Bethany Bassett

The Grandmotherland

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Italy is a lot like the ideal grandmother. It possesses an old, wrinkly kind of beauty that perfectly complements antique jewelry. It is lively and friendly and bursting with conversation topics. The stories it tells inspire generations. And oh, it can cook. Not only can it boast the best food this side of Jupiter, it knows a thing or two about making people feel good about eating. Case in point: Calories are labeled as “energy.” And sugar packets are “important in the daily nourishment to maintain and restore the energy of the mind and of the body.” (Why, I’m a firm believer in energy maintenance and eating sugar by the spoonful! What are the odds?)

Unfortunately, Italy has a creepy side as well, an innocent-looking grandmother who reads her grandchildren’s diaries on the sly. Example? I’ve ordered deli meat exactly twice at our neighborhood grocery store. Thus, I was slightly surprised to hear that the deli worker asked one of our friends from church if my husband’s boss would take a look at her knee. How did she know who our friend was? And how did she know who my husband was? And how did she know who Dan worked for? And how did she get a hold of my diary? Dan tells me that when he was growing up here, neighbors would frequently comment on things his family did or talked about inside their own house. The only intelligent response I have to that is ACK! ACK! Also, oh my ACK!

So the lack of privacy takes some getting used to (my chestal region has already figured that out), but there are many other reasons to love Italy. For example, bonsai trees are readily available at local supermarkets. Conservative old ladies wear bikinis and brew limoncello in their living rooms. People can get downtown via underground escalators through a 500-year-old castle. Public preschool starts at age three, with half-day and full-day options for the same price of nothing. And speaking of nothing, that’s what it costs to visit the doctor, stay in the hospital, and get prescription medicine. Italians know that regular vacations are as necessary as life, breath, and daily naptime. Speed limits are refreshingly high. And possibly the best thing, Italian roosters say “Chicchirichì!” (Pronounced like “KEE-kee-ree-KEE.” Try it! Your head might just explode from the extreme fun of crowing in Italian!)

I can’t believe we’ve already lived here for half a year. This adopted country of ours feels simultaneously new and old, invigorating and relaxing, different and familiar. Any other dichotomous comparisons? Oh yes, friendly spaghetti-cooking grandmother and creepy diary-stalking grandmother. But I’m coming to terms with the new and the invigorating and the different and the creepy, and you can probably tell by now that if given the choice to relive this adventure, I would say “Hell, yeah!” (Also, “ACK!”)

14Jan

Part Two

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Q: What’s scarier than ‘fessing up to the inadequacies of the previous year?
A: This:

2008 is my year to experience the joy and creative sparkle of writing every day, even if the dishes go unwashed. (Anyway, dishes? Vastly overrated.)
This is my year to explode in Italian fluency.
This is my year to play with vegetables–try out new recipes, fix them in inspiring ways, have a tea party with them if necessary, and maybe even start to get along with them.
This is my year to throw out all remaining frump clothes from college and explore an edgier, more exciting look. (Yeah, sexy boots, I’m talking about you.)
This is my year to intentionally bond with my little girls, whether that means re-learning the fine art of pretend or including them in my daily chores or hugging them every five minutes or making eye contact when we talk about McDonald’s, isn’t McDonald’s amazing, can we go to McDonald’s for breakfast and lunch and supper and today and tomorrow and next week, were you aware they have toys at McDonald’s, let’s go to McDonald’s RIGHT NOW, McDonald’s has hamburgers, and why have we not moved to McDonald’s yet?!
This is my year to approach religion gently, asking my questions and opening up to the answers gradually, even if I can’t yet shed the crusty negativity built up over years of Christian misrepresentation.

And now the Beyondo part of Mondo Beyondo, the terrifyingly wonderful daydream material, the list of radioactive fantasy-goals that glow and pulsate and burn:
I dream of becoming fluent in multiple languages–Italian, Spanish, French, German, and maybe even Chinese or Russian or Icelandic or Aboriginal or duck.
I dream of writing books, publishing them, seeing my words printed and bound and carving out cozy little niches on people’s nightstands.
I dream of a future me who is confident, steady, and radiantly peaceful, always.

I feel incredibly precarious writing all this down, wondering if the limb I’m edging out on will support all my weight. But wouldn’t you know, the view from here…

…is spectacular.

13Jan

Mastercard’s Got Nothin’ On Us

Posted by: Bethany in Sunday Scribblings 10 Comments

We sit nose-to-nose in the tiny stone room that some say is the highest point in the city. We share a completely fantastic pizza made from ingredients that should never be put on pizza, like salad. (Daring, no?) We drink imported beer out of thick glass goblets–wine glasses on testosterone, basically–and laugh. We talk about the past and the future and mostly all the bits in between, and when dessert comes, we shut up. (Chocolate soufflé. You understand.) We wind our way through the cobblestone maze of Centro in the rain, holding hands and flirting shamelessly, and when we find ourselves back home, we smile.

This is date night, post-children edition. It is exactly like fine wine–rare and luxuriant, complex and lingering, inhibition-loosening and too expensive to indulge often. Yet as most indulgences are, date night is worth every penny… and then some. (Babysitter: €25.50. Dinner: €40. Half a liter of gasoline: €580.18. A whole evening to feel sexy and pretend to discuss things in an intelligent manner and remember why we like us: Priceless.)

Dating before kids was fun too, though usually less… sophisticated. We used to go to the wondrously horrifying dollar theater about once a week to watch movies we only cared $1 about and contract interesting diseases through the ripped plush upholstery. Afterward, we’d make out in the parking lot and grin when passers-by yelled at us to get a room, because hey, we’re married, even though we don’t look married because married people don’t make out in parking lots, and we already have a room, and ha!

Now that we’re parents two times around and legally Responsible Adults (to elaborate on a previous point, ha!), we tend to do more date-ish things on our evenings out. Dress up, eat at restaurants with real tablecloths, that sort of thing. But we still make out in the parking lot afterward, and I’m reminded every time why I wouldn’t trade our relationship–with its sparks and sand pits, its whimsicality and profundity, its ins and outs and especially the whirling in-betweens–for anything in the world.

8Jan

Mondo Beyondo

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Note: I didn’t intend to post this, the results of a therapeutic journaling session, for a few reasons:
~ I feel like I’ve already bored my readers to death by writing about this last crazy year.
~ Speaking of readers, I have readers. Readers who will read this.
~ I’m still new to this full honesty concept, and it’s terrifying. (See above.)
However, reading other people’s “Mondo Beyondos” has made me feel so affirmed in this harrowing business of being human, and I want to share that feeling–that we’re all real, with jagged edges and soft, spongey hopes, and that these twelve-month blocks we order our lives around matter more than we might ever realize. So:

“What do you want to acknowledge yourself for in regard to 2007?”

I’m proud of myself for jumping off the deep end into dream-chasing mode, for letting go of control and the need for stability. I found my secret stores of flexibility during a summer of three moves–the last, a one-week dash to another continent–and I found my secret stores of bravery during an autumn of jarringly new surroundings.

I’m proud of myself for saying goodbye to handwritten journals and a new hello to online publishing–exactly what I needed to kick start my writing again. Beginning with this impulse blog project in June, I’ve found satisfaction and resolution and incredible enjoyment through writing again. These increasing pages of text have helped me explore my voice and find clarity. Even more importantly, they have convinced me that writing is my love, my dream career, and thus my aspiration.

I’m proud of myself for learning how to care for two little girls at the same time. Despite all my previous assumptions to the contrary, I found the courage to leave the house… then to drive (stick shift, on hills, with Italian drivers, oh my)… then to run errands with both of my daughters in tow. I have been a good mother, as evidenced by the perpetual smiles on my girls’ faces, and I think they will love remembering these times through photos and wisps of memory and the letters I recently started writing them.

I’m proud of myself for digging far past my comfort zone to unearth new layers of honesty this past year. I’m also incredibly proud of my decision to stop regretting my past, my present, and everything about myself. It has certainly been a challenge for someone so accustomed to self-deprecation, but it has been freeing. I’ve found myself in the shower, mulling over blunders I think I’ve made, then pulling up short–No, this isn’t me anymore; I no longer regret myself. And perhaps this will turn out to be 2007’s greatest gift to me.

“What is there to grieve about 2007?”
I grieve that my relationship with God traveled beyond doubt and anger and simply dissipated. I need to forgive myself for leaving my Bible unopened on the shelf and my questions unasked simply because I didn’t want to face the pain.

I grieve that my relationship with Natalie moved into such rough territory. I need to forgive myself for yelling at her during bouts of frustration and for not giving her enough of my undivided attention.

I grieve that I spent so many days of the year battling depression… or not even finding the strength to battle it anymore. I need to forgive myself for being chronically tired, needy, human. I also need to forgive myself for letting the “shoulds” conquer my mind and saturate me with frustration. And I need to forgive those around me for not magically making me better or knowing the solutions that I can’t seem to find.

I grieve that I accomplished so, so little throughout the year–that I didn’t learn Italian fluently or finish my book or complete art projects or practice my instruments or cook new foods or exercise regularly (or at all) or make progress on reading lists or teach Natalie more or do volunteer work. I need to forgive myself for being one person, for being unable to multitask, and for needing so much sleep.

“What else do you need to say about the year to declare it complete?”
2007 was deep and raw and intense, dark chocolate with pepperoncino eaten from the blade of a knife. It hurtled between welcome adventures and terrifying ones; it pulled us far into the joy of close friendships and then slung us away. It taught us about generosity and flexibility and courage and communication, about how we face fears and changes and the future. And even though I know it’s okay to reel in 2007’s dizzying wake for a while, I’m ready to move on.

I declare 2007 complete.

4Jan

Serenity

Posted by: Bethany in Sunday Scribblings 10 Comments

The new year is already up and running, but I’m wandering somewhere on the other side of the line with untied laces, trying first not to choke on the dust, second to figure out how the hell to catch up, and third to find serenity in the midst of personal chaos. That’s my wish-on-a-star for this year–serenity. It was conspicuously absent last year, and I’m suddenly feeling desperate.

Don’t get me wrong–last year was fun… in the way that hurricanes and tornados and seizures are fun. It was like a twelve-month play date with a schizophrenic giant. Dan got his master’s, we were unemployed, we were homeless, we moved three times, we shipped our possessions and selves overseas without any guarantees, we started a new life in Italy, we had a baby, and our two-year-old inexplicably turned thirteen–each a circumstance saturated with stress. 2007 should have come with a label: “SURGEON GENERAL’S WARNING: This year may be hazardous to your health; proceed at your own risk.”

I’m wildly glad we took so many risks to chase our huge dreams, not letting practicality or security tie us down. I also know that one day, I will realize how truly incredible the payoff is. But for now, I’m spent, running on a backup generator. This holiday break has been rather disastrous, with all four of us contracting bronchitis, influenza, or a hairy scary combination of the two, and I haven’t found the space to recharge. Thus, I find myself entering 2008 with my sanity tied in knots and my view of the future splattered with calamities.

If I still believed in the power of resolutions–or at least in my own power to keep them–I would make several:

To have fun with my girls every day.
To try cooking a gourmet recipe every week.
To learn Italian fluently.
To get in shape.
To reach out to new acquaintances without fear.
To rediscover God.
To make friends with new books and rekindle my friendships with old.
To write, constantly, with all the beauty and honesty and creativity I have to offer.

But I would give up these hopes, these efforts, this carousel of trying and failing and trying again if only to have a year drenched in serenity. Then, I think I could finally find the craziness to be me.

29Dec

Fun-itis!

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It’s Christmas break. Dan’s off snowboarding with a group of friends, and I’m at home having the fun play day I’d planned with the girls. Except by “play,” I mean clean up nuclear bodily goo, and by “fun,” I mean so, SO NOT fun.

See, yesterday, Natalie came down with bronchitis. I’ve never personally experienced any disease serious enough to end with “itis,” but I’ve heard of mastitis and cellulitis and elephantitis, and oh holy crap, I just looked at elephantitis pictures and have uncontrollableurgetovomititis. Go thou and do not do likewise.

So Sophie saw Natalie coughing up big splats of fevered lung and possibly spleen and thought Wow, that looks like fun, let me try! And in the midst of hacking up her own assorted internal organs, she projectiled twenty-six gallons of vomit onto the far wall and everything in between. Including me. And then she started giggling, which I totally understand because oh, SO MUCH FUN!

It’s actually easier than usual taking care of Natalie right now, since sickness turns her into a quiet little puddle of melted girl. Sophie, however, wants to make very sure I know just how much writhey, screamy fun she is experiencing in her nasal passages. And because I am evil and want her to breathe, I keep sucking goo out of her nose with that standard blue plastic Bulb of Torture and Unbearable Suffering. The fun–it knows no bounds.

But you know, even though I’ve spent most of my day giving emergency baths and torturing babies, it was a genuinely good one. My daughters getting sick instantly clarifies that fierce, precious ache deep in my chest. It makes me slow down, glued to the couch with full arms and the utterly delicious realization of how much these two little girls mean to me. As much as I hate seeing them sick, I’m grateful for a day to snuggle and rediscover our belonging-togetherness.

And yes, despite our besetting illnesses and my husband’s repeated threat to make salmon nog and the disastrous mutations of chocolate we put in friends’ goody bags to show them how good American desserts can… er, not be, Christmas break has been lovely. How about yours?

14Dec

Mad Skillz

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Proof of my mad mothering skillz:

My child may not be fully potty-trained, but at least she knows what tweezers are for! (Priorities, folks.)

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