just let go

This past weekend, at a memorial service for my Aunt, the priest shared his experience witnessing the birth of a child. He noted that he hadn't imagined, until witnessing firsthand, the amount of pushing and pain that it takes to get a baby out into this world. It was, he explained, as if the child were protesting (as they all seem to do): I'm perfectly comfy in here and I have no idea what's out there, so I'm staying put! Ha!
He likened this to death. That since none of us can know what's involved in the great beyond, all we can seem to muster is understandably fear and apprehension when it comes to even contemplating death. But that, like the baby, we must find within us that bridge of faith, someone who would stand by our side and see us through: who, in the baby's case would be all those that shower him with constant love, affection and care; for us it would be the Universe, a higher power, God, God expressed through the words, gentle action and care of those who love us.
Of course I thought of my own kids: both were reluctant about entering this crazy world. Fratellone, it seemed, wanted nothing more than to live inside me forever, enjoying the Tesco Swiss Rolls and the Hagen Daaz midnight dark chocolate ice cream. Even after a ride on the top of a rickety double-decker bus and several jerky Tube rides, sex (feeling like an elephant, I might add), curries, cups and cups of raspberry leaf tea, many, many walks around London - he just wouldn't budge - and he was two days late already. It reached the point that I finally just collapsed into a ball of tears, wondering, in my raging hormonally induced state, if this baby thing really would ever happen at all.
The same with Pupa. With her, I tried all of the above, as well as swimming and "membrane stripping' - but not even that could get her to take even the slightest step in the birthday direction. She was due the 18th but was instead born on the 22nd. Whereas Fratellone made the snap decision, Oh well, may as well..., popped his water bag and came out fast and furious, Pupa had to be induced. A slow dripping pitocin began and for an hour, she seemed to say, No. You can't make me do it. No. No. No. You'll see! as both of our hearts beat steady and slow, until the pitocin was cranked up and she had no other choice. Alright! Fine then! + excruciating pain + a few pushes on my part - and there she was, ready to live her life.
Even babies when they let out that first piercing cry - with their smashed up faces and super pissed off expressions - they really do seem to be yowling, I didn't want to have to do that. Why did you evict me? Whhyyy? No fair!!!. Until finally they recognize that indeed there are cozy arms to hold me here, gentle voices no longer so muffled, pleasant, familiar smells, something warm and sweet to drink, and well, they just must sense that everything is going to be okay, or at least we'll try our best! through the beaming smiles and wide-eyed joy, even if they can't see or exactly understand.
I wish I had the faith to believe 100% that there is indeed a heaven. I hope (when I am a grey-haired centenarian, great-grandma to several) that I will indeed possess that bridge of faith that will carry me into whatever comes next with dignity and the sense of a life well lived.
I do believe 100% that there is someone showing me the way - who I choose to call God. There have been times in life when I too was scared to let go and follow whatever it was that was laid out before me. How much easier it would have been had I just let go and taken a deep breath, Okay. Here I am. What's next?
 

a broom, a bath rug, and an armoire

My husband was the quintessential single man before I, and then Fratellone and I, and then, of course, Pupa, landed in his life. He lived alone, five minutes from work, which was the focus of his life (he's a cancer researcher, focused on lung cancer, and runs a lab at a university, while also teaching medical students). When babysitters fell into place, I loved spending time at his condo: it was so orderly, so quiet, new, clean - like being on vacation. It was decorated in a stately manner, elegant.

This all gave way when we rented out both of our places, married, and moved together into a new place for the three, soon to be four, of us. Our apartment is now is littered with legos and action figures, rattles, blocks, and stuffed animals. His focus in life has shifted towards our family, but still his research is hugely important to him (and thank God).

Just the same for me, I went from being the sole provider and parent in a home to sharing the task. Before, I had been very proud of myself: having managed to create a good life for my son and I. But there were many times when a vague sense that something was missing, something I couldn't exactly put a name on, crept in. That was something that my husband and I both shared.

Our household items are combined now, and I smile sometimes when I look at the armoire - which once stood in his guest room. Isn't it perfect for a little girls bedroom? for storing a little girls dresses? And the colorful broom. There is also the frog bath rug. All of these things once belonged, half-heartedly, to the domain of a single guy. Now they all make a little girl smile.

In a few weeks, we will be closing and then moving into a home of our own. It has been a long time coming, and we plan on living in this new home for a long time.

The two of us have moved more times than we care to count, more than once transatlantically. I can't wait to make this new house our home.  

lest i forget

Yesterday I found myself changing my nine month old daughter’s particularly poopy diaper when I turned to my husband, raised my brow and said, “I don’t remember Daniel ever having diapers as stinky and stuffed as this. It looks like she just laid a giant sweet potato!” I racked my brain and tried to remember changing my son’s diapers way back when, eight years ago that seemed more like forever. I laughed out loud, reminded with a rush of quasi-nostalgia of how often he’d peed in my face, once hitting my nose as if target practicing; the time he pooped in the bathtub: I pulled him out, caught the floating poo, cleaned out the baby tub, put him back in, and of course, he pooped again. But I couldn’t remember any terribly potent diapers, the ones that require a window to be opened, two adults to man the writhing baby so she doesn’t spread it everywhere, 15+ wipes plus a bath, the garbage taken out afterwards and STAT, i.e. the type of diapers my daughter had been producing lately.

It was yet another manifestation of the bad case of Momnesia I’ve been suffering from; a malady that sneaked upon me slowly since I first became a mom. Surely my son must have made some doosy diapers, because that’s just what babies do. But the memory of them had been pretty much erased from my mind, as had the memory of most every other grief related to the pregnancy, childbirth and rearing of Baby #1. Will the same thing happen with Baby #2? Will, in a few years time, I remember only the delight and thrill, will I find myself pleading coquettishly with my husband, batting my eyelashes “What do you think about having another Baaaaby?” having forgotten the stress and sleepless nights of it all?

Mere months earlier, when the two pick lines of the pregnancy test focused into view, letting me know that Baby #2 was on its way, after 8 years of hoping, my heart just about burst out of my chest and bounced up to the ceiling and around the home like one of those rubber balls from a gumball machine. I could hardly contain myself. All I could think of when I ecstatically shared the news with my husband were the heavenly glow that I had during pregnancy #1, the whoosh whoosh of the first listen to a heartbeat – a new life! – the blissful flutters and then kicks. “I’m pregnant!”

The elephant ankles, the chronic heartburn, the 24/7 nausea – those malaises were all lost to Momnesia-induced negative memory loss. As they inevitably made there reappearance in pregnancy #2, I glumly voiced several times to my husband, “I totally forgot about this. Ugh!”

Momnesia.

A few days before my due date with Baby #2, I smugly shrugged my shoulders to my husband and said matter-of-factly, “This will be a piece of cake! I’ve done it before without drugs - surely I’ll be able to do it again! No problem!” I remembered that labor and delivery hurt, that I had certainly screamed and writhed in pain, but I didn’t exactly remember how badly it hurt. That is, not until the first contractions kicked in for this second baby. The first strong one struck out of the blue, and I as I double over, I wondered, “What the hell is going on?” It was an excruciating epiphany: the intense twisting, bone aching and pressure snapped me out of Momnesia and brought me back to the hours before my son entered this world. How does one simply non recall this anguish? I screamed for an epidural.

“But you said you didn’t want one, honey,” my husband lovingly and patiently reminded me.

I gave him the look of death. He shut up, turned to the nurse. “She wants an epidural.”

I remembered.

More memories came back to me when I woke up, throughout the night for nights upon nights in a row, to care for my crying, colicky newborn daughter. I tried singing lullabies. I tried turning on the washing machine. I tried turning on the kitchen fan. I tried rocking her until I felt seasick. “Well,” I soothed myself, mentally conversing with Baby Chiara, “I must have done it before (though I’d forgotten how demanding it can be). And your brother is still alive! And I didn’t end up in a madhouse. So… we’ll survive!”

They say that we develop Momnesia because if we remembered every sting, ache and torture of pregnancy and childbirth, well, nobody would have more than one kid.

Thankfully, the joyful moments of becoming and being a mom are as clear as a bell. Who could forget the intoxicating smell of a newborn’s fuzzy head? Nursing a baby to a peaceful sleep? The warmth that washes over you when you first hear the name you’d always wished to be called, “Mama!”? The beaming pride you feel watching your child take his first steps, tumble, then get back up again?

Maybe that’s why we forget? Because the good overshadows the bad so much so that it disappears altogether. Even with the anxiety, sleep deprivation, and pressure of life with a newborn fresh in my memory, I would do it all over again, twice, and in a heartbeat.




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world babytalk

We are a family of many languages, of, sometimes, our own invented language. Of English, of Italian, of Portuguese, and of whoever happens to be visiting at the time (German, Arabic, French, Spanish).

My son's father, from Brazil, spoke solely in Portuguese to him, from birth to age 2. Then he gave up, slowly and over time, much to my dismay, when Fratellone responded to him in English and never Portuguese. But Fratellone - he understood every word in Portuguese, and you could tell him to do tasks in Portuguese and he'd do them, you could ask him questions in Portuguese, and he'd understand, and answer correctly, but in English. In the beginning, he spoke words in both English and Portuguese, his first words being Mama, DaDa and Agua. He stuck with those three fundamental words for a long while, and it took him longer to form sentences - but we were patient, knowing he was being raised in a bilingual household. When he finally did speak in sentences, he jumped from simple sentences to complex ones in what seemed like a day. I am convinced that his exposure to two languages from birth to two gave him a wider open mind to language: when we first traveled together to Italy and he was five, he caught on to Italian so quickly that he was able to answer simple questions and explain what had happened to his arm (Mio braccio e' rotto) within days; he loves reading and loves jokes that involve wordplay. Sometimes his father still uses Portuguese expressions, here and there, and Fratellone knows those well. I am certain that one day, he'll travel to Brazil, and Portuguese will sing its way back into his understanding entirely.

Pupa on the other hand, is our little experiment: At home, I speak to her in Italian when I'm alone with her. When Fratellone is near us, I speak English peppered with Italian. (And so, just as I learned Portuguese along with Daniel, he is learning Italian along with his sister). My husband speaks to her solely in Italian. At daycare, her provider speaks Spanish to her. We often wonder what language she'll speak. So far it's the universal babytalk of rasberries and da-da-da-da-da-da-da.

One day soon, I plan on dropping off both kids, Pupa and Fratellone - at my in-laws in Rome, where no one speaks English (mwah ha ha ha...) and they'll be forced to learn Italian - if anything to ask for seconds of my mother-in-law's lasagna.

New to this site? Check out 27 facts about me.


 

writing samples

I'm Dreaming of a Green Chrismas
Mindful Metropolis
http://digital.mindfulmetropolis.com/publication/?i=53375&p=10


When in Rome, Do as the Young Romans

Family Travel Forum

http://www.familytravelforum.com/who/toddler_baby/travel_baby/12725-When-Rome-Italy-Young-Romans.html

Oahu: A Family Paradise
Chicago Parent
http://www.chicagoparent.com/magazines/going-places/2009-summer/oahu-a-family-paradise

Tranquil Territory: Galena
Long Weekends
http://www.long-weekends.com/Main/Articles/Tranquil_Territory_1169.aspx

Slip, Slide and Soar! (Lake County, Illinois)
Long Weekends
http://www.long-weekends.com/Main/Articles/Slip_Slide_and_Soar_1663.aspx

The Midwife of FounouFuni
Green Parent
http://www.greenparentchicago.com/2008/06/green-parent-chicago-3-part-series-to-begin-monday.html

How to Raise a Kid Who Loves to Write
Chicago Parent
http://www.chicagoparent.com/magazines/chicago-parent/2010-march/short-stuff/how-to-raise-a-kid-who-loves-to-write

Be Your Son's Best Advocate, at Home and at School
Chicago Parent
http://www.chicagoparent.com/magazines/chicago-parent/2009-october/boys-at-risk



Personal Blog: tiramisumom.com
Blog at Chicagoparent.com: http://www.chicagoparent.com/community/windy-city-mama

Further writing samples for Chicago Parent Magazine are available at: http://www.chicagoparent.com/staff/amy-bizzarri

Further writing samples for Long Weekends Magazine are available at:
http://www.long-weekends.com/Main/Articles.aspx?authorid=590e0aa9-a3d2-42da-9704-66f3b07042c8

preggo in the summer: 10 tips to save a bloated mama

Pregnancy can be uncomfortable enough, but what do you do when the dog days of summer set in at the peak of your pregnancy? Grab a virgin pina colada, put your feet up and try these tips:

1.
Hydrate! Hydrate! Hydrate! At the top of your to-do list, strive to stay well hydrated. Aim for two liters of liquids, preferably water, per day. Avoid soft drinks, since they work like diuretics, stealing more water from the body than they provide. Wherever you go, commit to bringing along a reusable water bottle. Make your own refreshing drink by adding a few lemon and cucumber slices to a pitcher of cool water. By keeping your body constantly hydrated, you'll help avoid the discomfort of pregnancy-related swelling.

2.
Put your feet up. To prevent swelling, elevate your feet any chance you get: at home, at the office, at the pool.

3.
Comfy footwear only, please! You might be tempted to opt for flip flops as your footwear of choice, but did you know that flip flops can be just as bad for your piggy toes as wearing high heels during pregnancy? Your feet now need extra support and stability to prevent eventual back pain and possible spills. Stick with supportive sandals with secure straps.

 

Click here to check out the seven other useful tips that appear in my article in this month's Chicago Parent Magazine.

 

New to this site? Check out 27 facts about me.