The Balcony

This is the view from our balcony. However, the static image doesn't capture what this view is to me. It's really the sounds that remind me of where I am. The sound of the kids in the school, the scooters, the chime of the teacher's whistle...I've spend so much time here, in so many stages of my life, that after nine years (my first time in this apartment was June, 2003), the sounds are nostalgic for me. This apartment, this view, it brings back a myriad of memories.  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oChAXBS8EHw&feature=g-upl

My first memory of this balcony was upon walking into the apartment before I knew Francesca. I was here by myself, awaiting the arrival of a bus load of Nebraskans who would be here for Benedetta's wedding. I remember trying to find Francesca and walking into what felt like a hugely expansive living room (before the renovation it was almost double the size it is now). The walls were covered with a sort of green, velvety, striped wallpaper which made the walls leading up to the 12' ceilings appear to go on forever. There was a wall of bookshelves, completely full, that covered an entire side of the room, all the way up to the ceiling. Because the room was sort of dark, the books gave it the feeling of a library. When I walked in, Francesca was sitting by herself watching tennis. 

The second memory, about 5 days later, brings back the excitement of the first few days I realized I had a crush on Lorenzo.The fore-mentioned Nebraskans had arrived, the living room was full of them, all male, all circled around an immense block of hash, almost exactly the dimensions of a red brick. Lorenzo was sitting by the door of the balcony, smoking (before my persuasion and the birth of Ella encouraged smoking outside of the Roma house), and I remember making pretty intense eye-contact for the first time. That moment will never leave me. 

The nostalgia of the sounds of the school bring back memories of many hazy mornings during the same trip. After we had all stayed up all night, most nights, all of us Americans, too busy drinking and walking the city to sleep; the sun would come up while we were all standing on the balcony ending our night. After going to bed around 6am, the summer heat and the sounds of the school would wake me promptly at 8am, leaving me in a fog the rest of the day. Five or so espressos later, I was usually cured of the fog.

I love this balcony. I love the memories, the far newer memories of watching Luca learning to crawl in front of the open balcony doors, now playing with Sabina on the same floor. I remember after Benedetta and Trevor's wedding, sitting in the kitchen, exhausted after a full day, all of us eating leftovers from the wedding party. I remember watching Trevor talk with Francesca, Italian rolling of his tongue with ease, laughing with Lorenzo's friends, completely comfortable inside of the culture. I remember thinking, "He is so lucky. He married into such a cool life. I want that." I don't remember that thought having anything to do with Lorenzo specifically, I just remember thinking how different his life was from other people I knew who were married. That it appeared so much more exciting and fulfilling. 

I love this side of my life. I love the family I've fallen into, the family Lorenzo and I are now a part of together and the life of memories that will surround this balcony through the life of my children and maybe even my grandchildren. Now that I've had this moment to stop and breathe, I can revel in my blessings and in the dream I've managed to manifest for myself. For it really was a dream of mine to be able to speak another language and to have a reason to travel throughout my life. Yes, I can judge where I am in my life at nearly 40, I can get down on myself thinking I should be more or should be doing more. But this part, this part I'm happy to celebrate. 

Now that I have a little time on my side, what other dreams can I manifest? 

Roma Redux

And another adventure begins. Two years after our sad departure from our time living in Rome, we're back. With baby in tow again. It's like déjà vu, the good kind, when you search your brain for the familiarity and trace it back to an incredibly happy, endearing dream. The time we spent here with Luca as a baby has become a fantasy I want to recreate. Despite some of the emotional difficulties I faced in acclimating to the culture as a new mom, the time here was one of the few moments I've felt like I was my best self for a period that extended beyond those fleeting vacation days spent abroad. Those vacations only suspended my reality long enough for me to imagine a life without a work grind, I was never able to actually manifest that life for myself. The 8 months of suspended reality, living as an ex-pat, thinking it was a longer term life change, it forced me to find daily inspirations and to savor every moment I didn't have to compromise. I got to focus on being a mom without feeling the entrapment of that identity because I had a job. But the job was the first that I could leave behind when my hours were completed. But the time spent at work felt incredibly fulfilling and worthwhile. I was teaching English, which was far from a step forward on paper, but it allowed me the chance to connect with people as people and not as strange business colleagues. I had full autonomy to design my daily lessons and I dedicated myself to figuring out the best way to give people what they were ultimately looking for - a way to connect with people in a different language. I was so entrenched in that dilemma myself that it felt good to share my experience in real time and to teach people to avoid the obstacles I had tripped over more than once in my learning of Italian. Needless to say, my suspended reality will come to a close as soon as everyone wakes up here in a minute, as having kids keeps you from ever really being on vacation. But lucky for me, travel insomnia allows me to engage my inspiration and try to capture it before it scurries away when my mind gets cluttered with feeding and changing schedules. I'm not sure what to anticipate from these 5 weeks, as I'll be juggling work through three of them, but somehow this feels like a big change, like a crossroads is on the horizon. The frantic and frenetic pace I've been trying to uphold over the last 5 months since I've written a word here, has dampened a big piece of my spirit. It's the piece that reminds me I musn't be complacent and think that my story ends as my kid's stories begin. I want to be an example of what is possible, not what had to be left behind. I refuse to put my head in an oven. I'm in a new developmental milestone, one I'm beginning to believe comes for everyone right around this time. It's a turning point where our expectations of where we would be at this point in our lives leads us to judgement instead of celebration. This place is the hardest thus far, but also the most rewarding. I'm learning more than I have since my early twenties. I'm trying to figure things out again, but with many more tools at my disposal. I like this moment. Three weeks of working nights will be tough, but my daily responsibilities (pick-ups, drop-offs, babysitter/daycare schedule coordination, packing lunches, getting everywhere late), these tasks have been reduced so much that even after 14 hours of travel with two kids under 3, and no sleep, it feels like a vacation. And for me, despite working, it will be. My life as it has been over the last six months is not one that I want to return to. Things will change after this trip, I will no longer be running myself ragged the way I have been. I'm too old, I can't bounce back from that level of stress the way I once could. And fuck it, why should I try? There are better ways. I shouldn't have to run the race I've been running. Being here, with time on my hands, I am bound and determined to find them. And P.S. I realize the formatting is rough, it's 3am and I'm on the iPad and I'm too tired to figure out line breaks.

Good kids, good wine, good times

It's amazing what one night out and a good bottle of wine can do for your spirits. Plus, a good bottle doesn't leave you with a hangover in the morning which is even better. On top of that our beautiful children let us sleep in until eight, so overall, I'm feeling pretty f-ing good. After three difficult months, it's about time.

It's not what you think. Yes, two kids can be tough, but my problems are all physical. But when you have enough physical issues, they start to take their toll on your attitude and outlook, and mine has been a little bleak as a result. So let me briefly recap the list of ailments I've had to contend with since September. Mastitis. Twice. Fever included. Strep throat - two weeks. IUD insertion + minor complications. Shingles. Yup, shingles. And my first period at exactly the three month post-partum mark, which means it fell on the exact date of my last period - December 25, 2010. Then let's not forget the "normal" things one has to contend with post-pregnancy: six weeks of bleeding and cramping, boob pain, and a ridiculous amount of hair loss.

I'm not complaining, but I am telling the universe that whatever it was you wanted me to learn by all this, it's learnt.

Now that the shingles have cleared up, while I wait to see if I passed that archaic virus chicken pox onto my kids, I am enjoying another glass of good wine to keep up the inspiration I experienced from my big night out. Inspiration that came from a dinner that started at the very adult dinner time of 8:30 and continued for hours amidst a conversation that cemented the love I feel for my partner and my teammate in this life of raising human people.

If you are one of the lucky people to have found that person who you always want to be with, you've had these conversations many times over. The conversation that spurs that feeling that someone finally understands you and all of your tangents. The conversation that creates a bubble around two people fading the background into a dull hum. The conversation that makes you feel like you are in exactly the right place at exactly the right time and that you are still learning and growing with the help of this other person.

When you live together, as Lorenzo and I have for the past 7 + years, although you know that these conversations can happen, they get shadowed by the daily conversations that are critical to survival. "What are we going to eat.", "Will you take the baby while I go to the bathroom?", "Did she eat?" And then there are the truly important conflicts. "Can you please pick your underwear off the bathroom floor?", "You forgot to put the clothes in the dryer." "Where did you put my bag? You always move my stuff." Boring, necessary, routine and annoying. The moments that drive people to look for excitement elsewhere. But when you really consider this person to be your family, there is no moment when you think you won't be with them, despite the conflicts and boredom. And when the kids stop needing your breast every hour, when you can drink wine and speak adult-like again, when you can remember what you need, when you can cement your love with inspiring conversations, your partner can remind you of your best self. You start to remember how much you like to sing in the bathroom because of the fantastic acoustics, you dig out those books that light the sparks of your soul for a moment, you start a nightly routine of Motown dance parties with your two year-old, you talk with your partner about your dreams and ideas and about how you are proud to be a parent with them. And things get better. Shingles get forgotten. Life feels right. One moment at a time.

Head Above Water

I'm finally done treading water and have gotten my first gulps of fresh air. With Luca it was the first two weeks that were the hardest, with Sabina it was the first two months. I'm now 10 weeks in and it both feels like a blink of an eye and an eternity. Nothing else compares to the roller coaster of emotions that you feel in early babyhood. You have to recover from seeing your body go from large but acceptable with baby on board, to, large but empty, jelly-like and wrinkled. Then there's the vagina, I'll leave that one alone for now, but you can imagine the recovery. Boobs, 3 sizes bigger than normal, with baby constantly attached, which was incredibly painful at the start - somehow I forgot everything. And to top it all off you have this very needy little person and a very needy slightly bigger person who both cry a lot, eat a lot and poop a lot. Oh and then there's that very inconvenient thing about not sleeping. At least not more than a couple hours at a time. Have you ever based your day on trying to catch up on sleep? There's a lot of rushing through meals, conversations, and showers so that you can run to bed and try to get an hour in.

But I'm past all that. Well, most of it. I've lost the large, but still have the wrinkled pooch. The lady parts are doing well. Boobs are getting more breaks and have come down from a Pamela Anderson to a Scarlet Johannson. The little people are still needy, but my little baby lady is going to bed at 8 and only waking up once to eat. That's a game changer. It started right about the time when I had my first sleep-deprived freak out. It was my birthday and I hit a wall. I told Lorenzo, through a stream of tears, that I didn't think I could do it anymore. My post-pregnancy brain didn't know what "it" was exactly, but my tired, hunched over body new something had to change. I can still see Lorenzo's sympathetic look as he said, "Jaime, there's nothing we can do, it will get better but this is how it is right now." It's hard to believe that was more than a month ago. I have no complaints. She is a good, good baby. And when you've slept you love your kids more.

My last pregnant picture, 5 days before Sabina arrived. And that's it. The chapter on pregnancy is officially over, the milestone passed. No more contemplation about whether to have kids, whether to have two, whether I will be able to get pregnant, what will it be like, how will I handle the last uncomfortable month etc. I am no longer a mother-to-be, nor will I ever be again. I am now the mother of two children. I have kids. "The kids are at home", "the kids are at school", "the kids are doing well thanks"...Really, I'm not sure how this all happened. I never thought I would be so domestic. I accept the role lovingly, but I'll also fight it my whole life, that you can count on.

I went to the hospital around 11pm on Saturday night. I was having contractions while my parents were over for dinner, but around 11p, I realized they were getting more painful so the midwife suggested we head to the hospital. At my Thursday appointment she had told me she was on call Saturday (she's my favorite midwife in the group - Lisa - she delivered Luca), she said she could make a case to induce me if I wanted her to deliver baby girl. Of course she was partly joking, but all I could think about was how Saturday was so soon, I was still working after all, I needed a little break, at least another week. But when I got there, they didn't send me home as I thought they might. Turns out I was already 4-5 cm dilated.

So we set out to make our rounds through the halls of the maternity wing of Providence Portland. My midwife didn't have any other patients so she would wait for us at one end of the hall and tell us to make another lap. I would stop every 8 minutes or so to breathe deeply while Lorenzo wrapped me with a tight hug. He knew just how to comfort me through every contraction. At one point he asked, in all seriousness, "so what's a male midwife called, a midman?" For some reason, it cracked me up and brought on another contraction, but I couldn't stop laughing through it. I'm not sure if girl hormones are different than boy hormones, but I did a lot of laughing through labor and up until the end when Lisa said I was going to laugh the baby out.

As we walked, I couldn't get my head to realize what was happening to my body. I kept trying to explain to Lorenzo how distant I felt from the imminent sounds of a baby crying. I've never felt so mentally disconnected from an experience. For 9 months I lived as a pregnant woman, adapting to everything that means, while forgetting the part about the baby being born. I just went about my daily life, with this thing that made me different and more uncomfortable but that I just took in stride as part of my everyday. I worked hard to get my "head in the game" as my dad used to say during my sports heyday.

At just about 7 cm, when I felt the burst of my water breaking, the separation of mind and body was over. It was all I could do to turn off the part of my brain that didn't want to run another lap and to just focus on my breathing. Once I hit 8cm with contractions coming every 2 minutes, writhing with pain, I wondered why I was competing with myself and not allowing myself pain relief. I asked Lorenzo to tell me what to do. Knowing me, he took my concerns to Lisa, who entered the bathroom while I was showering, and told me I should get an epidural. It was what I needed hear, permission.

The worst contractions are the ones that come once you've decided you don't want to feel them anymore. The sensation of feeling pain for 1 minute and then absolutely nothing for 2 minutes, it's a mind fuck. You really think for a minute that the pain won't come back, and then it knocks the wind out of you like a steam train at full speed.

Next thing I knew, the room was dark, Lorenzo was snoring, the nurse was putting a blanket over me, and I'm preparing for the next contraction that doesn't come. The relief was so great that I passed out, or almost. I flashed back to Luca's birth where once I laid down, all movement stopped and a c-section became a close call. So I put my bed up a bit and started trying to move myself around. After feeling the movement was adequate, I passed out.

I woke an hour later worried that my nurse and Lisa would be changing shifts. It was 6:20am (2 hours after the epidural) and they were scheduled to leave at 7. Remembering that I pushed for 3 hours with Luca, I was sure I'd be giving birth to this baby with all new people around me. I was disappointed. But when Wendy came in to check my cervix, she saw hair and started running around confused. "I have to get Lisa. There's a baby right there." I groggily told her to wake Lorenzo. Lisa came in sleep-eyed as well. Here was our baby, ready to be born while we were all sleeping.

And literally, once we all rubbed the sleep out of our eyes, while I was laughing, Sabina was making her way out. Just like that. No pushing, just laughing. I did do one push just to move things along, but by 6:39a she was laying on my chest, warm and soft. I finally met the little girl who'd I'd been carrying around for close to a year. All the wondering and worrying, anticipation and preparation, it all ended in that moment, when I was holding this new little person in my arms.

And now, I am trying to relive those 7 hours, each of those important moments, the way one re-lives the experience of meeting their life partner for the first time. The exciting moment of realizing you have met the love of your life. And in my case, the third in a series of true loves.

Home Stretch

I can't believe how fast I've reached the 35th week of this pregnancy. Two more weeks and I will have hit full-term. Pregnancy is so strange. It lasts for almost a year so you have get used to it and live everyday without focusing on it. Then you hit the third trimester and you wish it would slow down while you simultaneously hold your breath for it to end.

It would be nice if I delivered a little early. I'm starting to get uncomfortable. Lots of abdominal pressure makes it hard to walk, hard to sleep/rollover, I can't wear shoes with laces anymore, tums sit next to the bed to nurse nightly heartburn, I've very tired and growing bored. I want to enjoy the summer, but it's getting hard to do much. And with these very hot days, if I'm outside I have to be in the shade and be sure not to get overheated. I can't really get out of town at this point, and hikes, bike rides and all the other active things I normally love to do, are pretty much out of the question. Plus I'm just so tired, did I mention that already?

Lorenzo is great at reminding me to slow down. In fact he reminded me that I need to be writing. I'm terrible at slowing down, but I really want to appreciate these last pregnant days. Our life plan doesn't include a number 3 which means this is it and I need to remember it and cherish it. I am one of the lucky women who handle pregnancy well. There are moments of discomfort, but overall, it comes easy. It makes me appreciate my body and feel happy that I've really tried to take care of it. It does however, still feel like work. If you haven't ever been pregnant, expect lots of changes and be ready for them. I have a hard time describing what it's like to be pregnant. It's so strange to watch your stomach moving in different directions, completely out of your control. And it's amazing that this little person is right there, just below the surface, growing inside of my body. She's a full baby, no longer a zygote or a multiplication of cells. She could be born tomorrow and she would be a little lady, fully formed, yet somehow she's still inside of my body, as a fully formed human, continuing to grow.

The biggest difference in this pregnancy is that I feel like I blend into the background more than with Luca. It sounds very needy to say this, but with Luca I felt like people were really looking out for me, protecting me and I liked it. Grocery store clerks always offered to help me out, people on the plane offered to put my bags in the overhead compartment, strangers went over of their way to let me go in front of them in line or to ask me about the pregnancy. None of that has happened this time. I think it might be because I forget that I'm pregnant and think that people don't think I look pregnant (funny now looking at that picture there's no mistaking it for a beer belly). It's just different. Lorenzo on the other hand is extremely protective of me, much more than he was with Luca. He is forcing me to sit down, he's doing everything around the house and reminding me not to work so much. He's been great, and to see how excited he is about this little girl's arrival, it's really sweet.

Pregnancy is a stepping stone, but being a mother of two, that's the real deal. The real test. Am I patient enough, wise enough, compassionate enough, loving enough to give my all to three other people? I believe I am. But like everything, I'll be challenged regularly in this new space. It's funny how you daydream about your life. I honestly didn't think I would become so domesticated, and Lorenzo, he never fit this profile. But here we are, about to complete our little nuclear family of 4, dog, house and car included. I struggle with that. But I am also so completely in love with Luca, he is so amazing, and I'm so proud of how Lorenzo and I have steered through these new waters together. Now I'm excited, scared, but excited about becoming a mother again. And then in a few months we'll work on breaking the domestication rules and we'll get adventurous again.

Second 1st Day of School

The anticipation was worse than the actual event. I was very sad thinking about Luca's first full-day of daycare. I knew he would love it and do fine, but what about me? Yes it was stressful to leave work to pick him up at 11:45, to make lunch, put him down for a nap and run out again when grandma came over. Or stress over the things I wasn't accomplishing on the days when we didn't have grandma's help. And in reality, I wasn't spending that much more time with him. But it's the idea. My little man is growing up and I can't slow things down. I've lost control.

I fantasize about the leisurely days we spent in Rome. Everyday as a family, we would spend an early hour walking in Villa Borghese. I would run in front of Luca's stroller to make him laugh, Jackie would play and chase dogs and Lorenzo and I would marvel at the beauty of the place. Lorenzo would drop me at work and then go home and spend the next few hours with Luca and Nonna until I got home and we spent the afternoon at the other park in our neighborhood, Villa Glori. We were so lucky. And once you've had it that good, it's hard to let it go.

I feel guilty that my kid is spending 7 hours at school. But really, it's only a matter of time right? He'll always be in school. It's not that I would keep him at home just to spend more time with him. He's building academic prowess, social skills and being potty trained. All steps in his embarking on elementary and then junior high, high school and beyond. And at each of those steps I'll be thinking about my little rascal. My little man who says a new word everyday in his little man voice. At each stage I'll remember Rome and how he changed from baby to little boy there and how much I loved that time with him.

Quiet the Banter

I have this running inner dialogue in my head and I realized today, the dialogue is me trying to work out how to get my thoughts down on paper. In the same way that I have conversations with Lorenzo in my head when I'm away from him, thinking of the ways to share everything I'm experiencing, I work out how I might structure this event or idea into a story or in this case, blog post. This is all a long way of saying, I'm committed to writing more. If for no other reason than to stop this annoying banter in my head.

And I have a lot to think about these days.

I will however focus on only one of those things here, for the sake of time and energy. And that thing would be the surprise visit we had from the stork about 12 weeks ago. It all started when I put the clothes in the dryer and forgot to turn it on. Then I put the kitchen sponge in the refrigerator. Then I fell asleep on the couch at 7:30, fighting to keep my eyes open. It all seemed too familiar. My intuition drove me to the Rite Aid to buy a test, and 5 minutes later, there was no hesitation from that plus sign, not even a lighter color despite the fact that I was three weeks from a missed period. How many minus signs had I seen in the effort to conceive Luca, each one more depressing than the first. And this time, not a one, and that plus sign didn't elicit the elation it did the first time. I was confused, "what is this plus sign? I must be reading it wrong." After two more tests (totaling three, the national average as I found out later from my midwife), the confusion turned quickly to fear.

Having a second baby is, strangely, something you think about from the moment your first is born. After 30 hours of labor, nurses think it makes sense to tell you how easy it will be the second time, as if it's a given. The common phrase, "the next will just shoot out." People start asking you right away, "so, do you think you'll have another one?" It's such a strange question to me, it really makes it seem more like you're raising domesticated puppies than people. But it makes you think, and ask yourself the question, over and over and over. And you start to think about your age, and if you'll ever regret that you didn't have two. And you think about how fun it would be to have a bigger family. You think about how much joy you felt when you held your baby in your arms for the first time and how you'd like to know that feeling again. You wonder if your kid remains an only child, will they be sad that they didn't have siblings? Will you be inadvertently screwing them up emotionally? And all those clothes you saved...could you really just give them away?

You get closer to making the decision, so you get a little riskier in the birth control department. It took so long the first time, we thought, we can take a few risks right? Wrong. One risky adventure and here we are, a bright blue plus on a shiny white stick. Now there will be another person in the world. And as soon as I saw that plus, I panicked and the banter started, "how will I take two small children to the store by myself? How will I work? I can't afford to have two kids in daycare. Oh my god, pregnant again. Shit. My body going through the 40 pound metamorphosis all over again. Breastfeeding. But I wanted to start riding my bike again, we were going to go to Europe, oh my god, we'll never be able to afford to go back with two kids, shit, will my crappy health insurance even cover everything? Oh my god, pregnant again."

Scared. Pure and simple. I am trying to be excited, Lorenzo is ecstatic and reassuring. He said, "there's nothing more beautiful than a pregnant woman." That is of course until my face bloats out around month eight.

I do know this is a beautiful thing, and I will come around. It's just so much harder for a woman who wants to have a career to give birth and nurture a new baby. We really have to be super heros. Our male counterparts can be at our sides during the birthing process and give us emotional support, and then help with diaper changes. But they can also go back to work without having to worry about feeding their kid, or nursing their genitals back to health or recovering from the 40 pound metamorphosis. They can take off three weeks and then go back to their normal lives. But for me? It's so much more complicated. And even if I wanted to pass the burden on, really I can't, I mean I could if I was so career driven that I didn't care about giving my kid formula from day one. But that's not me, I'm career driven and want to be the best mom I can be. I want to give my kid the best start, but that means trying to work around breastfeeding every hour or pumping, which is god-awful. And if I do rush back to work, because I love it, I will feel guilty. Especially because of the way I spent Luca's first year. And there are those pesky social stigmas when you put your kid in daycare.

No answers yet, but I will continue to write and ponder and get advice; as I said, I'm committed to writing for at least the next 7 months. For now, the big question is, how do so many women pull this off? If ever there was any doubt, women are f-ing incredible. We do it all, and most do it really well. At the expense of ourselves of course, but hey we're mothers, we come last. But I was just moving up on the totem pole again...

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.

Oh Rome, why do you have to make things so hard?

I'm a little disillusioned at present. I like to have faith in people, to think the best of them. I always expect people will be honest with me. It seems my expectations are too high for Rome. And not that I should generalize, but when I tell people about my work situation they don't seem surprised.

I've worked at my current job for three months. I love it and I'm good at it. I teach adults English. No, it wasn't a career move, but after working from home for five years and being somewhat detached from people except by phone, it really suits me to be back interacting with people. The students love me. I'm a really good teacher. But at the school, they don't care about student feedback or teacher feedback. If there are issues with the curriculum, they don't care. I began altering the curriculum to see if students were more successful in understanding the material. It's working. It's rewarding to see their eyes light up when they finally get something they've struggled with for a long time.

Outside of the lessons I teach, I also run conversation classes for large groups. Last week they had to split up the class with two teachers because it was so big. The whole huge group tried to stuff themselves into my class. They begged the administrator to let them stay. They told me my conversation groups were a "breath of fresh air". I was very proud they could use such a phrase. After having been separated from teaching for so long, it's been a good reminder of how much I love it.

However, they haven't paid me. Here in Italy you get paid once a month. They missed March and are quickly approaching a missed payment for April. The Director assured me the payment was coming in a maximum of ten days, which means this Saturday. Do I trust him? As I mentioned, people from Rome don't seemed surprised that I haven't gotten paid. Why? Why do people get away with this kind of thing? How can you knowingly take money away from people, people who are the bread and butter of your business? Without the teachers what do you have? A bunch of Italian administrators who don't speak English.

I'm mad and it kind of makes me hate this place. It shouldn't, there are many other great things about this city. But it's not an easy place to live, everything is harder than it should be. The buses don't come on time, sometimes they don't come at all. People don't wait in line, they push their way to the front. Cars don't part on the street, they park on the sidewalk which makes pushing a stroller next to impossible. Bureaucracy is ridiculous and inefficient. Why can't it be easier? If I do have to leave my job, I won't be leaving quietly. I don't think they should just get away with it.

I'm American, and that's one thing we're definitely not, quiet.