love thursday

This has been a tough month for me. And I haven't handled it as well as I could have. I even forgot today was Love Thursday until my mother sent me a nice email asking how we were and wishing us a happy love Thusrday. She must have read the beautiful piece Karen wrote this week. A piece that made me reflect on what an unloving wretch I have become this month.

Last night my husband, who has a cold, left work early and drove home so he could see us for just a few hours before Jack and I dropped our miserable selves into bed. Then today I called him at work to complain and cry into the phone. I'm sure he loves having this version of me for a wife.

For the past few weeks I have spent most of my time feeling sorry for myself, and I can't remember the last time I actually wondered, or even worried, how someone else was doing. Although I do find the time to fantasize about moving someplace tropical, where it's warm all year long and the children rarely get sick. I think that place is called Paradise. Yo. Hook me up with three one-way tickets.

Until then, I will take Karen's advice and decide to love my family a little bit better. In sickness and in health.

Happy love Thursday everyone.

i have three words for you

the

stomach

flu.

Yeah. I'll save you the details, but this post is not for the faint of heart. Because it totally sucks. Especially for the non-diaper-wearing infected components of the family. Namely, me.

I will tell you this, however, I had a true Goonies moment this morning. Remember Chunk? And the worse thing he ever did was pretend to throw up in a movie theater, with a bucket of fake vomit as a prop? And everyone in the movie theater got sick? And he felt awful?

Yeah, well, this morning a friend called to ask how we were doing and inform me that yesterday afternoon at 3:30pm she witnessed no fewer than ten children throw up simultaneously after naptime. She went to pick up her son, who incidentally, was one of the thrower-uppers, and there they were, about a dozen of them, crying and covered in gnocchi. I can imagine the scene, because a similar scenario was unfolding in my very own hallway, but with just one child.

You see, I got a call late yesterday morning from Jack's teachers saying that he had thrown up phlegm and was running a low-grade temperature. No one was especially concerned, as I am infamous for sending my son to nursery school with a very low-grade fever and some Tylenol and then feigning surprise when the effect wears off four hours later, around 11:00, and they call me to come pick him up. Besides, he had also been throwing up phlegm for days, a fact of which anyone who reads this blog regularly is painfully aware.

But then, my tummy was also hurting. And I had spent the night before throwing up my own dinner and writhing in my bed. Call me stupid, but it was not until the gnocchi hit the floor that it all came together.

I am Chunk.

i said, "do a kiss"

and now i know why his kisses are so wet. and cracker crumby.

turkey, phlegm and vomit; the holiday season begins

Yesterday was Thanksgiving Sunday. They seem to be getting easier each year, as each year we have one more turkey under our belt. Last year went well, too. We had invited the in-laws. It was their first Thanksgiving, and they caught on quickly, despite all the strange new food served in ways they'd never imagined food before. Afterwards the cousins went outside to build a snowman.

This year was meant to be a little bit different. We had been hoping to invite friends over for the feast but there was a baptism held the same day and although technically my invite had gone out first, religious events supersede foreign holidays. So we had the in-laws over again.

This year there was no snow and I was able to persuade everyone (except my brother-in-law, who claimed he had to be somewhere, but whom I suspect ran home for a postprandial nap while his three kids were still here) to take a nice walk since the sun was out. About ten minutes into our walk the fog rolled in and we returned home.

G, Jack and I had a light dinner, which was fortunate, because Jack then threw up approximately five times his body weight in phlegm and chicken broth with tiny star-shaped noodles in frequent installments throughout the night. I had managed to reduce my laundry pile to normal post-weekend levels despite the holiday, but by four am, the stinky linens, all of Jack's pajamas, most of mine, all our mattress covers and half a dozen towels were spilling out into the hallway.

In a moment of weakness I told my son I'd give him away if he dare threw up again. Yes, those were my exact words. Yes, I suspect he'll one day sue me for trauma suffered in childhood at my hands. Too bad I won't have much of a fortune to share with him, as I will have lost most of my clients by then due to my inability to communicate effectively or work efficiently following severe and ongoing fatigue.

In my defense, he did manage to throw up again once or twice but I did not t stick him outside in the subzero temperatures or give him away to any passerby. Although anyone interested might want to email me with contact information and at least three reasons why they'd make a better parent. Which shouldn't be too difficult.

Also, re the new Blogger Beta. What the hell? While I agree that progress is good, having to sign in to every single blogger website using one, no, the other, no, this than that so you can enter both usernames and passwords, is beginning to do my sleep-deprived nerves in. Anyone else?

the wall of remembrance

Yesterday I received the following email from my good friend Mauryn:

Re: confused

Is Thanksgiving tomorrow or next Thursday??
'cause I haven't gotten my turkey yet!!

And although I was tempted to tell her it was next Thursday, i.e., November 30th, so she wouldn't worry, I figured she was going to find out eventually anyway, so I wrote back that yes, indeed, Thanksgiving was the following day.

And she wrote back:

shit I thought it was the LAST Thursday. Been in Italy too long.

And for a second I had that smug feeling that comes with having your shit together. For just a second. Because you know, I was under the impression that I haven't hit that wall yet. The one where you've been in a foreign place too long. She's been here over ten years. So I figured I had at least two or three to go before I get to that.

Then this morning I read the comments to yesterday's post, in which B.E.C.K. very politely - and unsmugly, I might add - points out that mogul Murdoch's name is Rupert, and not Robert, as I referred to him throughout the post.

And I realized that my wall must be universal. And I must have hit it a long time ago, without even realizing. That's how big the thing is.

(My apologies, Rupert.)

Happy Thanksgiving everybody! Have a good one.

Because, um, today is Thanksgiving, right?

sky tv; what else would i be doing all day?

My television viewing was limited was I was young. As long as my homework was done, my teeth were brushed, and I was in my pajamas, I was allowed to watch The Muppet Show once a week the evening it aired. I also got to watch Saturday morning cartoons while my parents slept in. The rules let up a little as we got older, and by the time my brother came along, there wasn't too much going on in our house in terms of television restrictions.

A few years ago, back when I still knew everything there was to know about good parenting, i.e., before I had a kid of my own, I swore I wouldn't let my child watch much, if any, television.

I'm sure you can imagine how long that lasted.

And last week, I finally submitted. I gave in and did what I swore I'd never do. I had a satellite dish installed, along with a SKY decoder, because yes, I very strongly believe that my family should do its part to support Robert Murdoch's domination of European media. Also, Italian television is so awful it hurts not to look away.

***

As an aside, the two guys who came to install the dish and set up my decoder were in their early twenties. After they explained how it worked, I offered them coffee, which they declined. So I asked if they wanted a piece of the apple cake I'd made the day before, which they accepted, along with cokes. You should have seen their eyes light up when I mentioned the coke, which is not a staple beverage here.

They were only a few years younger, but they sure did make me feel old as I sat at the table with them and watched them inhale their midmorning snack. As if that wasn't making me feel old enough as it was, they then asked me what I did all day long. Wasn't I bored? At home? With just one toddler and a small business on the side? It was a good thing I had decided to get SKY, because otherwise, I'd have absolutely nothing to do.

***

It only took about an hour to install the dish and decoder, meaning that in one short hour my television screen went from a measly six very bad channels, whose evening line-up featured quiz shows with beautiful young women dancing half-naked to current pop hits and reality shows with beautiful young women bending over in bikinis, to a gazillion channels. The first few days it was all I could do to tear myself away from E!. Seriously. I must have been the only US citizen to not know that Britney Spears had a second baby and that the cute actress who won the Oscar for Walk the Line was divorcing her husband. I didn't even know she was married.

My enthusiasm wore off after day 4, when I realized all the shows were pretty much the same, and I was turning into a zombie. So now we pretty much only watch Jim Jam and the Cartoon Network or CNN. If I have time, I catch a Fox Crime show or an episode of an HBO series, like Big Love, before bed. Usually, I work.

One of the main reasons for getting SKY was for Jack to have shows to watch in English. We can switch most shows to English, except for Teletubbies, which Robert Murdoch has decided should be viewed in Italian only. And I'm sure that it makes sense to him, although I wouldn't mind an explanation. And Mr. Murdoch, if you're reading this, is there anyway we could get some Sesame Street? In English? Complete with American accents?

Jack's enthusiasm for satellite television has not worn off. In the morning, he runs straight to the altar that is our make-shift television stand and stands before the television set in silent reverence for the images and songs it holds. When he can't get it to turn on, he brings me the remote.

I have created a monster.

By far, his favorite show is the Wiggles. I'd seen a Wiggles doll when we were in the States in October at someone's house. The thing totally creeped me out. But I think it was because the doll was out of context. Once I saw the Wiggles perform, it became obvious to me that they are not middle-aged pedophiles, and they are way less creepy than, say, that purple dinosaur. They are exercise gurus! They're on around 7:30 am here on channel 1,678,349, and tomorrow I am bringing an exercise mat into the living room with me so Jack and I can work out with them before getting dressed for nursery school.

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

birthing babies italian style

My pregnant friend has not come down with big ears yet, and is feeling good and well. She is, however, beginning to think about the birth of her third baby. The twins were born via c-section and her doctors have given her the go ahead for natural birth this time around. She is tempted to try it, but I think I've put her off it a little bit.

She's heard me very openly refer to childbirth as the worst experience of my life. Usually I say it as a joke, as in that was terrible! the second worst experience of my life after childbirth! and sometimes my friends laugh, despite the cliché. But I've talked about it with her, and she knows what sad and regretful, albeit shady memories I have of it.

There is a group of Italian politicians who are trying to push a law through Parliament that would guarantee an epidural for all women who request it during childbirth. Of course, they assure the public, it would be turned off when the time comes to push.

Clearly, you would only need a law like that if pain relief were not widely available to laboring mothers.

Of all the Italian mothers I know, only one has received pain relief during natural childbirth. It ran out after a few hours and she was refused more.

During my pregnancy, I very uncharacteristically was not too worried about the birth part. Not more than the average first-time mom. I'd read a ton of books on the miracle of new life and how it is a deeply transforming and empowering experience. Plus, I figured how bad can it be if women keep doing it?

In keeping with my reading material, I planned to give birth in a giant tub of warm water in a small, cozy room with a window overlooking a park at a hospital an hour and a half away. I was told that I could even bring my own music, or that I could listen to the cd they kept on hand for birthing mothers (now who can guess what that was?). In case that didn't work out, my doctor had set up an appointment for me with the head of anesthesiology to discuss the epidural and get a letter saying I was "suitable" for it. "Oh," I said, "I won't need that."

I went to the appointment, but secretly I thought I was too tough for pain relief.

Cue B day. I think it was about halfway through the third or fourth contraction that I dropped to my knees, leaned up against the bed and realized there was no way I was going to do this without drugs, while G asked me what was wrong. "It really really really hurts," I said, "and it's only going to get worse!"

I cried.

Tough, indeed.

We called the doctor, who said to wait an hour and see if the contractions were still regular before driving all the way to the hospital. Ten minutes later I said to my husband, "Screw that. We're going now. I want some anesthesia."

We drove an hour and a half to the hospital, where I was monitored for forty minutes, and told to wait for the doctor, who took about an hour to arrive. I was dilated 5 cm. I asked to get in the water and was informed that it was already occupied. So I ordered the epidural. The doctor told the midwife to call the anesthesiologist. He never came. Or she never called, which is more likely.

I ended up with exactly the birth I had been told to dread in all those happy hippy birthing books. It came nowhere close to being as gratifying and empowering as they promised and I came nowhere close to being as tough as I had imagined. It was an extremely negative experience, from beginning to end, when they whisked my baby away. It felt undignified and disappointing. More than anything, I was disappointed in myself.

Driving home from the hospital a few days later, my husband stopped the car, put his hand in my lap and said, "We don't have to have any more children if you don't want to."

I thought my issues with this would go away after a few months or a year, but they're still here. I'm just more matter-of-fact about them. And I try not to talk about them as much. I can't go back and change it anyway. I guess really the only thing I can hope for is that my friend's experience is infinitely more gratifying and her memories of it are brighter than mine.

stolen

from here.

You can only type one word. No explanations.

Yourself: sick
Your partner: away
Your hair: straight
Your Mother: colorful
Your Father: reliable
Your Favorite Item: computer
Your dream last night: work
Your Favorite Drink: wine
Your Dream Car: fast
Your Dream Home: warm
The Room You Are In: office
Your Ex: which?
Your fear: losing
Where you Want to be in Ten Years? please
Who you hung out with last night: myself
What You're Not: patient
Muffins: yuck
One of Your Wish List Items: house
Time: insufficient
The Last Thing You Did: medicine
What You Are Wearing: pink
Your favorite weather: sunny
Your Favorite Book: lots
Last thing you ate: salad
Your Life: busy
Your mood: blah
Your Best Friends: fun
What are you thinking about right now: dinner
Your car: old
What are you doing at the moment: blogging
Your summer: short
Relationship status: married
What is on your tv: cartoons
What is the weather like: cold
When is the last time you laughed: today

quote of the day

I missed a day. I guess that makes it official. I'm a NoBloMowhatever drop-out. Hey. At least I tried. But blogging every. single. day. was a little much for me to begin with. Then Jack got sick. And I still had work. And Jack got sicker. And I turned down all new work coming in, but still had a project to finish. And then I started to not feel so good either.

So that's my official excuse.

Now, for the quote of the day:

Jack's cousin Giorgia to Jack after he threw up phlegm and half his dinner all over me and the bathroom floor:

"Poor, poor Jacky! I'm so sorry! It's terrible to throw up, isn't it? Don't worry, I'll stay here with you until you feel better. But I hope you don't mind if I turn away. You're too gross for me to look at."

the upside of being sick

(and having total suckers for parents)

question for the internets

Is it normal for a child to be sick ALL THE TIME? By all the time I mean almost as much as he is not sick? Or just as much? Or sick more often than he is not?

Wait. Does that even make sense?

And more importantly, is it normal?

love thursday: the skinny on my skinny g

Yesterday morning Jack’s nursery school teacher asked me if I’d be able to attend the parent/teacher meeting they were holding that evening. I said I wasn’t sure yet, because I still needed to ask Skinny G Senior if he could watch Jack for me.

It then came out that my husband isn’t around during the week.

“Wow,” said the teacher.

Naturally, I assumed she was impressed at how smoothly I handled everything from caring for Jack to keeping the house in order and my in-laws at bay, all while running a modestly successful, very understaffed small business out of my home.

Then she said, “Che bravo! He knows how to do everything all by himself?” and my float in the parade of pride was burst.

“Yes,” I said, “He’s a grown-up. He can wipe his own ass. I don’t need to be there to do it for him.”

Okay, so maybe that’s not exactly what I said, but it was something to that effect, and I figured my bold pronouncement that I didn’t buy into the stereotypical Italian male pretending he’s incapable of boiling his own pasta and washing his own underwear so all will be done for him would effectively alienate me as a heartless, self-serving American wife who does not bend over backwards to keep her husband’s belly full and his socks ironed and folded in pairs.

Much to my surprise, the youngest teacher stepped forward and said, “I couldn’t agree more.”

And that is what I want to talk about today.

Today is Love Thursday.

And I love my husband.

But it’s not just because he is capable of living on his own during the week, which entails him having to feed and bathe himself without my assistance.

I love him not because he’s an excellent cook, or because he does laundry, washes dishes, makes the bed, changes diapers, and picks Jack’s multitude of plastic toys of the living room floor five hundred and ninety-three times a day when he’s home. It’s not because he always, without fail, asks what he can do to help when I am making dinner. Or because he sets the table without even having to be asked.

He does all these things, and more. And although I love that he does them, I love even more why he does them.

He takes care of Jack because he loves being a dad. He asks me how he can help in the kitchen because he loves spending time with me. He says he wants to cook dinner for us because, in his words, he rarely gets the chance to make us dinner anymore. He takes pride in these things that he does, and he does them well. He knows that you only get out as much as you put in. I love that this is the message our son will receive.

Visit Karen for more love this Thursday.

Victoria's Secret Pink®, fun for the whole family

He's learning how to dress himself.

big ears and olden days

***updated***

When my sister and I were little our favorite game was Olden Days. It was loosely based on "The Little House on the Prairie", in that we lived in a log cabin without indoor plumbing and often one of us would go blind or come down with a very old-fashioned sounding disease. Usually my sister was the unfortunate victim. When my friend from across the street and I would feel my little sister's forehead and say, "Oh no! Get Doc! She's got a fever!" my sister would beg us to please not make her die of scarlet fever again.

No, please. I feel fine! Really. Please!

By then it was too late. Her fate had been decided. She'd be forced to lie down so we could put a cold, wet washcloth on her forehead, which we'd leave there for the duration of the game or until she died, whichever came first.

Fast forward to modern times.

At the end of last winter it came to my attention that there were a few cases of children coming down with scarlettina in my town. That cannot be what I think it is! I thought to myself, suppressing the urge to laugh. However, my trusty dictionary told me that scarlettina was indeed scarlet fever.

But you could only contract scarlet fever in the Olden Days!

Turns out scarlet fever isn't half as serious a disease as it was in the Olden Days. No one in my town died from it, or was even hospitalized.

(Sorry, sis.)

Last night after I'd put Jack down for the second of five hundred times last night, a friend called to inform me that her daughter had just come down with the mumps.

Mumps.

Although the medical name is parotite, the illness is commonly referred to as orecchioni, or "big ears", here. And I must say, that does enhance the Olden Day effect of someone telling you her daughter, with whom Jack plays regularly, has big ears disease.

I'm not too concerned since Jack has been vaccinated (although so has my friend's daughter) and that fever of his turned out to be a molar coming in. I've been vaccinated as well. My main concern is for my friend, who is five months pregnant. When she was a child, they didn't vaccinate for mumps, and she has never had it. Nor has her mother, babysitter, sister or brother. Which means few and far between are willing to come over and help her care for her infectious daughter, and she is at risk of getting it too. Luckily, mumps poses no risk for her pregnancy.

"Please let me know if you need anything from the store or if I can do anything for you," I said to her on the phone last night, "I can stop by the Olsens* and pick up your groceries along with mine. It's no trouble at all."

*I'd originally called them the Nelsens. So much for long-term TV name retention.

i don't know, are you?

This posting every day thing is crazy. It's only November 6th and I'm already wishing I had a day off. Surely I'll be the first non-official participant to drop out.

All in the name of NaBloPoMa (or, alternatively, "crazy acronym thing"), my sixth post in this month of November is a picture I took last month in Baltimore of the best billboard ever.



My sister and I were stopped at a light when we saw it through our filthy windshield. We could not stop laughing. I especially enjoyed Auguste Rodin's "The Thinker" to the side. Nice touch, eh?

the hills are alive

There is a house up the hill from us divided into what look to be about six apartments for vacationing families who come up during the holidays, summer weekends and the month of August. Most of the time it's empty and all the shutters are drawn shut.

It's a good sized building and for years I had no idea what was behind it. My husband told me stories of when he was a kid and there weren't many houses in this area at all. He'd run through the open fields with his friends and his dog Laica. It wasn't until I walked around the house and through its backyard that I realized what he meant by open fields.



Every time we go back there I want to break into that song from the Sound of Music.



Jack wants to go touch the cows.

the ultimate italian comfort food

Jack came down with a fever yesterday. By my standards, it's not that high. Jack and I are prone to getting fevers that last the day or two it takes to wipe out whatever the cause happens to be.

By Italian standards any fever is cause for anxious concern and constant questioning by everyone not involved, including in-laws and neighbors. Could it be pneumonia? I did hear him cough last week when you passed by our house! Maybe it's an ear infection? You say he's not complaining and neither of his ears seem to bother him, but you never know! I'll bet it's an infectious disease! My nephew [...] Everything is going around right now!

Oh no, it must have been the American mother! She took him out on Thursday despite the icy winds and surely he caught cold.

It's enough to shake the calmest mother up a bit. So I lie. And actually, the lying isn't that hard to pull off anyway. When Jack has a fever, it's not like when I have a fever. When Jack has a fever, his cheeks are rosy and adorable. His eyes are shiny like a doll's and he plays with his cars, albeit more slowly than usual, but he plays. So I say he's got a low-grade fever and keep it at that.

When pressed for actual numbers on the rectal thermometer, my general rule of thumb is to never let them know it's over 38° C (100.4° F), which may sound paranoid to you, but consider this, a certain person I know who has young children and is closely related to my husband will call the pediatrician and demand that said pediatrician come to the house to see any child with anything over 38° C, allegedly because it would be unsafe for that child to leave the house and ride in a car, park directly outside the pediatrician's office and risk the quick demise of a feverish child in the cold, open air. When the pediatrician refuses, this relative of my husband's begins what I personally refer to the gossip/complaint phone tree.

Now that you know that Jack has a fever no higher than 38° C I can proceed with what this post was supposed to be about in the first place. Yesterday evening, despite his fever not being that high, I felt sorry for him and so I made his favorite food for dinner, pasta in bianco, which he ate most of, further evidence that whatever he has is not that serious.

Pasta in bianco also very fortuitously happens to be Italy's preferred comfort food.

Here is the recipe, complete with my husband's former boss Corrado's special trick of adding a little warm water from the pot to the pasta so that it goes down even more smoothly.

PASTA IN BIANCO
THE ULTIMATE ITALIAN COMFORT FOOD

- short pasta. I would recommend penne rigate or, if you are preparing this for a toddler, mezze penne rigate (which are half as long

- a pot of water

- rock salt

- butter

- grated Parmesan or Grana Padano cheese

Bring the water to a boil. Add a fistful of rock salt or, if you are preparing this for four or more people, a fistful and a half. Add the pasta, stirring occasionally so that it won't stick to the sides.

Get out your pasta dishes/bowls and place a generous slice of butter in each. Add a tablespoon of the salty pasta water to the butter in each.

Drain the pasta when al dente and immediately transfer to the buttery plates. Mix butter and pasta with the salty water and toss abundant grated Parmesan or Grana on top.

You will not be disappointed. And this is guaranteed to make a feverish toddler feel better. Because didn't you know? The most effective cure for a fever is some good old-fashioned cholesterol. But don't tell my neighbors.

warning! marathon post follows

Wow. When I woke up this morning and saw all my new comments, I was so glad I decided to keep it. Thank you for all the thoughtful comments and helpful suggestions, and especially for the flattery. You sure do know how to make a girl feel flattered.

Not only will Italian Trivia continue to flourish in this here corner of the web, but I also just found out that November is the month of some crazy acronym that means we're all supposed to post every single day. Not that I signed up for this crazy acronym thing, since I only found out about it now, and the deadline was a few days ago, but who am I to pass up an opportunity for some competitive blogging? Also, everyone else is doing it.

Now, without further ado, my first post-tell-me-I'm-fabulous-and-I'll-keep-blogging post. It's long, and it's late, because with all the to blog or not to blog drama brought on by my one year anniversary, I nearly forgot to tell you about our Halloween.

With pictures!

Of Jack!

In a plush costume!

But first, I'll start with some background.

Italy is a country of Catholics. The Catholics celebrate All Saints' Day on November 1st, meaning that November 1st is a national holiday in Italy. October 31st is considered the Day of the Dead, but it's less important. For some reason they go all out for the saints and refer to the last day in October very simply as, "i morti," or "the dead".

Traditionally, Italians visit their dead relatives and friends at the cemetery on All Saints' Day. They take chrysanthemums* to the graves that their aunts and grandmothers have been cleaning and polishing and generally sprucing up since October 20th, specifically for the occasion.

All offices are closed on November 1st and if the holiday doesn't happen to fall on a Monday or a Friday, the Italians find a way to turn it into a long weekend by transforming any of the days that happen to fall between November 1st and the nearest weekend into a "bridge". So they can take those days off too.

This year, November 1st was a Wednesday. I wondered how they would handle it. Would they take the whole week off, since the holiday fell smack dab in the middle? Or would they chose one way to go? First half of the week? Second half of the week? Turns out, they made up their minds to bridge Monday and Tuesday.

What? You don't believe me? Consider this: Jack attends a Catholic church-affiliated nursery school. The nursery school calendar that Jack's teachers sent home to us in September very specifically states that the school is closed Monday, October 28th through Wednesday, November 1st for the "All Saints' Bridge".

(I only wonder if the Pope endorses that. Is All Saints' Day now officially All Saints' Bridge? Is there an edict somewhere to that effect?)

Phew. That was a lot more background than I had intended to give. You will be pleased to know that I do plan on getting to the pictures soon.

Halloween is just starting to make an appearance in Italy, mainly because of the influence that Italian-dubbed American television programs and movies have had here. Kids dress up, but only as ghosts or witches or monsters with green faces, and they only go trick or treating to the houses of relatives or close family friends where they've been invited.

That means we had all of two visits on Halloween, my friend's twin witches and Jack's cousins. Who all pointed out that Jack's costume was not scary.

Regardless, it was still very exciting for Mister Jack, who only went trick or treating to one door. Upstairs. At his nonno's. Where he was given a giant chocolate bar. Which he proceeded to put down on the nearest surface he could find so that he could play with the toy cars he'd left there earlier. Irrefutable evidence that he doesn't know about chocolate yet.

We did carve pumpkins. They do have them here now. The orange kind. It used to be I'd go hunting for a pumpkin to carve and all the greengrocers would give me a squat green squash. "No, you don't understand," I'd say, "I need an orange one."

Now they're fairly easy to locate and the issue is another. The Italian kids don't know how to carve a pumpkin, and their parents have never done it either. So we had Jack's eight-year-old cousin Giorgia over the day before Halloween, since she was off from school (the bridge), to show her how it's done.

She wondered aloud, more than once, why Jack was named after the Jackalarna.



I think they did well, considering it was their first try. Jack's is the one that resembles Skinny G.

And now, the very best part of Halloween... Jack's costume!



He's not a bear, but you'd know that if you heard him do the oooooh oooooh ooooh monkey sounds, his own personal touch once we told him what he was.

So there you go, a marathon Halloween post. All you ever wanted to know and more. Ah, so much more. And to think just yesterday I was complaining that I never had enough time to blog.

*The spelling in this post was made possible by Jennifer, who posted a link to Mozilla so I could download Firefox, without which there would have been multiple spelling mistakes and I would have had to omit the word chrysanthemum because I am too lazy to go look it up the old-fashioned way, you know, by going to Merriam Webster online.

still here for now

Exactly one year ago I hit the publish button on my my very first post ever. I'd been lurking on various blogs for months but almost never commented. I'd never thought about doing my own site until I found Chris, who was blogging at The Big Yellow House back then. She was so funny and so real that all of a sudden I wanted a blog too. So I figured I might as well give it a try.

I wasn't sure what my blog would be like, or even what I wanted it to be like. I had no idea what I was trying to accomplish through my posts. (Sometimes I still don't.) I figured I'd document Jack's growth and write down my experiences in Italy before the oddness of living here was gone completely. Already I'd forgotten so much.

Also, as I've mentioned before, I needed something (anything!) to keep myself occupied while still on Italy's generous government-subsidized maternity leave.

It was fun the first few months. I loved it. (I still do.) I remember the first time people commented here, famous people like Lucinda! and Chris! I could barely believe that they'd taken the time in their busy blogging day to come here. I kept going back to read their comments. It felt like Meryl Streep had stopped by my house for coffee.

In January, I registered my one-woman translation business, but still had time to keep up with the blog. Then business picked up, one month and one client at a time, and more and more frequently I found myself relying on pictures more than words to get my idea, any idea, across.

You can probably see where I am going with this.

I have been thinking about not doing the blog anymore.

Mainly it's because I seem to have such little free time to put any decent amount of thought into my posts. I used to really like what I wrote. Now I find myself always wishing I had spent a little more time reflecting on (and then editing!) my content. Frequently, I'm disappointed.

However, whenever I begin to lean in the direction of not having the blog anymore, I gulp back the sadness of saying goodbye to it and everything it has given me this year. Without it, I would lose my door to a community of online friends, and I wouldn't have that cheerful voice at the back of my head reminding me, "You can blog about this later," throughout the day. Saying goodbye to all of it, and to you, would be too hard for me.

Now can you see where I'm going with this?

I've decided to quit my job.

Just kidding. I'm not quitting anything for now. I've decided to stick with the blog a little bit longer and see where it takes me. Unfortunately, I don't have time to do it the way I'd like to, the way so many other warm, wonderful, gifted writers with delicious blogs do it, by writing insightful, laugh-out-loud or tear-jerker pieces again and again, by reading their readers' blogs every day (and commenting!), by rereading their posts for typos (before hitting publish!), by making every post special and thoughtful and important.

I've come to the conclusion that I can't do everything exactly the way the I'd like to. My priorities are what they are and the day is only as long as it is. Consider this an apology to those of you who have come here and been disappointed (including me!).

All I can guarantee is that although my blog is not number one on my list of priorities, it will never be last. The blog will always and forever more come before the housework.

original sin