantic love wasn't yet ruined by the realities of teenage relationships. Some Kind of Wonderful rocked me at 12 years old. I was so inspired I asked for a drumset for my next birthday. I watched with the anticipation that at some point in my life I would know what it felt like to love without hesitation. To feel the stabbing pain of watching the love of your life chase after someone else. It was something I hadn't yet known. But somehow, at 12, I knew I would be that girl, the girl who would love and be hurt. And I was, many times over.

Dirty Dancing offered the idea that if you were in the right place at the right time, you too could become a professional dancer. And at 12, after a few years of ballet, tap and jazz with Louis McKay, there was nothing I wanted more. A friend asked me recently, "Was Patrick Swayze really a sex symbol? Since when was dancing like that considered masculine?" I have to admit, I still think Patrick Swayze is hot in those dance scenes. It's super sexy to watch men who can dance, dance. But more than that, I was inspired that maybe, someday, someone would see my hidden talents and want to bring them to light.

And Say Anything. I'm still waiting for someone to stand outside of my bedroom with a ghetto blaster. That's real love. But instead of Peter Gabriel they might play me a little Marvin Gaye.

The point is, I'm not the person I was when I first watched these movies. I'm not an awkward 12 year old (thank god). I'm not hoping to become a professional dancer, I didn't kiss my best guy-friend in junior high because he didn't like me like that, and considering it could be tough to even find a ghetto blaster in 2010, I don't think I will hear Peter Gabriel wafting through my bedroom window anytime soon. There will never be another first kiss, first crush or first love. Knowing that makes watching these movies hard for me. It creates this odd nostalgia for all of those things. It reminds me of what I wanted at 12, of what I thought I might be. I remember that feeling of endless possibilities.

I'm not complaining. I love my love story. It's better than all of those movies. But I can't wrap my head around this weird nostalgia. Maybe it's because I'm not looking forward in the same way that I did at 12, I'm not anticipating things that have never happened. I'm still hopeful and excited about what's to come, but most likely, it's not going to be something I haven't experienced before. This is a new feeling, I've never been on this side of life. I've never been old before. When the fashions you grew up with become retro, when 'rad' comes back for the second time, when you think back to the time when you rushed home to see if there was a message on your answering machine, when people wrote letters with a pen and paper, when I wondered what that first kiss would be like; there's something I miss about all of that. And it's only going to get stranger as I watch my little boy grow up in the 21st century; as I become a part of the old school and less relevant.

I have to embrace the wisdom that comes with old age. I have to remember that I can still revel in inspiring moments no matter how old I am. I have to brag about being a child of the seventies because I got to experience all the awful, I mean awesome, things about the eighties. Now it's time to look forward to seeing Luca experience all of his firsts with stars in his eyes. It's a new phase and I guess the truth is, it really is another first.

So Many Beautiful Cities

My parents visited in April and I had the fortunate opportunity to go to Spain with them. Lorenzo was kind enough to stay with Luca for the two days while we were gone. In the first few hours it was a lot harder to be away from Luca than I thought it would be. And then once we landed in Barcelona, inspiration replaced homesickness and I was reminded of why I love to travel.

Even though I was only in Barcelona for a short time, it made me realize, being in Europe is f-ing awesome. I love Europe. I'm just not a big city person. But a small city, on the beach, with young people, people on bikes, casual dress, people who smile, hearing the comforting sound of Spanish (which makes me nostalgic for California), the sun and afternoon drinks at outdoor bars; yea, Barcelona was my pace.

Being there made me realize what I want, and that's the first step to getting it right? So here it is. I want to live in Portland with my friends. But I don't want it to rain there anymore. I want a clear transition to each season without the dreary sunless days that drag on for months. After the weather, I want Portland to be on the beach. A nice beach where you can swim in the water. I want a bike path that you can access from downtown that follows the top of the cliffs. And I want Portland to have a MOMA. I would also like to invite people of all different races and ethnicities to move to Portland to color it up a bit. And socialized health care.

That's all Portland needs to be the perfect city. If Portland had all of those things (and all of the things that it already has that make it beautiful), well then I could stop traveling to different cities, getting crushes on them, and figuring out how to move there. I would be content to visit and then to go back home to my perfect little city, with it's Farmer's Markets, it's strong sense of civic pride, with community events, pedestrian friendly streets, Powell's and Stumptown, rivers, parks, clean air and restaurants with dog menus. I do miss you.