Calcio

While three of the kids are playing soccer (Mary is doing swim), they are not yet allowed to play in games (in fact, they won't even take our money while the kids "train" twice a week) until we have proof of residency -- which we need to apply for within ninety days of arrival for Daniel and kids (my EU citizenship through Ireland streamlines my process a bit).  So no weekend calcio games for a while. 

At training (what we call practice) this week, Sebastian took off his sweatshirt.  His coach and teammates told him that he had to put it back on because it was slightly raining.  The Italians are concerned that you might get sick if you go out with wet hair or get caught in the rain without an umbrella or jacket. 
Sebastian told me, "The coach asked if I had a jacket, and so I told him, A casa." 
"But you don't have one," I said. 
"I know, but I couldn't say that!"

Add that to the list for the weekend.  (In truth, it's been on the weekend list for at least two weekends because I don't want Paradiso to get after us directly or, worse yet, via my colleague who is our contact.)

Connor's gone to one practice because he was sick for the other two.  We walk the one and a half kilometers there, get him out on the field with Roberto, the coach, and a bunch of eight-year-old boys we've never seen before.  Connor doesn't like to sign up for activities much: he likes to be at home or with his friends or making up his own activities (last week he looked up how to make parchment paper and made it with paper, water, and an iron).  But he agreed to try it out.  (I insist on one physical activity because I see all of us happier when we have some physical exercise going on.)   I read Othello in the stadium.  When I look up, I see Roberto showing Connor how to pass properly.  I see Connor passing and running and wearing himself out well.  When he runs up the stadium steps to get his water, he says, "It's hard for me to leave the house to come, but once I'm playing, I love it.  I just love it."

Hannah's team is a co-ed team, but no other girls are playing this year.  The first time I watched her practice, she had her hands in the pockets of her sweatpants.  She kicked the ball some; the kids didn't really pass to her.  When she came over to get water, I said, "Hannah, play like you would play if you were with your siblings or the Raymonds."

Yesterday I watched the end of practice.  The kids were scrimmaging.  Hannah was running.  She scored.  A little boy ran over, gave her a big hug, rubbed her head.  "Anna!" he shouted.  A bit later, she scored again.  "Anna!" three boys jumped up with exuberance, surrounded her, jostled her with glee.  Hannah hid her smile as best she could.  But I smiled big, not able to hold it in as well as the seven-year-old: the boys know her name.