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??
Thursday, 9 September 2010
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.
Monday, 23 August 2010
Dum dum di DUUMM!
It's 12.30am and today I'm getting married!! So bizarre, we envisioned the whole thing as an ironic paper-signing event conducted in the most un-romantic fashion possible: 10.30am in the Gibraltar registry office. If you haven't been to Gibraltar, let me tell you - there are few more unromantic places in the world. We have been telling ourselves, and everyone else, that it's just a formality, nothing important, just a legalisation of the life we have been living for the past six and a bit years.
That said, I have no idea why I should be here, typing, with snakes slithering in my stomach. I have also spent the better part of the past three days traipsing round shopping centres and boutiques in Marbella (air conditioning, anyone?? No, fine, I'll be the one sweating like a stuck pig then) trying to find shoes and a dress and earrings and etc etc... For a five minute service in a lime green registry office with rising damp and plastic flowers.
I think logically that it isn't a big deal and it isn't, not really. Nothing changes, we just have rings on our fingers and all the legal bells and whistles that go with that. But I am actually excited! I am looking forward to all the usual things that brides look forward to - when he sees me in my dress (Barbarella-style shift, white of course, ha!), when we say the words (what they will be, I have no idea, but I know there aren't many of them cos the service itself actually lasts about 5 minutes) and the throwing of the bouquet (Claudia, get ready, luv!). I need to sleep as we have to get up at the crack of dawn to get there but I find that I am too agitated. Playing it down so much, I have come to believe my own hype. You can't fool your heart though. I am marrying a lovely man who is a fantastic father to our children. He takes over when I need him to, looks after me so well in so many ways (a particular episode of gastro-entiritis when I was pregnant comes to mind. I know I couldn't have cleaned that bathroom...) and who makes an effort to make me laugh - although I could have done without the image of him in my bikini bottoms he gave me today, thanks all the same. We have had some rotten times but we both believe in the same things: being there for the children and working hard at what you've got. I am enough of a realist, and a divorcée, to realise that things can always change, but I hope to goodness they don't. And I hope that we both continue to work hard to make sure that we are as happy now in the future. Things aren't always perfect but sometimes they go your way and we are lucky to have each other. Unusually soppy for me, but in this case, I feel the occasion justifies the sentiment! Wish us luck!!
That said, I have no idea why I should be here, typing, with snakes slithering in my stomach. I have also spent the better part of the past three days traipsing round shopping centres and boutiques in Marbella (air conditioning, anyone?? No, fine, I'll be the one sweating like a stuck pig then) trying to find shoes and a dress and earrings and etc etc... For a five minute service in a lime green registry office with rising damp and plastic flowers.
I think logically that it isn't a big deal and it isn't, not really. Nothing changes, we just have rings on our fingers and all the legal bells and whistles that go with that. But I am actually excited! I am looking forward to all the usual things that brides look forward to - when he sees me in my dress (Barbarella-style shift, white of course, ha!), when we say the words (what they will be, I have no idea, but I know there aren't many of them cos the service itself actually lasts about 5 minutes) and the throwing of the bouquet (Claudia, get ready, luv!). I need to sleep as we have to get up at the crack of dawn to get there but I find that I am too agitated. Playing it down so much, I have come to believe my own hype. You can't fool your heart though. I am marrying a lovely man who is a fantastic father to our children. He takes over when I need him to, looks after me so well in so many ways (a particular episode of gastro-entiritis when I was pregnant comes to mind. I know I couldn't have cleaned that bathroom...) and who makes an effort to make me laugh - although I could have done without the image of him in my bikini bottoms he gave me today, thanks all the same. We have had some rotten times but we both believe in the same things: being there for the children and working hard at what you've got. I am enough of a realist, and a divorcée, to realise that things can always change, but I hope to goodness they don't. And I hope that we both continue to work hard to make sure that we are as happy now in the future. Things aren't always perfect but sometimes they go your way and we are lucky to have each other. Unusually soppy for me, but in this case, I feel the occasion justifies the sentiment! Wish us luck!!
Sunday, 25 July 2010
Footloose and Fancy Free
Due to the great fortune and inspired suggestion (mine) that the Grandparents take the children back with them from our holiday in the Dolomites, Enrico and I have been having a nice time 'dating', doing stuff that we couldn't normally do with the little ones in tow. So we went to a couple of concerts, stayed out till 5.30am after going late-night swimming at a friend's house (seemed like a good idea at the time. Not so good by about 3pm), having dinner out and even just walking out to get a bottle of water together. It's been lovely really, and a bit of a relief that it's so, to be honest. As the day for the children going drew closer, I have to admit hearing a little whisper in the back of my head which asked me, 'What on EARTH are you going to talk about/ do with yourselves without the kids??' after their constant presence for the past 5 years. Nearly six if you fancy counting in vitro.
It is a common problem, I think, in parents with young children, to find that their whole lives are just taken up with, consumed with, the little ones and not much else. I have noticed that even when I go shopping for our meagre two-people rations while they're away, I am having to consciously not buy things that have free gifts in them cos the boys might like them. Or that by far the majority of stuff I buy is bought with the boys in mind. 'Meagre rations' is not an exaggeration - for two little boys, they really do seem to require unfeasibly large amounts of groceries.
All our conversations revolve around the children too. A large part of Enrico's repertoire is taken up with impressions of the boys, so it was a worry that we would be left bereft of things that make us laugh together. But no, we are lucky, we are laughing just fine without the, 'Mummy!' or 'Daddy!' noise buzzing in the background.
I am starting to notice how boring the days are though. I find myself wanting to sleep for large portions of it (boredom, but also because it gets the hottest part of the day out of the way with the least discomfort, I think) and have little motivation or structure to my week. Where normally I would be getting breakfast ready, tidying the kitchen, general 'getting on with stuff', I'm not. I'm having lie-ins, doing bits and bobs till lunch then gearing myself up for a snooze with the aircon on.
I am sooo going to look back at this entry in about 3 months time and wonder what in heavens could possibly be wrong with such a blissful scenario! However, at the moment, I am rather looking forward to seeing their little faces and hearing all their stories in their stuttery, stumble-y voices. Only four more sleeps...
It is a common problem, I think, in parents with young children, to find that their whole lives are just taken up with, consumed with, the little ones and not much else. I have noticed that even when I go shopping for our meagre two-people rations while they're away, I am having to consciously not buy things that have free gifts in them cos the boys might like them. Or that by far the majority of stuff I buy is bought with the boys in mind. 'Meagre rations' is not an exaggeration - for two little boys, they really do seem to require unfeasibly large amounts of groceries.
All our conversations revolve around the children too. A large part of Enrico's repertoire is taken up with impressions of the boys, so it was a worry that we would be left bereft of things that make us laugh together. But no, we are lucky, we are laughing just fine without the, 'Mummy!' or 'Daddy!' noise buzzing in the background.
I am starting to notice how boring the days are though. I find myself wanting to sleep for large portions of it (boredom, but also because it gets the hottest part of the day out of the way with the least discomfort, I think) and have little motivation or structure to my week. Where normally I would be getting breakfast ready, tidying the kitchen, general 'getting on with stuff', I'm not. I'm having lie-ins, doing bits and bobs till lunch then gearing myself up for a snooze with the aircon on.
I am sooo going to look back at this entry in about 3 months time and wonder what in heavens could possibly be wrong with such a blissful scenario! However, at the moment, I am rather looking forward to seeing their little faces and hearing all their stories in their stuttery, stumble-y voices. Only four more sleeps...
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
The Summer Tussle
Last year, summer started in May here. It was hellish and in fact, I think I may have been a bit scarred for life. I know that by the end of it, I was a leeetle beeet crazy. I was longing, desperate for a bit of rain and to feel a chill on my bones when I walked out of the door. It started at 40° in May and pretty much carried on that way till October, apart from our annual respite in August at Mum and Dad's in Spain. I used to love the hot weather - that first warm, damp intake of air as you get off the plane at the start of your holiday.
Well, let me tell you - that heat when you have to live in it can drive you insane. It's as bad as having rain all summer because you sure as hell can't go out and do anything. So, as I think I have previously mentioned, summer here is Not Fun. This summer is better, though. We got AIRCON. Praise be to Heaven, we have little white units delivering pure bliss in the flat that mean that I can hunker down all day, praying for Winter (Autumn's still a bit too warm for me these days) and the walls to stop burning my hands when I touch them.
To me, aircon units are a divine gift. To others, they are the Devil's work, sent to deliver pestilence and plague unto the population. Well, a sore throat and a bit of a sniffle actually, but you would think it was the former by the conversations that go on. And in fact, now I think about it, Italy isn't the only place where you'll hear this conversation. I'm remebering conversations when I lived in Bermuda fairly similar to the ones we have here. Or the ones I am forced to smile along, nodding my head to, if I don't want to get scoffed out of town. Aircon dries your throat, you see, amongst many many other horrors it delivers. A friend came round for one of the World Cup matches and we had to switch the aircon off for him as - no word of a lie - it was 'making him sweat'. He'd come out of the 30° evening air, and my lovely cool air was making him sweat. This in turn would give him a bad back. I am not kidding!!! My step-mum-in-law came out with a similar thing the other day while we still in the mountains - it was in the high 20°'s and I said, 'for Heaven's sake, take your shirt off', (she was in a t-shirt with a shirt over). She said no, don't think I will, 'because the sweat will dry on my neck and I'll get a chill'. The body doing it's natural cooling-mechanism-thing seems to be a terrible burden to Italians.
Of course, my dearest other half is Italian and not immune to the fear of the aircon. He is better than most - and indeed, mostly tolerates my need to have frost on the end of my nose in the car, for example. But the Summer Tussle gets down and dirty in bed of a night. It's the Tussle over who does what - with the airconditioner. My secret fantasty? It's to be in pj's in the middle of summer, tucked up in a quilt with the aircon on FULL blasting out freezing cold air all night. Of course, it's never going to happen: Economically, we'd be bankrupt after a week with the high energy prices here, and ecologically, I am fully aware (though don't care as much as maybe I ought) that there is a hefty price to pay for my frosty nose. Enrico could well sleep in the stifling heat, no probs. He could probably sleep through a nuclear war balanced on a high beam, to be honest, so the heavy stifling nights don't really bother him. Before Aircon, I would sleep on the cool(er) tiled floor, now though, we have the discussion: At what speed does it go on? What is the lowest temp I can get it on while he's negotiating the maximum? Do we go for automatic (of COURSE we don't, it would never get the place cool enough to reach the cut-off point due to the 3 foot thick bricks that are super-heated all day) or do we keep it just on Low Fan? Should I, ethically, economically and just to keep the old sod happy, switch it off once I start to feel a bit nippy? So many considerations. It's the same argument and it will probably be the same every night of every summer of our lives, because it seems that men don't feel the extremes of temperature like women do and because it isn't affecting them, it isn't happening. Enrico will actually tell me that I am feeling cool when of course I am not, at all, feeling cool, as if I am suffering from the heat just to spite him. I KNOW when I am feeling hot or when I am feeling cold, thanks, you telling me that I can't possibly still feel hot does not alter my body chemistry in the slightest.
Anyway, I've just hopped out of bed to write this while it was still fresh in my mind (from this night's Tussle: 26°, Low Fan, switched off once need for quilt kicks in, in case you're wondering). He should be asleep by now though, so I'll just be grabbing this remote control....
Well, let me tell you - that heat when you have to live in it can drive you insane. It's as bad as having rain all summer because you sure as hell can't go out and do anything. So, as I think I have previously mentioned, summer here is Not Fun. This summer is better, though. We got AIRCON. Praise be to Heaven, we have little white units delivering pure bliss in the flat that mean that I can hunker down all day, praying for Winter (Autumn's still a bit too warm for me these days) and the walls to stop burning my hands when I touch them.
To me, aircon units are a divine gift. To others, they are the Devil's work, sent to deliver pestilence and plague unto the population. Well, a sore throat and a bit of a sniffle actually, but you would think it was the former by the conversations that go on. And in fact, now I think about it, Italy isn't the only place where you'll hear this conversation. I'm remebering conversations when I lived in Bermuda fairly similar to the ones we have here. Or the ones I am forced to smile along, nodding my head to, if I don't want to get scoffed out of town. Aircon dries your throat, you see, amongst many many other horrors it delivers. A friend came round for one of the World Cup matches and we had to switch the aircon off for him as - no word of a lie - it was 'making him sweat'. He'd come out of the 30° evening air, and my lovely cool air was making him sweat. This in turn would give him a bad back. I am not kidding!!! My step-mum-in-law came out with a similar thing the other day while we still in the mountains - it was in the high 20°'s and I said, 'for Heaven's sake, take your shirt off', (she was in a t-shirt with a shirt over). She said no, don't think I will, 'because the sweat will dry on my neck and I'll get a chill'. The body doing it's natural cooling-mechanism-thing seems to be a terrible burden to Italians.
Of course, my dearest other half is Italian and not immune to the fear of the aircon. He is better than most - and indeed, mostly tolerates my need to have frost on the end of my nose in the car, for example. But the Summer Tussle gets down and dirty in bed of a night. It's the Tussle over who does what - with the airconditioner. My secret fantasty? It's to be in pj's in the middle of summer, tucked up in a quilt with the aircon on FULL blasting out freezing cold air all night. Of course, it's never going to happen: Economically, we'd be bankrupt after a week with the high energy prices here, and ecologically, I am fully aware (though don't care as much as maybe I ought) that there is a hefty price to pay for my frosty nose. Enrico could well sleep in the stifling heat, no probs. He could probably sleep through a nuclear war balanced on a high beam, to be honest, so the heavy stifling nights don't really bother him. Before Aircon, I would sleep on the cool(er) tiled floor, now though, we have the discussion: At what speed does it go on? What is the lowest temp I can get it on while he's negotiating the maximum? Do we go for automatic (of COURSE we don't, it would never get the place cool enough to reach the cut-off point due to the 3 foot thick bricks that are super-heated all day) or do we keep it just on Low Fan? Should I, ethically, economically and just to keep the old sod happy, switch it off once I start to feel a bit nippy? So many considerations. It's the same argument and it will probably be the same every night of every summer of our lives, because it seems that men don't feel the extremes of temperature like women do and because it isn't affecting them, it isn't happening. Enrico will actually tell me that I am feeling cool when of course I am not, at all, feeling cool, as if I am suffering from the heat just to spite him. I KNOW when I am feeling hot or when I am feeling cold, thanks, you telling me that I can't possibly still feel hot does not alter my body chemistry in the slightest.
Anyway, I've just hopped out of bed to write this while it was still fresh in my mind (from this night's Tussle: 26°, Low Fan, switched off once need for quilt kicks in, in case you're wondering). He should be asleep by now though, so I'll just be grabbing this remote control....
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