always a mother

after three days of nursery school i understand why italians do "insertion". it is as much for the parents as it is for the children. now i see why the teachers blinked back blank stares and gave such vague responses when i asked how long it would take. i was the deciding factor.

these past ten months my baby and i have lived in the warm cocoon of our house, our morning walks, our shared afternoon naps, our story times and tickle times, and all that playing in the bath. then we are catapulted into nursery school, and suddenly my baby discovers other children, italian nursery rhymes, and toy cars, while his mother discovers that these past ten months have changed her much more than she let herself know. none of our trips on airplanes or trains could have prepared us for nursery school this week.

the first day jack was quiet and wide-eyed. we arrived around nine thirty and sing-along was about to begin. the children were seated in miniature chairs at a low wooden table while the three teachers sang songs and prepared the morning snack. the older children, aged two and up, knew all the hand motions and the words to the songs. the younger children knew some of the hand motions and watched the older kids in awe as they gleefully shouted the words at the top of their lungs. jack was more interested in the yellow toy car someone had left under the table, but bobbed his head to the music nonetheless.

after an hour i made my way towards the door and asked if the teachers minded if i left for a bit to get some groceris at the shop next door. jack didn't even notice i was gone. when i returned he had found a new car to play with, and was intently pushing it along the floor and distinctly humming a car engine noise. i'd never seen him do anything like before. ever.

i sat on the ground to watch him and a few of the other children came over to sit on my lap. a dark-haired, dewy-eyed boy named luca was upset and wanted his mommy. "mamma, mammmmma," he called out between sobs. when i asked him if he wanted a hug and a kiss, he ran into my arms and dug his face into my hair. "mamma, mamma," he sighed. i guess any mother would do.

the second day we went in a little earlier and i could barely get my baby's coat off before he crawled away to play with the children. a sweet, blond, rosy-cheeked girl by the name of ilaria gave him a kiss on the top of his head and wanted to sit next to him for sing-along and snacktime. at the table she held his pudgy hand in hers.

i left him for an hour on the second day. that gave me time to run an errand, bring a few groceries home, start a translation, call a few colleagues, throw a load of laundry in the dryer. i walked about town without a stroller, without a sling, without a baby, and i felt the way i do when i go out without my wallet or a purse, freer than usual, but a little bit naked.

when i went back to find my baby he was standing by the slide with another little boy. the boy was kicking the slide and the noise it made had both boys laughing, my baby and his friend.

jack cried when i picked him up to take him home.

in the afternoon at home he played happily on his own, chattering and singing gibberish that sounded more italian than it ever had before. in the evening, he wanted to sit in my lap, or ride around on my hip as i got dinner ready, finished a translation, sent an invoice.

this morning we arrived even earlier, and out on the street in front of the school, a little boy pointed at us and told his mother that jack was his new friend. inside, the teachers called out, "ciao jack!" then sent me off, with instructions to pick him up in two hours.

so here i am, writing without distraction in a quiet house. i could get some work done. i could unload the dishwasher. i could shave my legs or wash my hair. i could sit on the couch and read. i could do anything. except see what my baby is up to this very instant.

how strange to be a mother. it never goes away.