23Aug

Husbands Are Nice To Have

Snapshots Of A Husband After Four Years, One Month, And Eighteen Days Of Marriage

He makes me fabulous cappuccinos almost every day and sits down to enjoy each soul-warming sip with me. Looking back at my distress when we started dating and I discovered he did NOT LIKE COFFEE, I’m rather glad I married him anyway. ::Wink::

He can figure out in 2.5 seconds why I’m grumpy (the reason usually boils down to lack of food, lack of sleep, or lack of creative outlet) and prescribe a cure, all the while patiently disregarding my rampant snarliness. (And believe me, I can get ferocious when hungry…)

He draws pictures on my stomach of the baby (in a dress, of course, to distinguish that she’s a girl) saying “I LOVE MOMMY!”

Even after lying down for a nap, he somehow senses when I’m crying in the bathroom because I feel like a terrible mother. Within a few minutes, he can find my sense of value and my smile and gently put them back in place.

Just before we fall asleep at night, he smiles at me the same way he did when the church doors opened and I floated down the aisle in a shimmering white dress to promise the rest of my life to him.

He was more than worth that promise.

22Aug

The Belly Nears Its Expiration Date

The moment I first suspected I was pregnant with Natalie, my stomach performed a complicated gymnastic maneuver and my mind fogged over. When I regained conscious thought, I could hardly stop worrying. Details like finding a doctor and buying maternity clothes seemed overwhelming because I wasn’t sure I’d even love Natalie when she came. Needless to say, the start of my first pregnancy wasn’t exactly the thrilling, Hallmark-worthy experience I had always imagined.

Along the way, though, excitement managed to sneak in between all the doubt. I felt Natalie move for the first time as the results from the 2004 presidential election were being broadcasted, and after that one tiny flutter, I wouldn’t have cared if the antichrist himself had been elected grand dictator of the previously free world. I fell in love with her long before her birth, but I still wished that the first weeks hadn’t been tainted by so much anxiety.

Enter my resolve to thoroughly enjoy this pregnancy. And I have enjoyed it, from the moment Dan’s smile told me we had our blue plus sign (I was too nervous to look for myself). It’s been so much easier, physically and emotionally, than last time, and I love the wriggly roundness in my belly that means our family is finally complete.

Lately, though, my pregnancy has been on the back burner of my mind. I suppose it could have something to do with moving three times in one summer, learning a new language, hanging out with a busy two-year-old, etc. At any rate, my stomach did another highly athletic move this week when I realized that we only have ten weeks before we meet our baby girl face to face (and quite possibly fewer, considering how early Natalie decided to make her appearance). Where in the world did time go?

While I have zero (0) clue how life will function with two little girls, I can’t wait to find out. I can’t wait to cuddle my newest daughter and watch my oldest learn how to love in a new way. I can’t wait to see my husband’s face glow even brighter as yet another female wraps herself around his heart. I can’t wait to tell people our baby’s name and have her warmly welcomed into the world.

Ten weeks…

::Deep breath. Smile::

21Aug

La Vita E’ Bella

You start to realize you’re no longer in America when:

– The day’s top news story covers the arrest of a dad who made his son a marijuana pizza.
– The Godfather casually pulls 1,000 euro in cash out of his pocket to reimburse moving expenses.
– Your pregnant belly is viewed as public property.
– You buy peaches, grapes, cantaloupe, lemons, tomatoes, carrots, celery, zucchini, potatoes, and a 30-lb. watermelon at the market for a grand total of 9 euro.
– All the other moms at the park have 0% body fat and glitter on their shirts (and pants, and shoes, and sunglasses…).
– The cheapest espresso money can buy tastes like a rich, velvety version of paradise.
– Every person in town takes a vacation on August 15th because — hey, August 15th is a great day to take a vacation!
– Swimsuits are optional.

I like Europe (and I’ll let you guess which reasons why… ::grin::).

21Aug

Shrek the Not

Last week, I was an ogre of a mom, and not the endearing, crusty-with-a-heart-of-gold, Shrek type. I was the hormonal, worried, perpetually frustrated type of monster who showed fangs whenever her two-year-old daughter acted two years old. My snarky mood came squealing to a halt, though, just after I spilled a bottle of orange juice all over Natalie. She looked up at the thunder cloud hanging over my head and sweetly said, “I’m sorry, Mommy!” Mommy, of course, quickly melted into a pathetic puddle of guilt.

The most exasperating thing about situations like this is that only minutes later, redemption is skipping around the room with a contagious smile. I’d prefer to wallow in the guilt for at least a few days, to pay mental penance for unleashing my inner monster on my daughter’s precious heart. But all Natalie requires is one look from me that shows I really, truly like her (a big bear hug doesn’t hurt either), and all of my actions to the contrary are forgotten.

Grace is hard to accept — agonizingly hard — but it’s what inspires me to keep doing my best at mommyhood. Really, it’s what inspires me to keep doing my best at personhood. If God and my little girl still think I’m great at the end of a hard week, it’s keep acting monstrous toward anyone, even myself.

20Aug

2 A.M. Delirium

Welcome to One Of Those Nights, the dark, sticky kind that prevents me from finding the magical hollow in my pillow that will quiet the clamoring from an entire unwritten week. Thus, my cure for insomnia: coaxing thoughts out of my tired brain and through my fingertips to freedom.

Of course, now that I’m out of bed and geared with laptop, I have no idea where to start. Every day is woven with countless emotions, a plethora of new vocabulary words, and a minute-hand steadily ticking off educational experiences. I couldn’t begin to accurately describe what my mind goes through on a daily basis, but I would hate to forget this time period… its unique mixture of confusion and satisfaction and — unbelievably — relaxation… the struggle of uprooting and the contentment of resettling.

Dan says I function much better as an Italian woman than I did as an American woman, and I think he’s right. All the repetitive daily activities that used to depress me seem to have a purpose here, even if that purpose is just practicing the language or getting some exercise. People’s genuine friendliness makes me want to leave the house and be part of society rather than hole up with my computer. Plus, I pretty much adore the built-in naptime that comes with life here. Every morning, I wake up a little less in the realm of the unfamiliar, and every night, I fall asleep feeling a little more at home.

I can feel this post teetering on the verge of incoherent rambling, so I’ll put my thoughts back to bed for the night. Stay tuned for next time, when I will try to write something that sounds a little less like 2 a.m. delirium…

18Aug

Mastercard Not Accepted

Milk frother for making perfect cappuccinos: 6 euro
Cheery sunflower rug perfect for building legos on: 10 euro
Tiny rose bush bursting with perfect orange blossoms: 4 euro
The thrill of finding perfect Saturday morning treasures at the open market for husband, daughter, and self, respectively: Priceless

13Aug

Eating Dangerously

Italians are amazing. They sit down to mountainous plates of spaghetti and immediately start talking to each other. When they stop talking long enough to take a breath three-and-a-half minutes later, all traces of spaghetti have magically vanished. This is where I start panicking. See, three-and-a-half minutes are exactly long enough for me to eat two bites of pasta, provided I don’t take breaks to talk, drink, or breathe. And anyone unlucky enough to lag behind during an Italian meal might as well stay overnight, because that’s how long it will take to catch up on the meat course, the drinks, the vegetable platter, the drinks, the bread basket, the drinks, the obligatory seconds of everything, the drinks, the dessert, the drinks, the fruit tray, the drinks, the espresso, the liquor shots, and — because your bladder is far too empty — the drinks.

Foreigners beware! Anyone accepting an Italian’s invitation to dinner should have the ability to:
– Politely shovel vast amounts of food into his/her mouth, while
– Politely interrupting everyone at the table, since that is the only feasible way to join in the conversation, while also
– Politely keeping both elbows on the table (much harder than it sounds!), all the while
– Politely declining the hostess’s urgings to eat seconds, thirds, and fourths of everything,
– Keeping in mind that “No thank you, my stomach is already bursting” translates to “I am on the verge of starvation; keep the food coming!” in the minds of Italian hostesses.
In fact, someone should offer courses on Italian dining, at the end of which certification cards would be issued stating that the bearer has sufficient stomach capacity and chewing velocity to accept dinner invitations. “Can you come to dinner tonight?” “Sorry, I haven’t passed Dessert Endurance 101 yet, but call me in a month!”

I just realized I am making Italian meals sound like something to be avoided, which could not be farther from the truth. The food is incredible, the conversation is lively, and the hospitality is legendary. For Italians, eating is much more than a survival tactic; it is an experience. It is pleasure and relaxation and companionship and satisfaction and life being thoroughly lived. I just need to expand various internal organs before the next time I’m invited to live this thoroughly!

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