Bethany Bassett

A Tablespoon of Time

Posted by: Bethany in Sunday Scribblings 9 Comments

Wednesday, August 13: Day 6 of Vacation (Day 3 here, Day 4 here, Day 5 to come… perhaps)

I had been looking forward to our lunch invitation today, old friends of my husband’s seeming at once new and homey to me. They have a little boy now who would be both a common denominator in those first shaky get-to-know-you conversations and an instant playmate, and the wife cooked up a beautiful Venetian meal. But the visit began to crumble two minutes in when the little boy bit Natalie, severely and without provocation. A minute later, he yanked out a fistful of her hair, and as we were busy comforting her, he wrenched Sophie’s nose. He hit them over the head with toys. He scratched their faces and stabbed them with drumsticks. I stopped him from biting my nine-month-old upwards of 30 times, but he did manage to pull her hair and yank her around on a regular basis. I have never dried so many little tears in one day.

The duality of my feelings hit me after lunch as I stood holding a crying baby in one arm and a glass of chilled prosecco with the other. As a mother, I was hurt. You cannot watch your own children sob without feeling their pain ten times over. I wanted justice, which is mostly unheard-of in Italian parenting; couldn’t they put him in time-out or take away his toys or send him to toddler juvie? But as a woman and, more importantly, a friend, I understood that two-year-old boys can no more moderate their own frustrations than their mamas can apologize away the guilt. I felt so sorry for our friends who find themselves trapped with “un mostro”—a monster, their own baby—and couldn’t bring themselves to believe me when I said it would get better.

I guess the thing to remember is time. Because with just a wee dash of it, the girls’ bruises will heal. With a bit more, maybe a tablespoon or so, our friends’ boy will learn less violent ways to express himself. And after a while, once the sprinkling of hours pile up into a new layer of life, our friends—and quite possibly we too—will find that we have the guts to be parents after all.

15Aug

Free-Range Eggs

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Everything is quiet now. A brief thunderstorm earlier this evening scrubbed the air clean of all its sticky summer-night noises, and the whole world has gone to bed. Our vacation is almost over, and even though it has sucked every puff of energy out of my body, I’m still reluctant to give it up. I know that like all good things, this has to come to an end to make room for other good things, but I have a hard time with little transitions.

I can’t explain this vague dread I’m harboring of the upcoming year (years have always started in September for me, no matter how many balls drop in January). It sounds ridiculous to say this year contains too many unknowns, considering that this time last year, I was hugely pregnant and Visa-less. But then, I guess I knew which basket my eggs were in. Right now, life looks a little formless and void, and I can’t tell where the firmament separates from the wrinkles in my brain. There will be so much rampant growing in my precious family this year, and here comes the dread: It’s always a gamble whether that growth will bring us closer together or shoot us in opposite directions.

It seems that daredevil bike rides and stormy stroller races and fried octopus dinners have been only the prelude to the real adventure of stepping in own front door together again. And oh, it will be epic.

14Aug

As Easy As

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Monday, August 11: Day 4 of Vacation (Day 3 here)

“Good morning!” Dan began. “Want to ride bikes to the beach?”

“Sure!” I answered, because 1) I tend to lack common sense among other brain functions first thing in the morning, 2) My husband has a way of bringing out the lunatic in me, and 3) I didn’t realize that the beach was 20 kilometers away, an island called Lido orbiting the far side of Venice.

We got through the rigmarole of finding the beach towels, piling prosciutto on bread, and bathing in SPF 4,000 and set off just as the streets began to sizzle. At first, we wound through lazy neighborhoods, past bakeries and stationary shops and bars all closed for vacation, breathing in the singular thrill of morning. We turned down a long avenue with its own bike path—double lanes!—and a sidewalk for the hundreds of perky dogs taking their owners for a walk. It was beautiful and relaxing, as easy as waking up one pedal at a time.

BUT. Of course there had to be one, and this particular BUT was a doozie. The straight tree-lined path ended, and I found myself swerving through a roundabout—those navigational horrors of European driving that only begin to feel natural once you accept that the other cars will veer into your lane without warning. And then a sudden bridge, far steeper than I expected, and oh my god, we’re on a highway, OH MY GOD, WE’RE ON A HIGHWAY AND IS THAT A BUS? A BUS, A BUS!! SPEEDING THREE INCHES FROM MY HANDLEBARS?! ARE YOU KIDDING, WE HAVE TO CROSS THIS INTERCHANGE, AND HOLY GUACAMOLE HERE’S ANOTHER BUS!!!!!!!!!!

My life, it flashed. Sophie babbled happily behind me as I gripped the lifeblood out of my handlebars and practiced Lamaze breathing techniques all the way down a gravelly merge lane and onto the second terrifying highway. I have never felt so close to death for such an extended period before, even though the bus drivers were exceedingly courteous in that not one of them ran us over.

And then Death got distracted by something more interesting, a drunk hang-glider or perhaps a Qantas jet taking off, and we were finally on the infinite bridge to Venice—long and arrow-straight and glory of glories, equipped with a bike path. I know by this point, you’re getting bored and thinking So are they ever going to get there?, and believe me, I was wondering the same thing as the bridge stretched on in front of us. And on. And then on some more. And then once we miraculously reached the end of it, there were still two mammoth hills between us and the ferry, and a mile to ride once we got off the ferry, and hunger and sweat and my butt weeping in pain…

…but make it we did. I have never been so grateful to lie down in a big pile of hot sand surrounded by topless grandmas and diminutive Speedos. We had our inevitable beach disasters—Sophie catapulting herself into the sea and Natalie disappearing (and my resulting coronary, of course)—but our time there as a whole was deliciously serene. Dainty blue hints of waves, sand castles decorated with copious sand flowers, our own umbrella-niche of shade to relax while the breeze whisked away the effort of our trip.

Natalie on the ferry through Venice

We made it back home as well with 75% fewer hyperventilations on my part, the girls’ sleepy heads bobbing to and fro in the waning sunlight, bike pedals moving of their own accord to get us to our gate. We dragged ourselves inside, collapsing in a family heap on the bed, and I decided that #13 from my birthday list, “Have an adventure”? Is officially crossed off.

13Aug

A Tale of Two Cities

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The first two days of vacation never count, at least for me. We emerge from our car sticky and discombobulated (not to mention caked in vomit and puréed peas), and at least a full 36 hours are needed for the sediment to settle. Once the clean towels have been found, the fridge stocked, and everyone’s shoes lined up serenely beside the door, the real vacation starts. And here it is, piecemeal (one post at a time, for now).

Sunday, August 10: Day 3 of Vacation

I’m fascinated by the cobblestones and weathered Latin inscriptions in our current hometown, the hairpin roads veering sharply upward to spy on vast hills dotted with olive groves and pieces of castle. We live in Italy’s oldest city—Etruscan history is around ever corner—and the view takes my breath away. Still, I’ve never felt quite as settled there as I do here in Mestre, my husband’s hometown. The city can boast no quaint hillside beauty as it sprawls from Venice into the Po Valley, but it is alive in a way that the older cities have forgotten.

Bicycles! They roam the streets carrying old ladies in cotton dresses, little girls with pigtails flying furiously, beaming dads with their sons strapped behind, couples holding hands, entire extended families out for a joy ride. Herds of bicycles cluster around the entrances to grocery stores, grazing warm pavement as happily as ever metal and rubber could. Bicycles have their own crosswalks here, their own parking spots, and their own traffic jams. I haven’t ridden a bike in ages—nobody does in our city, for good reason—so an evening ride with Dan and the girls is an immense pleasure.

We set off just as the air begins to cool. At first, we are mirages of sweat and insect repellent, wobbling down the street as we slap at mosquitoes and scratch fresh welts between fingers and behind ears (how do they know?) But intoxication sets in soon. We pedal faster until our faces are bright with wind and sunset, ringing our bells because why not? Churches and pharmacies fly by, and long, colorful streets canopied with trees—giant symphonies of trees, overwhelming green, trees that swell my heart to bursting after a year of scrubby olive groves. A stop at the neighborhood gelateria is compulsory, and within seconds there is chocolate in cones, on fingers, and, of course, dripping off delighted little chins.

We ease our bikes back down the street, past the carabinieri (Italy’s version of military police) fingering their machine guns which are pointed straight at us as they call “Ciao!” with huge smiles. Past the enormous park with its duck ponds and soccer courts and happy memories of Dan and I as newlyweds, riding through enchanted paths at night. Past houses and houses, all perfectly Italian in gorgeous muted colors and tiled balconies spilling over with flowers. Then back to the house we’re staying at that we both kind of wish were home.

[More to come. Don’t touch that dial…]

7Aug

Ovariansanity

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Ovaries are dangerous, folks. They sit quietly in the background while you explain to your husband-to-be that you only want two kids, no exceptions, and certainly none until you’re well settled into marriage. You are sure of this. That is, until The Ovaries don their black ski masks and sneak into your cerebral cortex in the dead of night. An adjustment here, an alteration there, and you suddenly find yourself thumbing through Anne Geddes albums at the book store and wondering if two weeks of marriage could count as “settled.”

I mean, look!

Photo credit: Anne Geddes

You go through your two pregnancies with mixed feelings, most of them worthy of Chandler Bing: “Could I BE any more uncomfortable?” and “Stick a fork in me; I’m done.” Gestating feels neither gorgeous nor idyllic, and you feel unprecedented relief once your secondborn is… well, born. You have certain “married people” talks that cause the other party in question to cringe. You give away your maternity clothes and, eventually, burn your nursing bras at the stake. To deal with two children, who together have twice as many arms as you and about seventeen times your vocal capacity, you develop coping strategies like fantasizing about the very distant future and chugging sipping vodka for breakfast before bed. You are done.

But The Ovaries, they are evil. They swap out your memories of pregnancy with Angelina Jolie’s. Nausea, exhaustion, and the unfortunate side-effect of labor? No big deal. Not even sleepless nights or financial concerns or the fact that you already burned your nursing bras matter. The Ovaries have spoken; you want another baby. Except that it’s more like need than want—true desperation for those tiny dimpled fingers, that soft, milky newborn smell. It’s a craving. An obsession.

I suppose it’s unfair to say ovaries are evil when what they really are is inconvenient. I don’t know if all women go through this, but my body is the type to hold onto the vast magic of baby-having that my mind only recalls in traces. My mind latches onto practicality; my body lets itself be enchanted. And even though my husband is likely to ship me off to an asylum after reading this post, I’m so glad to be back thinking in “oooohs” and “awwwws” and giddy delight over humanity’s most delicate form. (As opposed to “How much vodka can I slip in her bottle before someone notices?” Ahem.)

4Aug

Homeiversary

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Snapshots of a late morning walk:

There are always 60-year-old women roaming near the pharmacy as if on patrol. They each have a bag with the familiar green plus sign stamped on the side, and they eagerly show the contents to each other: hemorrhoid medicine, cellulite cream, bunion ointment, pills for a number of increasingly shocking maladies. They lift up their breezy shift dresses to show off injuries amid sympathetic tsk tsks. Many times, the conversation prompts a tirade against doctors or a medical horror story that happened to a friend of a friend of their cousin’s son’s hairstylist (or both!), and a glorious time is had by all. By noon, the patrol is over; the women separate to shop for support bras in the nearby merceria or pick up a loaf of bread for lunch, armed comfortably with medicine and gossip alike.

A large group of young teenagers is clumped around, on, and occasionally under a row of scooters in my parking lot. This is their social epicenter, their designated spot on earth to discuss trivial things with great importance until they grow wrinkled enough do the same in smoky wood-paneled bars. One of the teenagers has brought a car (his mother’s?), and the prettiest girls of the group keep climbing in and out to appreciate the leather against their long tanned legs. (The driver simply appreciates the legs.) The younger teens who are not cool enough to associate with cars or long tanned legs stand around their scooters. They are joking constantly, by the looks of it, or at least making a concerted effort to have fun. A few of them have lollipops, which they try to pass off as cigarettes. They look hopelessly young, peach-fuzzed babies with scooter licenses and budding opinions of the world.

The parks are deserted today except for a few hyperactive pigeons. I don’t know if this is because August is national vacation month or if it simply too hot this morning for children to be allowed outside (they might sweat!), but the swings hang limp and sizzling and forgotten. In one month, these little neighborhood playgrounds will be swarming with babies in strollers, grubby toddlers trying their hardest to eat the gravel, and caregivers trying their hardest to leave the gravel where it belongs. The boisterous older children that are usually here clambering up slides or jumping off see-saws will be in classrooms learning how to become useful members of society. These parks will sparkle with tiny voices, and mornings will cool into an easy rhythm once again.

***

One year ago yesterday, we arrived in Italy. One year ago today, we were exploring our new niche in the world—what doorways in this lovely neighborhood led to produce or ice cream or matches or clothes. I have a hard time believing we’ve been here a year, but the differences are obvious when I let myself see them. For example, I step out of the house with purpose now, or at least little purposes arranged along my route. My feet know where to go for baby formula, for blood tests, for phone cards, and I am so grateful to be out of the haze of unknowing. Also, and more significantly, I understand almost everything people say to me now—80% from this person, 98% from that. (Occasionally 2%, but that’s usually a matter of the speaker’s dialect and/or number of teeth. Or, uh, the amount of sleep I got the night before.) I have not sat down to study Italian since our first month here, but the language has crept into my consciousness little by little until I suddenly realize my vocabulary has doubled. Maybe tripled. I am so relieved to be able to communicate; it feels like power and friendship and one step closer to fitting in.

I can think of so many more ways that I wish I were taking advantage of this sunny Umbrian life, but that will come in time I think. We’ve had a lot on our plates this last year, what with moving in and scavenging for documents and having babies and all, but I’m slowly starting to find my footing here. Next year will seem more natural, as will the year after that, and who knows? Maybe one day I’ll wake up and realize I’m one of those 60-year-old women chatting animatedly outside the pharmacy. (Though I promise you now, I will never show you the contents of my bag.)

3Aug

Prisoner’s Fancy

Posted by: Bethany in Sunday Scribblings 10 Comments

Do I have to go to bed, do I have to, do I have to?

And of course I do, even though undiluted summer is streaming through my window with its heavy perfume of honeysuckle and ripe peaches. The grass is still leaping upward all across our back yard. The flowers are still awake, all color and careless joy like children, and daylight is still blazing trails through our giant pecan trees. Just beyond that door, the bright and busy mechanism of life is humming Come play! Come play!

But I am prisoner in my pink-and-white bed. Stuck until morning, no hope of escape.

I lie quietly, indignant and imaginative, listening to the cicadas playing tag. There go the bumblebees too, pedaling their bikes around the neighborhood, and butterflies cheering each other down the Slip ‘N’ Slide. The chickadees, of course, are playing hide and seek, and suddenly, I am with them, perched on the rafter of an old barn.

There are no rules in Chickadee Hide & Seek. Just a lot of swooping and soaring, little feathered torpedoes zipping around cows and alighting like bobble-heads on a power line, our own trampoline of copper filaments and sky. I remember to bring my teddy bears—Fred and Katie, who are married but have not yet learned the juicy details of procreation—and we fly together, impossibly high. We hide inside chimney-tops and behind clouds, where Fred and Katie get carried away kissing (no tongue, though). My little brothers would never be able to find me in a million years; I am thrilled.

The scenery shifts, and I am Bride Barbie. Katie refuses to lend her teddy-bear husband to me for the occasion, but who needs a groom anyway? My long white gown is studded with diamond drops and teensy pink pearls. And draped with satin. And fringed with rubies. And covered with lace. And festooned with ribbons. And plated with gold. I am breathtakingly grown up, even if the only ones who see it are my woodland creature audience, come to watch me twirl and twirl until my veil is tangled in pine branches.

I live in my own stories for hours until I finally grow tired and drift to sleep somewhere in the South Pacific. But the next night, I am back. This time, my bears and I must escape a dismal orphanage, and the night after that, we take a tire swing up, up into space. My stories overlap and twist into complicated candycanes, yarn and fancy fraying together into fantastic landscapes. And night after long childhood night, I weave gossamer threads of imagination into a new home for myself, a place to retreat for those lonely times when summer is locked out of reach.

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