Christmas Traditions

A few years ago I realized that we didn't really have traditions around Christmas, and so we sat down and made a basic plan for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.  We don't need anything big, just basic and reliable.

[When I was a kid, on Christmas Eve Christine and I delivered my mom's Christmas treats to friends and relatives in Waltham and Milton and Westwood and Belmont and returned with cookies and fudge and fruit cake and pumpkin bread.  We snacked on Mom's treats some more, went to mass, then hung out with one set of cousins til almost midnight.  It wasn't fancy or complicated; it was reliable and fun.

On Christmas Day we ate a family breakfast of my mom's coffee cake and egg casserole, opened gifts, and hung out until my mom's sister and mom arrived for dinner ("hung out" meaning peeled potatoes, set the table, folded laundry, made presents neat under the tree, tried on new clothes, etc...).  Turkey dinner, and then a drive to one of my dad's sister's houses for the big cousin gathering, even if this meant a drive to the Cape at 8pm Christmas night.]

I wanted our kids to have some basic concrete traditions, too, so we looked at what we basically were already doing, named it, and called it our traditions.  I imagine that our kids would say that these traditions are, simply put, reliable and fun.

From the moment we said yes to coming to Italy this year, I wondered about how we were going to pull off Christmas.

Christmas Eve

Waltham Christmas Eve: eat at a restaurant; go to mass; drive around and look at lights; visit someone if it works; sit by the tree, open a gift, and eat ice cream sundaes.  Usually this looks like trying to get back from some last minute Christmas gift errand; hollering for someone to hurry up; rushing into a restaurant where really we were supposed to get a reservation but they accommodate us when we show up with four kids all dressed up and ready to eat; a child or two falling asleep in my lap at 5pm mass; a visit with our neighbor Bill Wiggin; presents; too much ice cream for all of us.  It's delightful.

Viterbo Christmas Eve: This year Sacra Famiglia doesn't have a Christmas Eve mass except at midnight, and while Daniel is game, I'm not.  I'm exhausted, still have wrapping to do, and am not willing to risk the kids' being vastly underslept and fussy for days.  Mary and Hannah have been asking to go ice skating since the mini-rink (either a half or third or fourth of a real ice rink) was set up in a piazza in Viterbo, about a seven minute walk from the apartment.  So late afternoon we all go (though Daniel lags to pull off some last minute shopping and then videos us when he arrives) -- including Connor in shorts and short sleeves.  It's small and unintimidating, and we feel super skating here in Italy -- we look okay skating here, not like when we're at the Waltham rink and six-year-old professional hockey players are zig-zagging around  usand through us as we steady ourselves or grab onto the wall.

No restaurants are open on Christmas Eve here in Viterbo, so Daniel makes chicken fajitas.  We eat late, and as full as we are, we find room for gelato sundaes with cookie (pseudo Oreos and Chips Ahoy) and candy toppings (Smarties which are not really American Smarties, but basically mini M and M's) and whipped cream and homemade hot fudge as we open a few gifts.  We're cozy, together, relaxed.

Daniel goes out to midnight mass solo with the promise that he'll go again with us on Christmas.

A few minutes later I hear the door click, and I yell out, "What's up?!"

Hannah answers, "Oh, it's me.  I was just putting up a sticky note beside Connor's stocking because these stockings don't have our names, and Santa needs to know which stocking is Connor's."  (She had labelled the others earlier.)

I'm not sure why Hannah had to open and close the apartment door to put a sticky note in the dining room, but I let it go.

Christmas Day

Planning Christmas breakfast was the first hurdle: we don't have a Belgian waffle maker here.  One year at home we borrowed Bill Wiggin's (see above), and then the next year I found one for $10 at the second-hand store on Moody Street, so Belgian waffles became the holiday breakfast with Mary in charge of the batter.  Now we've got a dilemma: Mary wants pancakes; Sebastian wants poached eggs; Connor wants cereal; Hannah's not sure what she wants; Daniel wants whole wheat pancakes; I want cereal.  Daniel and I say, "You know, it's fine.  Each person can have what he or she wants.  No big deal."  This solution does not satisfy Mary or Sebastian: we all have to have the same thing for Christmas breakfast.  I mention that I saw a waffle maker at Lidl; Daniel says no way, we're not buying a waffle maker.

Sebastian says, "I haven't gotten any Christmas gifts yet.  How about I get a waffle maker for the whole family for Christmas?"

In the morning, we let the kids get us up at 8am, and we all open presents.

Mary makes the waffle batter, we sit down to the same family breakfast, and the kids eat more whipped cream than waffle.

At the back of church at 11:32am, I stop because the priest and servers are processing in.  The priest that says the 11:30 mass every Sunday sees me, nods, and says something to me that I don't entirely catch, but I hear, "from America," and he gives me a kind, knowing look.  I feel seen.

I sit at mass, Hannah and Connor alternating on my lap because there are no seats left, and I let the Italian sing and speak around me.  It's fine that I don't get a lot of it.  Daniel told me the other day that he treats mass as meditation, not worrying about what he's not getting.  And he doesn't try to understand what all the words mean; rather, he tries just to understand which Italian words are said.  I try this.  It's nice.  And sitting there I think how this is, even if feeling entirely normal and ordinary, pretty crazy: we're here living in Italy and going to our regular church for Christmas.  We're together and healthy and happy, and we're at mass on Christmas.  We're here.  Never would I have imagined what this would really look like.  I guess that this is what it looks like: squeezed in at mass, understanding some, spacing out some, hoping the kids endure a little longer in dress-up clothes, liking the music, feeling grateful.  Sounds about right.

We open gifts and color or watch Curious George or read or nap or paint or try on new clothes or build legos or try to clean up.  We eat (the agreed upon meal of) meatball subs and Sprite for lunch; sausage and veggies for dinner; tiramisu and cannoli (Garibaldi pasticceria was open after mass -- wonderfully shocking for me) for dessert.  We stay up really late, too late, just hanging about.

Before he goes to bed, Sebastian tells me, "This was a really nice day."

Gingerbread House, "Love, Actually," and Lidl

I walked into Lidl to look for gingerbread houses a few days ago.  Lidl is a grocery store, and each year we make gingerbread houses, usually from Costco or Hannaford.  Some years they fall apart immediately, some years we find them slanted by morning, some years they last til New Year's and I let the kids eat them when Daniel isn't home.  (He's much better on the sugar front with them...other than when he buys Nutella.)

In the last month I've wondered a good bit how Christmas is different here from at home.  Some things sound pretty similar: Babbo Natale/Santa Claus; mass; big family meals.  My Italian colleagues tell me that they don't follow all the traditions: no big extended family meals; some visiting; a lot of relaxing.  Sometimes I've thought about one of our favorite holiday movies, "Love, Actually."  Daniel and I watch this every year while we wrap gifts.  The setting is London, there are a bunch of relationships, lots of humor, and yes, of course, love.  So I've thought about this movie as a way to remember that, no matter where we are, Christmas is Christmas: people sing, eat food, give gifts, celebrate.  We're not in a total foreign land in that way -- it's Italy, after all.  Just like "Love, Actually" is England.  We're just folks in another spot.

So I walk into Lidl.  The song playing is "I feel it in my fingers.  I feel it in my toes.  Christmas is all around us, and so the feeling grows..."  This is one of the governing songs of "Love, Actually" as silly as it is.  And I stand there, looking at all these people doing their grocery shopping and their last minute Christmas shopping, and I feel like one of them, preparing for Christmas (though gingerbread houses are all "Finito!" they tell me because Italians didn't wait til the last minute the way I did...same thing happened with Advent Calendars weeks ago).  And we got this song that we all might know.

I laugh and laugh and I sing along to the radio as I go up and down the aisles looking for the elusive gingerbread houses. 

The Gym: Larus

I walk in, not sure where to go -- do I sign in, check in with the women at the front desk, head to the turnstile and swipe my card?  But I have only ten swim passes on my gym card, and I've signed up for two months for the palestra, yoga, and pilates classes  I don't want the turnstile to track my entrance as a pool entry since I'm not using the pool and I want to save those pool entrances.

So I go to the desk.  I hobble together some Italian; the women there gesture and speak and nod and click a button so the turnstile lets me in without my swiping my card (phew, still 8 swim passes remaining).

In the gym, walking on the treadmill, I start googling kilometers to miles.  I want to walk four miles per hour, and the treadmill counter is on kilometers (the other day when I baked molasses cookies, I hollered to Sebastian, What's 350 degrees in Celsius?  He hollered back, Can I ask siri?).  When I cancelled Netflix at the beginning of December, I got a message saying, "You can change your mind at any time, and your subscription will end on December 30."  So I still have netflix: yes, I can watch tv while I walk.  This is exciting.  I find a movie ("To All the Boys I've Loved Before"), put in my headphones, and walk walk walk.

Every five minutes I look around, thinking that someone might kick me out.  Or tell me I'm doing something wrong.  Or tell me that I can't have on headphones.  Or tell me to move my jacket.  I've paid, I'm wearing regular clothes -- not jeans and not too revealing sports clothing -- and I'm not in anyone else's way as far as I can tell.  But still, I feel like I don't fit in.  This not fitting in is strangely okay other than that I feel a little on edge.  It's okay because I also have a strange sense of feeling comfortable, too.  This is a gym, and I'm walking and listening to my headphones, and other people around me are walking or running on treadmills.  Two women to my left are side-by-side on treadmills, chatting, and they make me think of being at the Waltham Y next to my friends, chatting as we walk.  One guy is over by the mats doing crazy strong things while his daughter plays on his phone.  An older couple walks by, and this makes me think of the variety of ages at the Waltham Y.  A man to my right walks/runs on the elliptical, and this makes me think of my sister who masters every machine while I can coordinate my limbs for only the treadmill.

I'm not sure how I feel both the outsider and comfortable (excuse lack of parallelism here), but I do.  I needed a new place to go, somewhere beyond home and work, home and kids' school and activities.  An exercise spot gives me a place to go, a daunting place in some ways, as I learn my way around, but still, a spot where signs are in Italian, everyone speaks Italian, and I can get more comfortable both in being myself and doing what makes me comfortable and in learning another spot, more language, more spots for my feet.

When I leave, I walk upstairs and wave to the women at the reception desk.  They call out, "Ciao!  Auguri!"

They said, Ciao!  They didn't say, Arrivederci: I am familiar to them.

Yes!

Swimming and Locker Room Etiquette

Swimming

I've never been a strong swimmer.  Lessons in the Atlantic during childhood did nothing to increase my skills or confidence: skinny, cold, out of breath from one rotation of the crawl, I used to make deals with God in the middle of winter before I went to sleep.  Dear God, I won't hide hangers under Christine's afghan if I don't have to take swimming lessons next summer.  Or in the summer, Please let it rain in the morning so swim lessons get cancelled, and then let it get sunny in time for tennis.

The first time I met Daniel, he lapped me.

So I never passed my final class of swimming lessons in the one year we got to take lessons in a warm pool at the Waltham Boys Club (my mom felt bad that I was the only one who didn't pass; meanwhile, I thought I had done a great job and didn't understand why they didn't pass me...I'm always amazed at how our children sometimes think that they are better than they are at certain things...I wonder, Where did they get that gene since I am always thinking I need to be better and I'm not as good as I want to be?...but this makes me see that I did the same thing...a strange hopefulness, quite sweet, because it really can only be hope), and I married a guy who swam for four years of college.

Pregnant at thirty-three, I started swimming again.  We'd go to the Chinatown Y and then the Waltham Y, where I'd swim a quarter of what Daniel swam.  Since then, I swam off and on, when on, about once a week.

Daniel's been swimming here in Viterbo twice a week at this huge pool at the Larus Gym since our arrival.  I do yoga and pilates on youtube (my current favorite is Yoga with Tim, who has videos ranging from 10 minutes to an hour, has a lovely voice, and somehow does not intimidate though he looks like he could hold a plank for an hour with no problem), walk most days, run once a week.

A few weeks ago, I was feeling grumpy, antsy.  School had gotten busy with the end of term, the Rome week was over, and I felt like I was going between home and school, home and school, other than walking kids to activities.  I needed both something more familiar to go to and more variety in my daily life.

On a Sunday morning, Daniel and I headed to Larus, the gym where he and Mary swim.  We signed me up -- inscrizione (sign-up fee) plus ten entrances.

I've swum twice: my slow and steady breaststroke, head out of the water or in the water with my eyes closed.  Goggles and open eyes under water are hurdles too big at this point (like driving a stick shift?).  Sidestroke a bit.  Elementary back stroke some.   Mental therapy once I get in the water and move.

The first time, I didn't have a bathing cap or flip flops.  The second time I had Mary's bathing cap, but I forgot my flip flops.  Tomorrow I'm hoping to remember both.

The Locker Room

I get lost.  There's one side for donne (women) and one for bambini (children).  There are toilets, lockers, showers, two ways out to the pool.  I walk slowly and hope that I don't inadvertently walk into the men's room, slip on the wet floor (since I don't have my flip flops), or spell my name wrong for the lifeguard (I really need one of the kids to teach me the Italian alphabet -- I want words and phrases and conjugating of verbs; Mary and Daniel learned the alphabet first...I need to go backwards and learn this now so I can spell my name correctly in these situations).

I go slow.  I hear a few songs I know as they blare during a class in the adjacent pool (e.g. "Fight Song").  I pull at my swim cap to keep it on (do I need a bigger swim cap?.

As I walk back into the locker room, I try to read the signs.  From what I can gather, they say to keep your bathing suit on and be appropriate in the locker room.  Back at home, we laughed about how Puritanical we east coasters can be while in Italy women may wear much less.  So the signs are confusing me.  I'm used to the Y where no one seems an exhibitionist, but the women take off clothing, take a shower, grab a towel, get dressed into clothing.

I look around: the women are keeping their bathing suits on in the shower.  I can't do this.  I'll never dry with my heavy skirted swim suit on (I've yet to see an Italian woman in such a suit); it weighs me down.  I strip down, take a quick shower, and wrap my towel around me as much as I can.  I'm thinking, "Will I get in trouble?"  (Will dutiful child mind ever let go of such concerns of getting in trouble?)

I discuss with colleagues a few days later: it appears I've read the signs correctly.  Stay as clothed as you can in the changing room. 

More to learn.

Ciao

I love ciao: it makes me feel welcome and familiar and liked.

Kids can say, Ciao. 

Adults who don't know each other say, Buongiorno/Buona sera or arrivederci.  I try to remember to say these to be appropriate, but I'm not a formal person, so I slip a good bit, correct myself when I hear the arrivederci response, and take my leave.

Blu Cafe is half-way between our house and the kids' school.  Occasionally we'll leave home early and stop there for croissants and drinks.  We've been there three times, I think.  When we departed from there last week, I said, "Grazie!" as we were walking out.

"Arrivederci!" said the owner.

"Arrivederci," I replied.

Back on the sidewalk I cursed to the kids, "Dang it!  What's up with arrivederci?  We've gone there a few times and he still says arrivederci: I want a ciao!"

The kids said, "Mom, he's probably just being polite."

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Happiness Cafe is two blocks from us.  Even when we don't go in but we're walking by, the owner waves to us big out the window.  One day, as I walked by on my way back to school, she blew me a kiss and called out, "Ciao, bella!"

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Bar 103 is on the corner between our apartment and school.  On Thursdays, Camilla (18 year-old-daughter of colleague of mine) picks kids up from school, walks them home, gets lunch at the Mensa, helps them with homework until Daniel or I can get home from work. 

One Thursday Daniel said, "I didn't get a key and the Mensa cards to Camilla.  Can you leave them at Bar 103 for her?"

"Is that okay?"  I asked.  "Will this make sense to them?"

"Yes," he said.

(me:  Could you imagine leaving keys and lunch passes at a store or Dunkin' Donuts at home for a sitter to pick up?  Daniel: If we knew them.)

So on my way back to school, I stopped in, gave Nadia the apartment keys and Mensa cards, said some Italian letting her know that Camilla would be by with kids, and said, "Grazie."

"Ciao!"

"Ciao!"

Notes on a Tuesday

Tonight may have been the first cookie swap I've ever participated in.  Amy (American), three Italians, and I at Fabiola's home.  It's an American thing, Amy told the Italians.  And then I realized that I'd never actually gone to a cookie swap at home, or anywhere.  I emailed my best friend from kindergarten to get her molasses cookies recipe two nights ago.  This afternoon I went to buy the ingredients at Emme Piu with Connor: Italians don't have or sell molasses.  Fair substitute: brown sugar in 1:4 ratio (brown sugar: molasses) -- who knew.  Hannah helped me find measuring spoons and cup, more knowledgable than I in our kitchen because she helps Mary bake cookies, cupcakes, blondies, etc.  I realized that I hadn't baked once since being here.  Connor read aloud in Italian about dinosaurs at the kitchen table while I measured; Hannah mixed and recited aloud something that she needs to memorize by Friday; when Mary walked in, she took turns with Hannah mixing the batter.

At the cookie swap, they loved the cookies.  And I, in my late and self-conscious state (it's been months since I baked! will brown sugar substitute really work for molasses in a molasses cookie recipe?), was delighted beyond delighted.  Amy and I swapped stories of the cookies and treats our moms made at Christmas: mint brownies; oatmeal chocolate chip cookies; white meringue cookies; brownies with white frosting and a layer of chocolate on top; cornflake cookies with jam; sugar cookies with sprinkles.  Amy's mom put her treats on the porch to stay cool, and the kids snuck them from there; my mom put hers in the basement freezer, and we snuck them from there.

I brought home oatmeal chocolate chip, biscotti with lemon and orange zest, merigue with almond, a chocolate fruit cake of sorts, special to Viterbo.

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For my birthday in July, I asked for a winter jacket, and I got a bright purple cozy jacket.  I had thought that I didn't want to bring my long black puffy coat.  It was ninety degrees in Waltlham when I decided that.  Now I wouldn't mind having my long black puffy coat here, too.

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One of Sebastian's best buddies at school is leaving.  Total bummer.  "We had nice conversations," Sebastian said.

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I released two sets of grades yesterday: one on an in-class essay on The Stranger and one on a personal essay.  Perhaps two of the best conversations I've had with students this year.  

Language

JK: Could you go over the grammar of my essay with me so I can do better next time?

me: Sure.

We visit for 10-15 minutes, and I'm reminded that JK grew up in Korea and moved to the States in middle school, so English is not her first language -- even though she knows more about American brands and terminology than I do, even though she is mentioning how she tried to fit in in America by wearing Jack Rodgers instead of Nike.  I say to her, What's Jack Rodgers?  She says, You know, the shoes.  You have them.  I'm adamant that I don't have these name brand shoes.  We find an image.  Oh! you mean those shoes!?  Yes, yes, they look similar.  But mine are TJMaxx. 

I often forget that JK grew up in Korea and not the U.S.  because she participates in class easily, confidently, articulately.  We find every off verb tense, subject-verb agreement, instance of vague language.  "Thanks.  That was really helpful," JK says.  She tells me more about the difficulties in growing up and trying to fit in where she didn't fit in, and how feeling confident and secure and figured out is still hard.  I adore her and her honesty.

Put yourself into the story

SD: Can we go over my reflective essay?  I thought it was great, but then I got an 85, and I don't understand why.

me: Sure.  Give it 24 hours and then you can come talk with me about it.

...next day:

SD: So I looked at the rubric, and I went check, check, check.  I nailed this.  Then you read it and you didn't like it.

We talk for 15 minutes.  SD is having a hard time understanding what would make the piece work better, and I'm struggling to explain to her what I mean by grounding the reflection in some concrete images or scenes.  We talk.  We get stymied.  We try again.  We go back through the essay.  I ask her about a painter (Jack Whitten) she mentions in the piece.  She pulls up an image of a painting of his: this is self-awareness, she says.  So then put yourself into that picture and see how the painting works for you if you're the image in the picture.  Where would you be in the picture?  Self-aware how and when or not?

SD: Oooooooooooh...okay.  I get it.  I'd never written a personal essay before.  I usually write about other people.

And one student interaction that made me laugh:

Syllables

MF: Ms. Keleher, you said that my haiku has the wrong number of syllables in the second line.  I want to go over it with you.  You're wrong: it has seven syllables.
me: Okay.
I know I can be a careless grader when it comes to quizzes, but I'm pretty thorough when it comes to essays, so I'm surprised because I remember counting syllables, but I think, Well, I did grade 88 essays in the last week, and it's likely I messed up.
Later, I catch up with MF; he is eager to review his sentence with me.  His creative piece for the final writing of the term is a series of 18 haikus, beginning with one titled "boston."   It's quite clever, arranged in three parts, reflecting on life from August until now.  He's gotten a 97%, and he wants to review my comment that he is missing a syllable in the second line (and yes, I had to look up haiku definition to review how many syllables per line -- my friend Justin used to write them, too).  In the salone, he reads aloud to me:

boston
my mom is crying
fireworks out the window
i hug her and go

He reads fireworks as FIR-E-WORKS.
ZW, his buddy, walks by: That's how you say fireworks?  Three syllables?
MF: Oh.  Right.

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Thank goodness these balanced out the disciplinary interactions of the last month.

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Tonight after I returned from the cookie swap and we all ate more cookies, we rearranged the living room to fit both of our mini-artificial trees.  Now we're feeling cozy.

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I got Daniel to come wrap with me.  Kids were sleeping.

Weekend Home

We get out of town about once a month.  Then three weekends home til a long weekend or school trip.  I like when we travel and get out of Viterbo, stretch a bit, drive (ride) a bit, and I like when we have home weekends.  Sometimes I struggle with relaxing as much as I would back at home in Waltham because, well, we're here, and I want to take advantage of being here.  I could take a bus to Bagnaia to a beautiful park or go out to the terme or head to a mountain.  But I could also relax here at home, read a little, take a nap.

Saturday Daniel and I struck out with both a gym (he was going to help me sign up to swim where he does) and a flea market (he and Hannah need winter jackets, and we heard there are good deals here) -- both closed for national holiday, December 8, Feast of the Immaculate Conception, which I tried to explain to Hannah tonight when she told me that she needed to write three sentences in Italian about Madonna. 
Me: Say she's the mother of Jesus, we celebrate her in May, and she was born with no sin. 
Hannah: What? 
Me: Do you know what a sin is?
Hannah: No.

Hannah is seven.  Sin had been drilled into me by age 7.  I remember the image -- did I make it up or did a teacher draw it on the board for us? -- of a circle of white with one black mark on it: that was original sin.  Then we did bad things like fight with a sibling or tell a lie and then we'd get more black marks.  Of course, once we went to Confession, the black marks would go away and our souls would be pure again, though I was never sure whether the original sin mark stayed.  I was both in awe that Hannah didn't know any of this the way I did at her age and thinking, I so do not want to explain all this to her now.  So I did a terrible parenting job and told her, I was taught that a sin is when you do a bad thing, and we're all born with a sin when we're born.  Except Mary wasn't, and that's why there was a holiday for her yesterday....then I went for a walk with Daniel and Mary and never checked Hannah's homework.

But Saturday.  Hannah and I stopped in at a sports store to buy a needle for the pump to pump up the kids' soccer ball.  When we asked whether they had ago per pompa, I got a quizzical look (because I learned later from Daniel, I should have said a hard g...alas), another customer (who happens to be Daniel's boss) translated that we wanted to pump up our soccer ball, and the employee happily took our ball and pumped it up in less than a minute.  I asked him, "Possiamo portare altri?" since Sebastian's new soccer ball was still as flat as it was upon delivery from amazon last week.  He answered, "Certo!"

We headed down to the giant and Valle Faule, the grassy spot with the replica of the awakening.  Daniel and I sat.  The kids went to the top of a hill and rolled down.  Just rolled, never directly down.  They would start down the hill, but then end up parallel with the hill, trying to roll with their bodies vertical.  But sometimes they got up some speed for five or six rolls straight down before they had to propel themselves some more.  I sat there looking at them, just watching, feeling like, Ah, this is a Saturday.  This feels like home.  One kid got a little cut from a piece of glass or a rock.  Another kid got dog poop on a pant leg.  Someone else needed water.

Yep.  This feels like home.

Finding Church

In my first week here I happened upon a church when I wanted a break from a bike ride and some feeling of safety, security, groundedness.  It was the middle of the day, the church was open, and no one seemed to mind that I went in and sat.  I thought, Maybe we'll come to mass here some day.  Here to Sacra Famiglia.

Then the gang arrived, and we tried mass at the church at Daniel's school.  It felt cold, we understood nothing, we left hungry and tired.  (It's different to go with others, to see it through their eyes; I had once gone to this church myself and felt calm, content, comfortable.)  Then Daniel tried the church that goes with the kids' school.  Fine, he said.  Then he tried one a block away.  Again, fine.

We headed to Sacra Famiglia one Sunday in September.  We knew no one, understood barely a word, and sat near the back in the few remaining seats.  It was bright, and the singing felt festive.  Even the kids liked it.

People from work invited us to try their church one Sunday morning, so we did.  When we left, the kids said, "We like our own better," meaning Sacra Famiglia.

So most Sundays we head to Sacra Famiglia.  Occasionally we see a friend or two of Connor's, or Daniel recognizes someone.  Some weeks we get there early enough to get a program so we can follow all the words that we have no chance of catching if we just listen.  One week we sat near the choir.  A woman in the choir took a step over to me right before each song to tell me the number of the song in the book.  I loved her.  We sang.  We watched the gestures of all the kids and actually, of most of the adults, that went with each line of the songs.  Our kids did the gestures.  I tried to keep up with the words and clapped only when I could follow someone else.  This week I scoured the back pews for a book, and when I couldn't find one, decided to be happy that at least we were in time to get programs.  I returned to my pew, and a moment later a woman, who appeared to have followed me down the aisle, handed me a book.  She must have seen me search.

Today we sang.  Facciamo festa facciamo festa....Alleluia alleluia....Santo....  I didn't have the words to the Hail Mary at the end of the mass, but I listened as Con and Han beside me said the words loud and clear. 

We are finding our place, one spot at a time.

Quality of Life

I've been thinking about our quality of life here versus our quality of life back home.  I still haven't read The Blue Zone, but I've gotten the Cliff note version from friends.  A friend told me how Sardinia is one such blue zone place, where people live longer, healthier, happier lives.  I've always wanted to live a long time healthfully and happily (doesn't everyone?...well, no, I know some folks who have no desire to live a long life), perhaps fearful of death (reading/teaching The Stranger this week is not making me any more accepting of the inevitability of death at the moment), but mostly I've always thought, as my mom said a month or so before she died, "I just don't want to go anywhere."

In August and early September, it stayed light late and we ate gelato and enjoyed the sun.  One Thursday night...

[Clang clang bang bang.  Hannah: "Connor, you didn't tell me it didn't close!"  She volunteered to help him put out the plastic and metal recycling...they played their game of drop the bags of recycling down three flights of stairs, it seems.  Sorry, neighbors.  Perhaps we will find a sign that reads, "Please don't drop trash and recycling down the stairs" tomorrow.  Two weeks after the gang arrived in August, we noticed a typed-up sign on the inside of the front door of the building: "PLEASE DO NOT SLAM THE DOOR.  THANKS."  Mary and I cringed, and I said something like, "Oh, gosh, that's embarrassing."  Mary said, "Yeah, especially since it's for us: it's in English." ...we are hiding from my boss the damage we've already done to the apartment -- do all families with kids wreak havoc on homes? A four inch patch of paint on the living room ceiling peeled from slime Connor threw up high; some plaster falling from the wall in the dining room; curtains torn from curtain rods ("It was a mistake!  I was just pulling the curtain back!"); the light in the kids' bathroom pulled out of the socket and broken, and then, because someone turned the light on and left it on even after that, huge cracks through the mirror that the heat from that light formed.]

...one Thursday night Daniel said, Let's go out to dinner.  I went with the gang, but unhappily so.  I wanted to be home, and I was tired, and I had work to do (wherever you go, etc.).  And somehow the light had changed and it had gotten dark quickly, and I had missed the sunlight in its final hours.  That afternoon/evening, I was devastated by the sun's having disappeared on me.  I had the strange fear that it was not going to return or that I wasn't going to get to enjoy it the next day.  It was a fear that I had lost my chance.  The next morning when I pulled out the heavy door (with the don't slam the door sign), the sun greeted me.  I was so relieved, so grateful: it came back.

So I understand my mom.  I can't understand how it was to be her, knowing that she really wouldn't continue to see the sun, but I get her desire to stay.  Not to miss the sun.

So quality of life.  Doesn't it boil down to health and people and time and doing what you love?  And what makes a childhood good?  Is the quality of life for our kids better here or at home?  We get in the car for trips and for errands, but certainly not daily, and sometimes not even weekly.  Clearly this has to be better for us.  We sit longer at dinner.  The kids are happy at school for the most part.  Sebastian reports that the kids here are nicer than the kids at Plympton or at Thayer.  Mary is making friends in grade six and is able to swim and sew and still have time for baking and reading writing.  And I'm happy for these big kids to miss middle school in the U. S.  Connor is working on his pyramid at pottery.  Hannah is playing tag with the boys after school and soccer twice a week; she came for a short run with me this afternoon.  Connor is the only one who is clear that he wants this venture to be only one year: he's happy to be here, he says, and he is up for a one year adventure, not two.  The other three are happy to stay.  The question of whether to pursue staying, for me, comes down to their childhood. 

So quality of life.  Quality of childhood.

At home there's love.  There's good health.  There's purpose. There's friendship.  There's our neighborhood.

In Italy, there's love.  There's good health.  There's purpose. There's friendship.  There's time. 

But still.  Home is home.