I am keeping this post private for the time being while I come to terms with our news and hopefully see things settle down a bit more. By things, I mean we are pregnant and I am 42 and E is 47 and we hadn't expected this to happen and oh MY GOD oh my God OH MY GOD!!!
It has arrived at exactly the right moment. Ha. If I had a font that signified 'dripping in sarcasm', I would be using that right there. After leaving work early when I was pregnant with Giorgio, 6 years ago, I haven't worked since - unless you are an enlightened being and recognise that bringing up two vivacious boys in close succession is in fact full time work sufficient to occupy a couple of people and then some - in which case, I have been fully employed but unpaid since then. However - all this was about to change. I have had so many offers/ demands/ cajolings since I got to Italy to teach English or do private lessons, but since I taught at the boys' nursery, I have avoided it like the plague. Even grown-ups, I hate teaching full stop and wasn't about to get drawn back into it, being uncharacteristically stubborn about it when asked. Then one day, a friend rang and said she was starting a travel and events company and would I come on board? It would be a brand new office in a lovely new hotel and sports complex just down the road and if I only wanted to do mornings so I could be there for the boys in the afternoon, that would be fine too.
So tomorrow I am going to Verona for a week with her on a training course knowing that, barring any mishaps, I ain't going to be working for another couple of years yet... I feel really bad for her, I so don't want to let her down.
Of course, we were also supposed to be moving into the new house in the Autumn. It is a new build in the country, three stories with much more room and garden than we have now. Effectively a blank canvas. I have been looking forward to moving for about a year and have been steadily decorating each room in my mind and getting more and more excited the closer it got to making my ideas reality. Like that's going to happen now... *sigh*
I have gone through broody moments over the past few years, when Edo started at nursery, when friends have announced pregnancies or babies born. Much of it was born out a need for a purpose, I think now, which the new job was set to provide. We didn't expect this at all - in fact, the last trip to the gynae, he told me I was looking at perimenopause so I got all anxious about hot flushes and hair loss. Wrong!
This blog is going to take rather a surprising turn so, bear with me as I struggle to give up the lovely predicatable happy future we had for another we just can't anticipate.
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
It has been snowing in the UK for about three weeks now. I have seen photo after photo of snow-covered landscapes that frankly, would take an imbecile to make unattractive. I am DESPERATE for a flake of snow, but no, here in Rome we get snow very infrequently and even then it doesn't settle - which is almost worse. It's like having a bottle of wine with just a couple of centimetres left in the bottom and no more in the rack. You eke it out wishing there was more and that it would last longer, but no, it is what it is and it's gone far too quickly. (I'm not an alcoholic, honest). It's not a relaxing experience, watching it snowing here. Saying that, I have only seen heavy sleet, not your actual genuine Roman snow. That only happens when I go away - earlier this year there was a light sprinkling. I was in Spain. The photos were lovely.
So this year, I have been watching all the snow falling in the UK with a sinking heart, miserable that I'm not there to enjoy it. Homesickness always kicks in in the run up to Christmas. I miss how over-the-top we do things in the UK. You in the UK will scoff - and I well remember how hideously irritating Christmas can become after it's been rammed down your throat since the end of the summer holidays. Things here are much more understated. We went to the Piazza del Popolo last week and the tree there looks lovely, dominating the Piazza in an elegant way, not trying too hard to be the centre of attention. There are delicate lights which certain stores have taken it upon themselves to put up and the odd side-street which has gone the whole hog and strung lights from one end to another, but you don't get the feeling that it's something they want to shout about. You don't hear the same ten songs on a loop in every shop you go into. Which is good and bad, it's sort of a pleasure/ pain thing. Does it make me want to introduce a yule log somewhere unmentionable every time I hear bloody Mariah warbling or Jonah Louis droning? Yes. Do I miss them when they aren't around? Yes. I have a CD of Christmas songs, and yet I miss getting bludgeoned by them every time I step out of the door. It's tradition.
Anyway, as is the way with most things, Christmas is transformed since having children and I am loving preparing Gingerbread Men, coating the whole kitchen in a fine sticky layer making marmalade for presents, baking rich fruit cakes, and the tradition-in-the-making Gingerbread Cottage is in the process of being assembled. The boys have already spoken to Santa. Disconcertingly, heartbreakingly, my youngest at 4, replied to the question, 'aren't you LUCKY to have spoken to Santa?', with 'it was only DADDY, Mummy!'. How can that be?? The oldest, at 5, tried to warn him he was dicing with a sack of coal on Christmas morning, but youngest wouldn't have it. 'But I was laughing with Daddy, Mummy, he always says 'ho! ho! ho!' like that!'. I'd thought he was quite convincing. Obviously not convincing enough. I am hoping the Portable North Pole people can erase the scepticism, I can't bear the thought of innocence coming to an end so soon.
So we are heading off to Spain in a couple of days to spend Christmas with the grandparents, who are no doubt more excited than anyone, given that they get the double joy of spending lots of time with the grandchildren AND spoiling them rotten over Christmas without Enrico or I trying to rein them in and stop with the spoiling, already, because if they can't get spoilt at Christmas, they may as well give up being children and head off to work now.
And guess what? The temperature's dropping alarmingly. We are due to leave in five more sleeps. Snow is forecast - I check the Lazio weather forecast with obsessive frequency - everywhere but where we are, and I am willing to place a bet, ladies and gentlemen, that it snows with abandon in the near future. It's just saving it all up until we're on the plane. Next year, I'll be doing Christmas in Lapland. I will have snow and sleigh bells, come Hell or high water.
So this year, I have been watching all the snow falling in the UK with a sinking heart, miserable that I'm not there to enjoy it. Homesickness always kicks in in the run up to Christmas. I miss how over-the-top we do things in the UK. You in the UK will scoff - and I well remember how hideously irritating Christmas can become after it's been rammed down your throat since the end of the summer holidays. Things here are much more understated. We went to the Piazza del Popolo last week and the tree there looks lovely, dominating the Piazza in an elegant way, not trying too hard to be the centre of attention. There are delicate lights which certain stores have taken it upon themselves to put up and the odd side-street which has gone the whole hog and strung lights from one end to another, but you don't get the feeling that it's something they want to shout about. You don't hear the same ten songs on a loop in every shop you go into. Which is good and bad, it's sort of a pleasure/ pain thing. Does it make me want to introduce a yule log somewhere unmentionable every time I hear bloody Mariah warbling or Jonah Louis droning? Yes. Do I miss them when they aren't around? Yes. I have a CD of Christmas songs, and yet I miss getting bludgeoned by them every time I step out of the door. It's tradition.So we are heading off to Spain in a couple of days to spend Christmas with the grandparents, who are no doubt more excited than anyone, given that they get the double joy of spending lots of time with the grandchildren AND spoiling them rotten over Christmas without Enrico or I trying to rein them in and stop with the spoiling, already, because if they can't get spoilt at Christmas, they may as well give up being children and head off to work now.
And guess what? The temperature's dropping alarmingly. We are due to leave in five more sleeps. Snow is forecast - I check the Lazio weather forecast with obsessive frequency - everywhere but where we are, and I am willing to place a bet, ladies and gentlemen, that it snows with abandon in the near future. It's just saving it all up until we're on the plane. Next year, I'll be doing Christmas in Lapland. I will have snow and sleigh bells, come Hell or high water.
Monday, 27 September 2010
An Amateur Cook in Italy
I am actually a great cook - much to my surprise after years not doing much more than heating up the Breville. (By the way - I never realised that all the fat from the cheese that you over-stuff in those things (just me then?) runs out and collects underneath. That was NOT a pleasant surprise, who could guess that rancid fat could smell so bad?)
Since the boys were weaned, however, I really started getting into it and from my first Anabel Karmel experiences (lunatic woman, who on earth is going to spend three hours over a meal for a toddler, pur-lease?) started branching out. As I have acknowledged many, many times, Enrico is the chef in this family and that is the difference between us. He is a chef and I am a cook. I look stuff up on the internet, almost always, www.bbcgoodfood.com, all recipes infallible as well as delicious, with the comments that come afterwards the cherry on the cake, as it were. Or my old faithfuls, Nigella Lawson's How to Eat and the grandmammy of them all, Delia's Complete Cookery Course. I find something I like that matches the ingredients I have available and Jamie's yer uncle, dinner's ready. Enrico generally doesn't look at recipes. He is a savant in the kitchen and can throw things together - simple, basic, nothing flashy - and they come out delicious and perfect. He has a knack and a gift and I never stop being grateful for a husband who cooks. I have friends whose husbands barely toast their own bread, so the bonus of being able to say, 'do you fancy cooking tonight?' and having someone who actually enjoys the process is marvellous. He uses cooking as a way of relaxing and switching off. I use it to feed people and usually end up stressed myself in the process.
So arriving in Italy just when my wings were fledging in the kitchen, so to speak, was a bit of a shock. Italian supermarkets are full of great Italian stuff but very little in the way of anything more exotic or indeed that is not Italian. I missed bread - and still do, from the fantastic plastic bread that is the only thing to put around some crisp, meaty bacon and ketchup - oh and the bacon that goes with it - to wonderful poppy-seed, wholemeal, cheese, farmhouse breads, all of which are the only solution in certain sandwich situations. I decided to make my own when the boys first started at nursery and I had time on my hands. And blimey, do you need time. I needed around a loaf every couple of days, minimum, and making those loaves took up a fair chunk of my, theoretically free, time in the mornings.
They were generally tasty but I don't know what industrial breadmakers put into their loaves - whatever it is, I don't got it and they were usually a little on the dense side. Not the light, fluffy loaf I craved. Still not solved as the usual Italian loaf is made for bruschetta, but we have discovered a good bakery near E's office who do nice wholemeal and 'farro' bread - according to Wikipedia, it's an old-fashioned wheat variety - either way, it makes a tasty and moist loaf. From never really taking to them in the UK, I have also become rather fond of the wrap, for which I use a piadina, an Italian flatbread from the Romagna region, which is actually available all over Italy. When Enrico made his own one time, we realised why they are so delicious - one of the fat ingredients is lard, which takes them to a whole other level that tortilla wraps just don't seem to attain.
When Enrico and I were first together, one of our many points of difference was the fact that I can quite easily eat a sandwich and a bag of crisps or yoghurt for lunch and not think twice about it. For him, a sandwich for lunch is an aberration and only partaken in the most extreme emergencies. He is not a little chap - 6'1-ish I think, and not exactly of whippet proportions either and he does have a point when he says that it wouldn't keep him going till dinner. However - spread the bread flat, smear on some passata, a few leaves of rocket with some buffalo mozzarella on top and call it pizza: This can quite easily keep him going all afternoon. Every society has their own carbohydrate load and in Italy it's pizza. For us anglo saxons, it's a sandwich. We were watching a very good Roman comedian the other night in a TV special - his girlfriend is American and he was recounting coming home for lunch to see she'd made a toasted sandwich. He had us laughing in recognition at his horror and the thought of what his father would have said, coming home to the same lunch. It would have been assumed that the mother was having an affair that she had so carelessly and with so little time prepared such a lunch!
However, in this as in many things, I am going native. I now actually feel a little cheated if I just throw myself a sandwich together on those days that E's not home for lunch. I have caught the cooking bug and have grown to enjoy trying new things - and frankly, in the absence of ethnic or 'exotic' produce here, if I want something not Italian, I am going to bloomin' well have to prepare it myself anyway. Although I am now growing my own coriander, I don't have a chance in hell of getting hold of red or green curry paste, lime leaves, pak choi, and lemongrass but my English cravings are met by Marmite flown over from the UK (thank you, Joe, thank you Catherine) and I was utterly delighted with a pressie of a big tub of Horlicks (thank you, Loob!!). I am told there is a mythical place called Piazza Victorio in Rome where all of the 'exotic' ingredients can be bought but even the Indian man who has taken over Massimo the Grocer's shop hasn't been able to get hold of a bunch of fresh coriander for me. Little by little, though, I am sourcing things that initially I thought would be unobtainable - ground almonds (for the Bakewell Tart craving), creme fraiche, Gruyère cheese, I even found a place to get fish sauce for curries the other day, yay! So I live in hope that one day I'll be able to get a big bunch of coriander without the two month wait that proceeds it as it grows from a tiny seed. Cross fingers...
Since the boys were weaned, however, I really started getting into it and from my first Anabel Karmel experiences (lunatic woman, who on earth is going to spend three hours over a meal for a toddler, pur-lease?) started branching out. As I have acknowledged many, many times, Enrico is the chef in this family and that is the difference between us. He is a chef and I am a cook. I look stuff up on the internet, almost always, www.bbcgoodfood.com, all recipes infallible as well as delicious, with the comments that come afterwards the cherry on the cake, as it were. Or my old faithfuls, Nigella Lawson's How to Eat and the grandmammy of them all, Delia's Complete Cookery Course. I find something I like that matches the ingredients I have available and Jamie's yer uncle, dinner's ready. Enrico generally doesn't look at recipes. He is a savant in the kitchen and can throw things together - simple, basic, nothing flashy - and they come out delicious and perfect. He has a knack and a gift and I never stop being grateful for a husband who cooks. I have friends whose husbands barely toast their own bread, so the bonus of being able to say, 'do you fancy cooking tonight?' and having someone who actually enjoys the process is marvellous. He uses cooking as a way of relaxing and switching off. I use it to feed people and usually end up stressed myself in the process.
So arriving in Italy just when my wings were fledging in the kitchen, so to speak, was a bit of a shock. Italian supermarkets are full of great Italian stuff but very little in the way of anything more exotic or indeed that is not Italian. I missed bread - and still do, from the fantastic plastic bread that is the only thing to put around some crisp, meaty bacon and ketchup - oh and the bacon that goes with it - to wonderful poppy-seed, wholemeal, cheese, farmhouse breads, all of which are the only solution in certain sandwich situations. I decided to make my own when the boys first started at nursery and I had time on my hands. And blimey, do you need time. I needed around a loaf every couple of days, minimum, and making those loaves took up a fair chunk of my, theoretically free, time in the mornings.
They were generally tasty but I don't know what industrial breadmakers put into their loaves - whatever it is, I don't got it and they were usually a little on the dense side. Not the light, fluffy loaf I craved. Still not solved as the usual Italian loaf is made for bruschetta, but we have discovered a good bakery near E's office who do nice wholemeal and 'farro' bread - according to Wikipedia, it's an old-fashioned wheat variety - either way, it makes a tasty and moist loaf. From never really taking to them in the UK, I have also become rather fond of the wrap, for which I use a piadina, an Italian flatbread from the Romagna region, which is actually available all over Italy. When Enrico made his own one time, we realised why they are so delicious - one of the fat ingredients is lard, which takes them to a whole other level that tortilla wraps just don't seem to attain.
When Enrico and I were first together, one of our many points of difference was the fact that I can quite easily eat a sandwich and a bag of crisps or yoghurt for lunch and not think twice about it. For him, a sandwich for lunch is an aberration and only partaken in the most extreme emergencies. He is not a little chap - 6'1-ish I think, and not exactly of whippet proportions either and he does have a point when he says that it wouldn't keep him going till dinner. However - spread the bread flat, smear on some passata, a few leaves of rocket with some buffalo mozzarella on top and call it pizza: This can quite easily keep him going all afternoon. Every society has their own carbohydrate load and in Italy it's pizza. For us anglo saxons, it's a sandwich. We were watching a very good Roman comedian the other night in a TV special - his girlfriend is American and he was recounting coming home for lunch to see she'd made a toasted sandwich. He had us laughing in recognition at his horror and the thought of what his father would have said, coming home to the same lunch. It would have been assumed that the mother was having an affair that she had so carelessly and with so little time prepared such a lunch!
However, in this as in many things, I am going native. I now actually feel a little cheated if I just throw myself a sandwich together on those days that E's not home for lunch. I have caught the cooking bug and have grown to enjoy trying new things - and frankly, in the absence of ethnic or 'exotic' produce here, if I want something not Italian, I am going to bloomin' well have to prepare it myself anyway. Although I am now growing my own coriander, I don't have a chance in hell of getting hold of red or green curry paste, lime leaves, pak choi, and lemongrass but my English cravings are met by Marmite flown over from the UK (thank you, Joe, thank you Catherine) and I was utterly delighted with a pressie of a big tub of Horlicks (thank you, Loob!!). I am told there is a mythical place called Piazza Victorio in Rome where all of the 'exotic' ingredients can be bought but even the Indian man who has taken over Massimo the Grocer's shop hasn't been able to get hold of a bunch of fresh coriander for me. Little by little, though, I am sourcing things that initially I thought would be unobtainable - ground almonds (for the Bakewell Tart craving), creme fraiche, Gruyère cheese, I even found a place to get fish sauce for curries the other day, yay! So I live in hope that one day I'll be able to get a big bunch of coriander without the two month wait that proceeds it as it grows from a tiny seed. Cross fingers...
Thursday, 9 September 2010
Things We Hear in Our House
These are phrases we hear all the time in our house. Feel free to add any I may have missed: I am sure that we are not the only ones....
'WHY do I have to repeat myself over and over again?'
'Did you hear what I said? Am I invisible?'
'I don't know why I even bother speaking, no-one listens to me'
'I said 'get dressed' HALF AN HOUR AGO'
'Sit still while you're eating'
On a theme:
'I don't know where you put it. Where did you see it last?'
And:
'If you'd put things away when you've finished them, you wouldn't keep losing them'
And:
'Well try opening your eyes while you're looking for it'
(Putting on shoes; taking t-shirt off alone etc)
'Why is it that you, at X years old, are not able to it while Y at (less) years old can?',
'You're not getting anything till you've tidied your room'
'No you can't have a snack, you won't eat your dinner'
'You had a drink of water before you went to bed. Now go to sleep!'
'I'll play with you in a sec once I've done this' (sound of computer whirring...)
'If you don't do X (eg put your pens away), there is no way you're doing Y (eg watching cartoons)'
'All these lovely toys and you don't appreciate them!! There are children in the world with no toys at all you know, they would be happy with just one of the toys you've got!'
Alternatively:
'Right, that's it! If you can't play together nicely, I'm going to give all your toys to the poor children who haven't got any. They'd appreciate them!'
'If he's teasing you, just don't go near him!'
'Giorgio/ Edoardo, LEAVE YOUR BROTHER ALONE'
'How would you like it if I did that to you??'
'I am SICK and TIRED of telling you - you don't bite/ scratch/ kick etc your big/ (or more usually) little brother!'
'You should think yourself lucky you've got a brother to play with!'
I am sure there are a zillion more. These just came into my head straight away, probably because they make up they make up about 90% of the things I say every day. And who said that being a mother is intellectually limiting??
'WHY do I have to repeat myself over and over again?'
'Did you hear what I said? Am I invisible?'
'I don't know why I even bother speaking, no-one listens to me'
'I said 'get dressed' HALF AN HOUR AGO'
'Sit still while you're eating'
On a theme:
'I don't know where you put it. Where did you see it last?'
And:
'If you'd put things away when you've finished them, you wouldn't keep losing them'
And:
'Well try opening your eyes while you're looking for it'
(Putting on shoes; taking t-shirt off alone etc)
'Why is it that you, at X years old, are not able to it while Y at (less) years old can?',
'You're not getting anything till you've tidied your room'
'No you can't have a snack, you won't eat your dinner'
'You had a drink of water before you went to bed. Now go to sleep!'
'I'll play with you in a sec once I've done this' (sound of computer whirring...)
'If you don't do X (eg put your pens away), there is no way you're doing Y (eg watching cartoons)'
'All these lovely toys and you don't appreciate them!! There are children in the world with no toys at all you know, they would be happy with just one of the toys you've got!'
Alternatively:
'Right, that's it! If you can't play together nicely, I'm going to give all your toys to the poor children who haven't got any. They'd appreciate them!'
'If he's teasing you, just don't go near him!'
'Giorgio/ Edoardo, LEAVE YOUR BROTHER ALONE'
'How would you like it if I did that to you??'
'I am SICK and TIRED of telling you - you don't bite/ scratch/ kick etc your big/ (or more usually) little brother!'
'You should think yourself lucky you've got a brother to play with!'
I am sure there are a zillion more. These just came into my head straight away, probably because they make up they make up about 90% of the things I say every day. And who said that being a mother is intellectually limiting??
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Mother's Pride
E has a saying, 'Even a cockroach is proud of its offspring', which I think is a bit of artistic licence, to be fair, can't imagine that cockroaches really feel much other than rapacious hunger but that's rather beside the point. I am inordinately proud of my beautiful children, most of the time, but none more so than those moments when we sit down to lunch or dinner and the pair of them tuck in to whatever is presented before them without batting an eyelid.
I was reminded of this as last night, I made a chicken and pumpkin curry with wholemeal rice for myself and Enrico. Luckily - like father, like sons. He would eat a scabby dog if you told him it was a local delicacy. The boys, I swear, polished off more than I could have managed and declared it delicious. I know how fortunate we are, I also know it is something I have engineered right from the beginning. Giorgio was weaned purely on vegetables, broccoli and spinach and Edoardo's first baby food was avocado mashed with banana. Both of them were later introduced to other foods but even now will eat the veg before the meat at mealtimes. They will also eat sweets and chocolate and fizzy drinks - but not to excess, and I have often been in the absurd position of having to almost force-feed them cake because they've filled themselves up with the main course. They are also aware that this ain't no restaurant - if they want to leave the meal I have lovingly and time-consumingly prepared for them, then that's fine by me (er - apart from the fact that I will probably have to eat it myself as I can't bare to see good food wasted. That's not so fine by me). Just do not be expecting me to rustle up anything else till the next mealtime. Going to bed hungry? Shame about that, should have eaten your dinner, shouldn't you?
One of the big differences between me and most of my Italian friends is the importance of routine at home. From the age of 4mths both boys have slept in their own cots then beds and very rarely, apart from illness, have spent the night in bed with us. For two reasons - once they get their grappling hooks into our bed, it's hellish trying to get them back into their own beds, and secondly - well, mum and dad need some privacy too. Not as much, frankly, these days, but I would say that's fairly typical of most older parents of young kids, honestly, that's what I tell Enrico, anyway. I need my sleep, dammit. Anyway - I have so many friends who still let their kids sleep in their beds. One of Giorgio's best friends is six years old and has never slept the night in his own bed. Enrico and at least two of his friends have called me 'Commandante' on more than one occasion (and if that's what they're saying to my face...) due to my insistence, particularly when the boys were smaller, on a strict feeding/ napping/ bath-story-bed routine. However, it's paying off now that they sleep 12 hours a night with rarely an interupption other than the odd pee or drink of water needed, and mealtimes are generally a pleasant affair conducted in a relatively civilised manner. Civilised as far as young boys can be, clearly.
A friend whose four year old sleeps between her and her husband tells me how lovely it is to have him there and he'll only be little once and we will miss them when they grow up and away and don't want cuddles from Mummy anymore - and I totally agree. Particularly as our younger son is a cuddly hot water bottle to sleep next to - the older one however being a sweaty, wriggling starfish. But although my reasons are also selfish, I believe that it's better for them too to learn independence and the absolute joy of sinking into one's own bed of an evening. Most of the time we still have the 'I'm not tired' argument, which when accompanied by sobs is the most evident sign of tiredness there is. However, once again, I think it's better for them in the long run to be given a routine to stick to - they can fight within the confines but there is a reassuring barrier there - and it's Mum, so don't even think about it, son!
I was reminded of this as last night, I made a chicken and pumpkin curry with wholemeal rice for myself and Enrico. Luckily - like father, like sons. He would eat a scabby dog if you told him it was a local delicacy. The boys, I swear, polished off more than I could have managed and declared it delicious. I know how fortunate we are, I also know it is something I have engineered right from the beginning. Giorgio was weaned purely on vegetables, broccoli and spinach and Edoardo's first baby food was avocado mashed with banana. Both of them were later introduced to other foods but even now will eat the veg before the meat at mealtimes. They will also eat sweets and chocolate and fizzy drinks - but not to excess, and I have often been in the absurd position of having to almost force-feed them cake because they've filled themselves up with the main course. They are also aware that this ain't no restaurant - if they want to leave the meal I have lovingly and time-consumingly prepared for them, then that's fine by me (er - apart from the fact that I will probably have to eat it myself as I can't bare to see good food wasted. That's not so fine by me). Just do not be expecting me to rustle up anything else till the next mealtime. Going to bed hungry? Shame about that, should have eaten your dinner, shouldn't you?
One of the big differences between me and most of my Italian friends is the importance of routine at home. From the age of 4mths both boys have slept in their own cots then beds and very rarely, apart from illness, have spent the night in bed with us. For two reasons - once they get their grappling hooks into our bed, it's hellish trying to get them back into their own beds, and secondly - well, mum and dad need some privacy too. Not as much, frankly, these days, but I would say that's fairly typical of most older parents of young kids, honestly, that's what I tell Enrico, anyway. I need my sleep, dammit. Anyway - I have so many friends who still let their kids sleep in their beds. One of Giorgio's best friends is six years old and has never slept the night in his own bed. Enrico and at least two of his friends have called me 'Commandante' on more than one occasion (and if that's what they're saying to my face...) due to my insistence, particularly when the boys were smaller, on a strict feeding/ napping/ bath-story-bed routine. However, it's paying off now that they sleep 12 hours a night with rarely an interupption other than the odd pee or drink of water needed, and mealtimes are generally a pleasant affair conducted in a relatively civilised manner. Civilised as far as young boys can be, clearly.
A friend whose four year old sleeps between her and her husband tells me how lovely it is to have him there and he'll only be little once and we will miss them when they grow up and away and don't want cuddles from Mummy anymore - and I totally agree. Particularly as our younger son is a cuddly hot water bottle to sleep next to - the older one however being a sweaty, wriggling starfish. But although my reasons are also selfish, I believe that it's better for them too to learn independence and the absolute joy of sinking into one's own bed of an evening. Most of the time we still have the 'I'm not tired' argument, which when accompanied by sobs is the most evident sign of tiredness there is. However, once again, I think it's better for them in the long run to be given a routine to stick to - they can fight within the confines but there is a reassuring barrier there - and it's Mum, so don't even think about it, son!
Back to Life...
The stinking roiling heat is mostly abating now and the holidays are most definitely over - which means back to school time for our boys. State schools here have stupendously long holidays - from mid-June to mid- Sept, as a coping mechanism for the heat, I think. Any family who has any money or connection to family either in the mountains or by the sea clears off as soon as is possible and returns as late as possible. I had a peripatetic time, starting in late June with a visit to friends in the UK, then to the Dolomites then to Spain to stay with my parents. It meant that this year, I have not noticed the heat half as much and hence am (relatively) sane going into Autumn.
Private nurseries start back earlier here, as a response to parents returning to their jobs, I expect. So Giorgio and Edo have already started back at a new nursery this year. It is one of the hardest things to do, leave your children in the care of, effectively, strangers, and I struggled again with it after such a long time together. The problem for me is that there are no half measures. You can't just drop your child off for a couple of mornings a week, there is no structure for it. It is all - in our case 9am till 2pm - or nothing. I even thought of just not sending them this year. But then the thought of us all at home alone through the dark days of winter soon sent me scurrying back to the school gates. Which relates to another feature of life as a mum in our part of Italy - I am in a party of one here. Every other mum friend of mine works, so is obliged to send their child to nursery. There just don't seem to be stay-at-home mums around. If I go to the park during the day during school-time, by far the majority of carers there with the children are grandparents. A distant second are foreign mums - by which I mean, generally, young Romanian, Albanian etc mums. So even if I didn't send the boys to nursery - what on earth would do every day?? There are only so many trips to the same parks you can make and they need to play with other children. There are no playgroups, no music groups to speak of. They are starting with swimming lessons soon, so great, that's two hours a week occupied, what do we do for the other gazillion hours a week we are home alone?? If it sounds like I'm justifying myself, well, I suppose I am, but times have changed and little kids can't just go out in the morning with their bikes and roam around with their mates all day before heading in for dinner in the evening. It definitely would end up with one or both of them being scraped off the road below in a very short time, apart from anything, but also - what responsible parent doesn't know where their children are every hour of every day these days?
So the new nursery is lovely, a Montessori with different games and things to do on every table, a big room for painting and drawing, sand boxes, a big park with swings and slides and wendy houses outside. We are really happy with it and so were the boys at first... They went in with great enthusiasm, even with tears when they had to go home but as reality bites, that they are there for the duration, we've had the odd collywobble of a morning... As I walked out this morning past the nursery for very small children, all I seemed to hear was the little ones crying for their mummies. Mine had been given lots of hugs and promises of things to do when they get home and seemed happy, finally, to get down to some painting - but the sound of so many tears on the way out very nearly made me wheel around and go to scrape them up in my arms and leave and never come back. I am hoping that we settle into the routine happily, both me and the boys, and get used to the mornings away from each other again. Of course we will but in the back of my head, there is a little voice that says, 'they're only young once, what are you doing sending them to school already???'. I am also hoping that that little voice quietens down too once they get properly settled...
Private nurseries start back earlier here, as a response to parents returning to their jobs, I expect. So Giorgio and Edo have already started back at a new nursery this year. It is one of the hardest things to do, leave your children in the care of, effectively, strangers, and I struggled again with it after such a long time together. The problem for me is that there are no half measures. You can't just drop your child off for a couple of mornings a week, there is no structure for it. It is all - in our case 9am till 2pm - or nothing. I even thought of just not sending them this year. But then the thought of us all at home alone through the dark days of winter soon sent me scurrying back to the school gates. Which relates to another feature of life as a mum in our part of Italy - I am in a party of one here. Every other mum friend of mine works, so is obliged to send their child to nursery. There just don't seem to be stay-at-home mums around. If I go to the park during the day during school-time, by far the majority of carers there with the children are grandparents. A distant second are foreign mums - by which I mean, generally, young Romanian, Albanian etc mums. So even if I didn't send the boys to nursery - what on earth would do every day?? There are only so many trips to the same parks you can make and they need to play with other children. There are no playgroups, no music groups to speak of. They are starting with swimming lessons soon, so great, that's two hours a week occupied, what do we do for the other gazillion hours a week we are home alone?? If it sounds like I'm justifying myself, well, I suppose I am, but times have changed and little kids can't just go out in the morning with their bikes and roam around with their mates all day before heading in for dinner in the evening. It definitely would end up with one or both of them being scraped off the road below in a very short time, apart from anything, but also - what responsible parent doesn't know where their children are every hour of every day these days?
So the new nursery is lovely, a Montessori with different games and things to do on every table, a big room for painting and drawing, sand boxes, a big park with swings and slides and wendy houses outside. We are really happy with it and so were the boys at first... They went in with great enthusiasm, even with tears when they had to go home but as reality bites, that they are there for the duration, we've had the odd collywobble of a morning... As I walked out this morning past the nursery for very small children, all I seemed to hear was the little ones crying for their mummies. Mine had been given lots of hugs and promises of things to do when they get home and seemed happy, finally, to get down to some painting - but the sound of so many tears on the way out very nearly made me wheel around and go to scrape them up in my arms and leave and never come back. I am hoping that we settle into the routine happily, both me and the boys, and get used to the mornings away from each other again. Of course we will but in the back of my head, there is a little voice that says, 'they're only young once, what are you doing sending them to school already???'. I am also hoping that that little voice quietens down too once they get properly settled...
Saturday, 28 August 2010
Thoroughly Modern Bride
At 7am the morning of the wedding, I was on the phone, making sure E was awake. I would have been delighted with up-and-about, but awake was the minimum I was hoping for. No answer. I started to get myself ready, get the kids up, organise them and point lovely helpful Mum in the right direction to help me with them, still no call. Finally, as we are getting to be about half way ready, he rings, all fine, all going to Schedule...
Did I mention I can be a total control freak? I subscribe little to horoscopes but I do like the duality of the Libra sign - I am either micro-managing or SERIOUSLY couldn't give a toss. This morning, I was micro-managing on crack. My main fear was the horror that is the Gibraltar border crossing. Getting out seems to be no major problem but they really don't like to let you in there. It's not like you're getting into the garden of Eden, ffs, in fact quite the opposite. Gib is a strange place where the locals speak a strange Welsh-accented (what's that all about?) English that's organically intertwined with Spanish, which gets chopped and changed around according to no particular logic that I can establish. It's like Blackpool (sorry Blackpudlians) with mangy monkeys, sunshine and bloody great tankers parked in the sea. Not a pretty place. So why they feel the need to build up so much anticipation with hour-long queues is quite beyond me.
SO. The plan is we all leave at 8am to get there for 10am. In theory, an hour and bit away but I have made lots of allowance for traffic jams, always a possibility as it was nominally rush-hour. We are a little way behind E as - as tradition dictates! - he has stayed, at my suggestion, at a friends' house for the night, in order not to 'see the bride' in the morning. Did I mention this friend of his is a notorious party animal, famous for his ability to cajole E into most anything?? His sweet gf was there too but I had my doubts, let's put it like that, as to her efficacy with the pair of them.
We are all to Schedule, in the car, heading down the mountain from Mum and Dad's house. Time for another call, just to make sure they are keeping to the Schedule too. 0815hrs. THEY HAVE STILL NOT LEF THE HOUSE!! Claudia is putting her make-up on!!!!! Total freak-out. What if the traffic's bad? What if we can't get into Gib?? What if we miss our slot??
My pep talk left something to be desired, consisting as it did with, 'dump her, get in the car, you're ruining everything!!!!!!'. Hmmm..... I think a touch of subtlety was the main lacking ingredient, perhaps with a hint of moderation, could have been useful. All the way to the border I had sweaty palms - I seriously have not felt that stressy for so long, my life consisting as it does of doing nothing really important, just getting myself around on a day to day basis.
Despite my doom-laden predictions, we got there - and it was empty. There were a couple of cars in front of us and that was it. I have NEVER, in all these years of doing UK supermarket runs over the border, ever, ever, ever seen so few cars. It was clearly meant to be. So, we took the car over instead of dumping it and making a run for a taxi once through the border crossing, and parked in a large multi-storey carpark not far from the grotty main street, at the end of which was our destination. Most brides probably prepare in their homes, not far from the venue and then enter serenely in some appropriate mode of luxury transport. My first time was with a horse and carriage, as it happens. I hadn't actually changed before leaving as I didn't want my dress to resemble a used paper bag. So I got changed in the carpark. I am nothing if not adaptable. We then headed down through Bhs into Main Street to have a leisurely stroll past the unloading lorries and early-bird tourists out for a bargain.
I was keeping my eye out the whole time for E's little party of three: Our total guest list consisted of Mum, Dad, our boys and Claudia and Gigi, at whose house he'd stayed the night before. Walking towards the registry office, I spied them all at a café just ahead. So we made a quick detour into Marks and Spencers and hid out until Dad cried, 'Cave chaps!', at which point we made the final stretch.
Dad was walking ahead and by now, my hat was on and my bouquet was in place. Mum was slightly behind walking with the boys, bemused and already with their white shirts smudged with oil. I rounded the corner and Enrico was waiting - what a lovely memory, all in white with his hands to his mouth and tears in his eyes.
Anyway, there was lots of hanging around as the fastidious to the -nth degree registrar ('Your usual signature here please. What does that represent?', 'it says your father is a managing director - was? What kind of company was that?' SHEESH already) ensured the couple before us took happy memories away.
Then it was our turn. I can't really say I remember much about the ceremony, other than hoping that the fastidious to the -nth degree registrar wouldn't object to E's accented English and cancel the ceremony. And I had Gigi mugging and clowning around just in my eyeline by E's side. It was over quickly, but the registrar was a sweetie, very Old Skool, like a little red-haired vicar-y character from a 1950's farce. He smiled alot and wanted to make sure that we didn't feel rushed, there were lots of pics and it was all relaxed and just how we wanted it really. The boys, still bemused, handed over the rings and then it was over. We are husband and wife.
One problem with this kind of informal ceremony is just that - there is no pattern to follow, no reception to head to, nobody waiting for the photos to be taken, just the reason we did it like this of course, but it hadn't even occured to us what we were going to do between the end of the ceremony and the lunch we had booked at a Thai restaurant on the beach in Estepona. So we headed to a pub and Dad had a pint of John Smiths (and took a photo of it) and then we moved on to the restaurant.
The venue for lunch could not have been more stunning and more suitable. A gorgeous Thai restaurant by the Kempinski in Estepona, giving right onto a practically deserted beach with a glass-calm sea. The food had yet to arrive - when Enrico stood up to make a speech, which took us all by surprise. Before he even started to speak, I could feel a lump in my throat. When he started to speak about how his Mum would have loved to be there, he had to sit down to compose himself and Mum and I were already in full flow. He did a very traditional 'thanking everyone, so happy to be part of a new family' speech - but it was so full of emotion, so heart-felt that even Claudia, who doesn't speak English, was blowing into a hankie.
We ate, we went for a drink on our own then we went back to Mum and Dad's to see the kids and return to real life. It wasn't a traditional day. But frankly, as it's our second time for both of us, I would have felt faintly embarrassed and a bit of a fraud to stand up in front of a load of people repeating words I've said once before but with little conviction. This time, it was a ceremony for Enrico and I, making promises in public that we had made in private when the boys were born. Enrico's emotional words made it so special. Our lives haven't changed since, of course, it was more of a formality than anything but what a lovely, sentimental husband I have, I'm lucky and grateful for him, for better and for worse.
Did I mention I can be a total control freak? I subscribe little to horoscopes but I do like the duality of the Libra sign - I am either micro-managing or SERIOUSLY couldn't give a toss. This morning, I was micro-managing on crack. My main fear was the horror that is the Gibraltar border crossing. Getting out seems to be no major problem but they really don't like to let you in there. It's not like you're getting into the garden of Eden, ffs, in fact quite the opposite. Gib is a strange place where the locals speak a strange Welsh-accented (what's that all about?) English that's organically intertwined with Spanish, which gets chopped and changed around according to no particular logic that I can establish. It's like Blackpool (sorry Blackpudlians) with mangy monkeys, sunshine and bloody great tankers parked in the sea. Not a pretty place. So why they feel the need to build up so much anticipation with hour-long queues is quite beyond me.
SO. The plan is we all leave at 8am to get there for 10am. In theory, an hour and bit away but I have made lots of allowance for traffic jams, always a possibility as it was nominally rush-hour. We are a little way behind E as - as tradition dictates! - he has stayed, at my suggestion, at a friends' house for the night, in order not to 'see the bride' in the morning. Did I mention this friend of his is a notorious party animal, famous for his ability to cajole E into most anything?? His sweet gf was there too but I had my doubts, let's put it like that, as to her efficacy with the pair of them.
We are all to Schedule, in the car, heading down the mountain from Mum and Dad's house. Time for another call, just to make sure they are keeping to the Schedule too. 0815hrs. THEY HAVE STILL NOT LEF THE HOUSE!! Claudia is putting her make-up on!!!!! Total freak-out. What if the traffic's bad? What if we can't get into Gib?? What if we miss our slot??
My pep talk left something to be desired, consisting as it did with, 'dump her, get in the car, you're ruining everything!!!!!!'. Hmmm..... I think a touch of subtlety was the main lacking ingredient, perhaps with a hint of moderation, could have been useful. All the way to the border I had sweaty palms - I seriously have not felt that stressy for so long, my life consisting as it does of doing nothing really important, just getting myself around on a day to day basis.
Despite my doom-laden predictions, we got there - and it was empty. There were a couple of cars in front of us and that was it. I have NEVER, in all these years of doing UK supermarket runs over the border, ever, ever, ever seen so few cars. It was clearly meant to be. So, we took the car over instead of dumping it and making a run for a taxi once through the border crossing, and parked in a large multi-storey carpark not far from the grotty main street, at the end of which was our destination. Most brides probably prepare in their homes, not far from the venue and then enter serenely in some appropriate mode of luxury transport. My first time was with a horse and carriage, as it happens. I hadn't actually changed before leaving as I didn't want my dress to resemble a used paper bag. So I got changed in the carpark. I am nothing if not adaptable. We then headed down through Bhs into Main Street to have a leisurely stroll past the unloading lorries and early-bird tourists out for a bargain.
I was keeping my eye out the whole time for E's little party of three: Our total guest list consisted of Mum, Dad, our boys and Claudia and Gigi, at whose house he'd stayed the night before. Walking towards the registry office, I spied them all at a café just ahead. So we made a quick detour into Marks and Spencers and hid out until Dad cried, 'Cave chaps!', at which point we made the final stretch.
Dad was walking ahead and by now, my hat was on and my bouquet was in place. Mum was slightly behind walking with the boys, bemused and already with their white shirts smudged with oil. I rounded the corner and Enrico was waiting - what a lovely memory, all in white with his hands to his mouth and tears in his eyes.
Anyway, there was lots of hanging around as the fastidious to the -nth degree registrar ('Your usual signature here please. What does that represent?', 'it says your father is a managing director - was? What kind of company was that?' SHEESH already) ensured the couple before us took happy memories away.
Then it was our turn. I can't really say I remember much about the ceremony, other than hoping that the fastidious to the -nth degree registrar wouldn't object to E's accented English and cancel the ceremony. And I had Gigi mugging and clowning around just in my eyeline by E's side. It was over quickly, but the registrar was a sweetie, very Old Skool, like a little red-haired vicar-y character from a 1950's farce. He smiled alot and wanted to make sure that we didn't feel rushed, there were lots of pics and it was all relaxed and just how we wanted it really. The boys, still bemused, handed over the rings and then it was over. We are husband and wife.
One problem with this kind of informal ceremony is just that - there is no pattern to follow, no reception to head to, nobody waiting for the photos to be taken, just the reason we did it like this of course, but it hadn't even occured to us what we were going to do between the end of the ceremony and the lunch we had booked at a Thai restaurant on the beach in Estepona. So we headed to a pub and Dad had a pint of John Smiths (and took a photo of it) and then we moved on to the restaurant.
The venue for lunch could not have been more stunning and more suitable. A gorgeous Thai restaurant by the Kempinski in Estepona, giving right onto a practically deserted beach with a glass-calm sea. The food had yet to arrive - when Enrico stood up to make a speech, which took us all by surprise. Before he even started to speak, I could feel a lump in my throat. When he started to speak about how his Mum would have loved to be there, he had to sit down to compose himself and Mum and I were already in full flow. He did a very traditional 'thanking everyone, so happy to be part of a new family' speech - but it was so full of emotion, so heart-felt that even Claudia, who doesn't speak English, was blowing into a hankie.
We ate, we went for a drink on our own then we went back to Mum and Dad's to see the kids and return to real life. It wasn't a traditional day. But frankly, as it's our second time for both of us, I would have felt faintly embarrassed and a bit of a fraud to stand up in front of a load of people repeating words I've said once before but with little conviction. This time, it was a ceremony for Enrico and I, making promises in public that we had made in private when the boys were born. Enrico's emotional words made it so special. Our lives haven't changed since, of course, it was more of a formality than anything but what a lovely, sentimental husband I have, I'm lucky and grateful for him, for better and for worse.
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