What a difference a year makes

I just finished reading this post, dated one year ago today, and I just cannot fathom that 1. Italy was so, so hard (and I was so, so whiney) and 2. That I had so many moments today, one year later, in America, where I was like uuuhhhngggghh my life is so haaaaaard.

Just to recap for spoiled, present-day Jenny: today you were upset because your Irish twin preschoolers were fighting like rabid dogs much of the morning. Well ... they're 19 months apart, male, and quite possibly rabid, so what? This time last year you had a broken shower, a broken dishwasher, no car, no friends, almost no ability to communicate with your neighbors should there be a medical emergency (or convenient access to any medical care, actually) and absolutely no access to the Super Target which you painfully navigated for 27 minutes at 9:14 am this morning. 

I am not winning in the game of emotional maturity. Except I guess, until just now, that last paragraph up there, I hadn't actually shared any of today's shameful struggles with the internet like I would so readily have last year.

But oh the day...the day we had up in here. I mean besides the drive to Target I had to assemble lunch while they shrilly and persistently sang their siren song for "cold milk please" which I had to painstakingly fetch from my full size refrigerator and pour into their dime a dozen sippy cups which I have no problem ever finding replacements for. Also, I couldn't decide if the AC was too high or too low so I kept messing with the thermostat because those boys! They won't keep the door to our expansive, landscaped, fenced backyard shut. Also, 3 loads of laundry. Sigh.

Seriously, Italian Jenny wants to murder American Jenny right now.

I also saw my little sister for a morning visit, took my posse to the most ridiculously upgraded public library in all the land for a little literate afternoon delight, and walked 3 blocks to the beautifully landscaped public school/park complex at the end of our street which features a creek, several bridges, 3 separate playgrounds, and miles of clean, green, cigarette-butt free grassy play fields.

Yeah, my life ain't hard. I'm just getting soft.

Do you ever dip back into your archives? What do you experience when you reconnect with your former self via the written word?

P.s. Linking up with Blythe because I dug a hole in the backyard, let my 3 year old fill it with the hose, and then let him strip naked and frolic in it. It was 89 degrees so, pretty standard, textbook "hot mess."

(streaking picture withheld because his father would kill me)

Rome-ing with Kids

It was a beautiful, arduous, anxious, prayerful and exhausting 12 days abroad. Mostly it was wonderful, but there were definite moments of "what were we thinking" and "please let me lose consciousness soon."

Mostly to do with air travel, which, I am convinced, will somehow factor into my experience of Purgatory. I actually told Dave whilst sprinting through Newark in hot pursuit of a ridiculously tight connecting flight, pushing a double stroller with a two-year-old strapped to my back in the Ergo, fastened tightly across my floppy mom gut in just the right accentuating way, that if I end up there (in Purgatory, not in New Jersey. Although…) it would somehow involved extreme heat, an airport, public nudity and many, many TSA agents.

I briefly altercated with a particularly inanimate specimen of said agency after my hands were wiped for bomb resin and then wiped again, 15 seconds later, after being pushed through the metal detector with babies falling off my back and front and with my stroller being inexplicably held hostage for 6 long minutes while two of the fine men in black discussed Call of Duty or online poker or something. I felt my blood pressure spiking as the sweat poured down my back and the minutes till our flight began boarding ticked away. As we were re-entering the US, we still had to reclaim our bags, check them again, and then go back through security before we could take a bus to our departing terminal.

Anyway, I didn't get arrested, or even detained, and the brilliant individual in the shiny badge did eventually finish polishing the stroller with a bomb-detecting diaper wipe. Twice. But I am never less Christian or less ladylike than when the TSA is involved. End rant.

Oh, and they only lost 2 out of 3 suitcases en route back to Denver, so I'd say our international travel record is only improving.

But back to international travel with children, which I know is the real reason you read this blog. Even if it isn't, indulge me, because I'm ignoring at least 7 loads of nasty European-scented laundry to accomplish this post.

The kids were moderately well behaved the entire trip, even during the 8+ hours we spent in the Square itself for the Canonization, thanks to a combination of YOUR prayers (I have no doubt), carefully administered melatonin to ensure speedy circadian adjustment to new timezones, and an absolute lowering of standards in my "acceptable behavior" handbook. Some examples: days and days without naps, gelato on demand, tv whenever available, and pretty much anything food-shaped for major meals. We were after calories, not balance.

Gelato at 4 months. Completely responsible.

We also tried to remember (I think Dave may have tried harder than me) that we were traveling with little, little kids with short fuses. Even our kids who are well-accustomed to travel are still small people with short fuses and limited supplies of patience and endurance. Though I'd like to think after these past two weeks they're in a lot better shape, minus the hours of free-airplane-cable-programming, that is.

We tried to include burn-off time in our daily itineraries, like laps around piazzas and visits to fountains that may be capable of producing a cooling mist of spray, however disgusting that is when one thinks too long and hard on the water quality…

Absolutely enthralled by the Trevi Fountain.

We aslo availed ourselves of the several playgrounds we knew of around town, even though it meant trading out time from more enjoyable (to the adults, anyway) sightseeing ventures. And finally, and perhaps most painfully, we spent some nights (and parts of some days) simply sitting in our apartment decompressing and allowing the kids to be, well, kids. It was especially painful on the solitary night we spent in Florence to sit in our beautiful bed and breakfast mere steps from the Duomo from 8 pm on, listening to the city come to life below our window while our exhausted children slept off the train ride and the touristing of the day. But, c'est la vie with little ones, especially on the go.

8 hours in the Square? I'm done. I will lie here in filth, and I shall not be moved.

Would I have traded it for a childless trip abroad? Aside from the one night in Florence…not at all. It was hard, it was messy at times, and it was definitely a level of stress one does not generally associate with vacation, but it was so precious to me to think that we were sharing this moment of tremendous import and historical significance with our children.

I thought frequently about the seeds of vocation this trip might be planting in little hearts (in no way am I saying you have to take your kids on globe-crossing pilgrimages to inspire vocations, just that it struck me as really amazing that they were experiencing the beauty of the Universal Church at such tender ages). I wondered if someday, 20 years from now, one of my sons might be studying at the NAC a few miles away from St. Peter's, and whether they might somehow recognize this experience as formative to their call to serve the Church as priests.

Then again, they might just want to go back for the gelato, the nutella, and the cornetti.

I wanted to let you know how very grateful I was to have all your prayers to take along with us. It felt immensely important to somehow leave them there, in Rome, with St. John Paul, so you know what I did?

After drinking over them, that is.

I waited in line to get into the Basilica to visit my main man's tomb, now freshly inscribed with "Santus" and no longer "Beatus," and, waving Dave over to block me from view of the Basilica guards, I crouched down and slid the little book under a divider in front of his altar. (Where, consequently, a Polish priest was saying Mass over his tomb.)

So there you have it: your prayers and intentions are safely in the hands of St. John Paul the Great, so to speak. I hope it's a long time before somebody discovers and removes my little leave-behind, but either way, you've been entrusted to his paternal care.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have bills to pay and laundry to cycle. Back to reality...

Epic Gifts

So we had a great Palm Sunday, and now I totally get why this is known as the mass-which-is-dreaded-by-parents because hello children, please pick up your weapon at the door. So I get that now. But ain't nothing going to bring me down today because eye poking aside, we received some crazy crazy news via early morning text message letting us know that our family - all 5 of us, right down to the petite little miss - will be hopping on a plane 9 days from today and flying across the pond yet again to visit Bella Roma for the canonization of my absolutely favorite holy man in all the land, John Paul II.

Yeah, you read that right; we're going back to Rome, and we're brining the baby.

So by official count, I think the Vatican can now expect 5 million and five pilgrims for the happy event. I cannot even fathom that this is happening, or that we're really flying internationally with the kids again, but when God hands you an opportunity like this, you don't hesitate for a silly reason like stark terror over 13 hours of flying. Nope. You just hop in the car and head to Walgreens for a passport photo shoot and utter prayers of thanksgiving that one of five passport offices in the United States that has the capacity to expedite the application process happens to be in your hometown.

God, You are ridiculous. And this Holy Week is going to be epic.

Can't  wait to tell you the full, crazy story behind it all. And please check out Evie's mugshot.

Amazing.

Happiest of Holy Weeks…may we all enter deeply into His Passion, death, and resurrection. As for me, I'll be reborn over a steaming cappuccino in the Eternal City in a little over a week and a half. (Can I take some of your prayers and intentions with me? Leave them in the comments below, or email them directly. I'd love to pray for you there.)

An Anniversary

One year ago today I sat staring in stunned disbelief at my computer screen, my eyes darting between the glaring announcement on my Facebook newsfeed (of all the ways to get big news…) and the glistening dome of St. Peter's basilica, looming outside the bedroom window of our apartment. As I frantically dialed my husband's number on my Italian cell phone, thus began one of the strangest and most memorable days of our stint in Rome.

Dave, can you hear me? 

I'm in the hallway outside of class, what's wrong?

The Pope just resigned.

...stunned silence…

Twelve minutes later Dave arrived back at the apartment, breathlessly giving orders into the phone he held in one hand while using the other to pull his suit coat on in the world's fastest costume change. A moment later he was out the door, and I looked over the balcony to see him running in pursuit of a bus headed east, towards the Tiber, and the basilica that loomed on the horizon. I wouldn't see him again until well after midnight.

The day passed in a strange haze, similar to the feeling after 9/11, but lacking in the horror. It was still a deep feeling of unease though, as if the foundations of reality had tilted, somehow, and we were sliding off into an unknown place.

I fielded Skype calls and emails from home all afternoon. "Yes, it was true." "Yes, he's really resigning," "No, it hasn't happened in a really long time," "Yes, the Pope can do such a thing."

That night after dinner the sky darkened and a serious thunderstorm rocked the Eternal City, cutting short our evening trip to the Square to pray a Rosary and hold vigil under the still-lit window in the papal apartments (Francis doesn't live there, so once Benedict vacated the See, we never saw those windows lit again).

As Tia (my little sister) and I trudged homeward with the stroller, dodging fat drops of rain and picking up speed as the weather deteriorated, we were mostly quiet, still very much in shock over the day's events. Maybe a half-hour after we'd arrived home, the now-famous lightening bolt hit the dome of the Basilica, marking the day in the eyes of the world as one of strange and unsettling infamy.

We had our chance to say a very special goodbye to Pope Benedict about 2 weeks later, standing in that same Square on a sun-drenched Wednesday morning, tears in our eyes as he held my youngest son in his arms and gently kissed his forehead. We wept with gratitude and sorrow as his eyes found us in the crowd, and for a moment, as the guard handed my baby back into my arms, I locked eyes with the successor to Peter and simply mouthed the words Thank You.

My heart is filled with the same gratitude today, and just a touch of the grief, as I sit 5,000 miles away,  nursing a new baby in a living room whose wall is graced with our family's most prized image.

What an incredible 12 months it has been. For the Church, and for our own little domestic church. What a wild ride. Who could have imagined?

May God bless Pope Emeritus Benedict, and his holy successor Pope Francis. I'm so grateful to have had a front row view.

Welcomed Home

We've been on the ground in Denver for over two weeks now, and honestly, it feels like we never left...like maybe Rome was some kind of gauzy, fading dream (nightmare? Perhaps at times) that fades a little more upon waking each morning.

We just left a baptism + party with about 50 of our closest friends, and it was such a perfect representation of everything we'd  missed about our old life: tons of friends, a plethora of pregnant bellies, fantastic microbrews, Cool Ranch Doritos, and a few priests and religious brothers wandering around in the mix, just for good measure. In short, it was a snapshot of our life and our community here, and now that we're back in the midst of it, I cannot seriously imagine every uprooting our family to leave again.

I'm never leaving the suburbs.

It feels odd saying so, but after almost 31 years, I think those mythical 'roots' referenced in an earlier post this week are finally starting to stretch and grow. I can't explain to any sane person why living in the suburbs and driving a mini van is somehow more exciting and more fulfilling than international travel...but it is. Or why Target is more stimulating than an ethnic farmer's market bustling with local produce and the resultant vermin drawn in by the promise of the absence of a public health code.

What can I say? I guess I've become domesticated in my old age.

I've also become very, very dependent upon daily doses of Chipotle to satisfy my cumin-starved palate, but my ever growing baby bump and our bank account are red flagging me that this might not be the best road to travel for the next 4 months. Also, I need to start working out again pronto, but I cannot bring myself to sign up for a gym membership when it's this gorgeous outside. Plus, it's now approximately a million dollars a month to rock a 24 membership with two kid club add ons. Thanks, but for $120 monthly, I'm choosing the weekly pedicure/magazine purchase option.

Any thoughts on the wisdom or stupidity of getting back into running at 6 months pregnant? It has been a good 8 months since I've run any substantial amount (read: more than .5 miles) and yes, I've put on a good 15 lbs of gravity-shifting midriff weight in that time...but still. My shoes are still in decent shape, and there are nice, flat, paved trails right outside our house. Would I be stupid to try? Will I have to wear Depends? Will I re-read this entry in November and cackle hysterically while lying prone on the couch in a post-turkey coma, watching the needle on the scale creep ever upward and knowing I can do nothing to change it?

Any pregnant runners out there? I ran for the first four months of Joey's pregnancy, but my back was shot by JP's, so I dwelt in the water and on the elliptical machine.

Hoping your holiday weekend is filled with processed meats, cold beers, and present husbands.

God bless America.

Starbucks and Target and Walmart, Oh My...

Alive and oh-so-well in the Mile High City.

Unrelated image of a baby with a miniature pint glass. Can't decide which is cuter.

We don't have internet at the house (House! A house! With a yard! And a dryer!) yet, but I do have a very conveniently-located (and disappointingly caffeinated. Edge: Italy) Starbucks round the corner, and this is the first chance I've had to slip away and shout out to blog land.

The trip was largely uneventful, save for a leeeetle situation on the tail end where the airline lost our luggage. Like, all our luggage. Which, as it happens, was roughly all of our worldly possessions, if you will recall. So. I was a tad emotional at 1 am last Friday morning while trying to explain to the poor service rep at baggage claim that if I lost my Frye boots I would, in fact, be very destitute indeed, and could he vow to me that they would not be stolen and gleefully pranced about in by a nefarious TSA employee at Boston Logan? No? You can't promise me that? Well then I will cry. Pathetic, heaving sobs bred of hormones and the sheer exhaustion of a 26 hour journey with toddlers.

Also, if anyone is in the business of flying economy class with Aer Lingus, might I recommend you do your homework a bit regarding their 'bassinet' accommodations for the wee passengers? Our reserved 'baby crib' was a cardboard box which was ceremoniously crammed into the space between pulldown trays in our bulkhead row. And it was a dead ringer for the container you might bring Fido home from the vet in. Anyway, JP loved it. And didn't even soil the newspapers they'd lined it with.

Anyway, we're home. It's more glorious than I could ever, EVER have imagined, Dave loves his new job, and I have only been asked by a handful of strangers if I am aware of how busy I'm going to be and whether or not I'll be laboring in their presence shortly. Americans sure do have a way with the pregnant ladies...

In a fortuitous stroke of coincidence, Dean Martin is serenading me with 'That's Amore' from the Starbucks sound system at this very moment...so I'll take that as my cue to beat a hasty retreat back to my bambini.

Ciao for now!

p.s. This is 100% representative of the way I feel right now.

5 Favorites, With a Brogue

Coming at you live from one very comfortable hotel room in Dublin City center, where we opted for a 2 day layover to break up the transatlantic madness and soak in a little heritage, to boot. Linking up with Hallie because hey, there's free wifi.

1. Irish butter. Mmmm, mmmm good. Like so, so good and not gonna try to pretty this up...Joey ate 4 pats straight up at dinner last night. And we were like, hey, we're not judging you kid...in between bites of french onion soup drenched in Guinness something-or-other and one million ounces of sweet yellow gold. Olive oil was well and good, but holy mother of dairy products, Irish butter takes (and slathers and moistens) the cake.

2. The Guinness Factory tour. Did it. Poured a pint. Drank a pint. Watched surprisingly entertaining interactive videos of coopers making barrels, played in the mother of all sandboxes (a 20x20 box filled with barley) and convinced both boys the amazing glass elevators and waterfalls meant we were at a theme park. Only the theme was 'Mommy and Daddy are actually having a better time than you are.'

We came,

We poured,

We conquered.

World's most awesome sandbox. Minus the sand, plus barley.

Homeschooling. Nailed it.

3. Fish and Chips. Beef and Guinness Pie with Chips. Caesar salad...with Chips. What? I've been in a pasta desert. A wasteland of breads and grain-based carbohydrates. ALL THE POTATOES GET IN MY MOUTH.

4. Irish people: we're awesome! Seriously though, every 10 minutes we'll be walking down the street and Dave leans in to whisper "that girl looked just like your sister Tia" or "Now I see where you get your taste in architecture" and even "everyone here looks like they're related to you." I'm somewhere between 50-60% Irish, but my mom tends to overestimate the amount of shamrock in our shake. After being here less than 24 hours, I can honestly say there are few places I've ever felt more 'at home' in my life. The people do all look like my family members, and everyone does have fabulous pale skin and freckles and is a normal shape and size, etc. And the weather! Glorious cool and comfortable non-Mediteranean climate. Truly, this Isle and I were made for one another.

"Irish ponies are superior to Italian stallions."

5. An Anglo (and I mean this in the 'conquered and populated by Anglo Saxons' kind of way, not a weird racist way) approach to life is seriously refreshing after a season or three spent in a country designed and run by hyper sanguine, espresso-chugging drama kings and queens. As our Italian landlord put it oh-so-perfectly during our farewell meeting: "Never forget, Italy is a country with Scandinavian ambitions operating within a central-African infrastructure." Indeed.

And aside from that, a few man on the street observations about Northern vs. Southern Europeans, from my very professional and detailed study of two cultures, involving 9 months and 9 hours, respectively: Guess how many strangers have touched me today? Zero! Not even my big, tempting belly has had a single unsolicited grope. And the number of heated exchanges and/or physical altercations involving personal space issues/differing opinions on the safe distance to stop a moving vehicle in front of a loaded stroller? Also zero.

What the what? Seriously, my blood pressure is so low, I probably should have had a second Guinness to level things out.

Ireland, thanks for being my gateway drug back into the land of the free and the home of the brave. We'll be back, but next time, we're bringing a babysitter.

Finish Line

Today is my last day as a stay at home mom in Rome.

What that means on a practical level is that my beloved will be hanging up his press credentials for the last time come 6 pm tonight, packing it in after 6 good years of blood, sweat, and tears.

If I could take just a moment to showcase his hard work, I hope he'll forgive the public display of sentiment. But seriously, this guy? Solid gold. You wish he was on your staff, trust me.

Watching the newest Swiss Guards swear in. Definite perk of being a journalist's wife/son.

He helped to grow CNA from a 2-man operation working out of rented space in a diocesan building to a major contender in the global news game. They now boast a staff closer to 20 and have branches all over the world. So honey, if you're reading this: good on ya. You've helped to build something you can be proud of.

What this means on a less tangible but no-less-important (to me, anyway) level is this: when we move home next week, I won't be alone anymore.

If that sounds dramatic, well, apparently drama is my thing this week, so ... move along, nothing to see here.

But honestly. Only another mom with a frequently traveling or odd-working-hours hubby (I won't touch military wives, because you ladies are a different species of admirable and can do truly inhuman things for love of your hero) can relate here: being alone with toddlers all day can wear on a person. It can make you do crazy things, actually, like suddenly announcing at 2 pm on a blazing summer's day 'Let's go on an adventure, guys!' which may or may not result in a scene involving human excrement, the public transportation system, and a whole lot of regret.

I've been growing, stretching, trying, failing, and generally learning a whole lot about mothering during these past 8 months. For those of you who've been reading along and tolerating the tone and content here: thanks. For those of you who have been reading along and are scratching their heads and wondering who gave me children or why I can't just put a bird on it or count my lucky stars and shut up already...may I politely direct you to the other side of the blogging tracks. No need to slum it over here in my world if it's getting you down.

Sure, we've had some glamorous moments. This one, for example, which will be forever engraved on my heart (and on display in a particularly large and obnoxious photo exhibit in our front entryway):

Bottom right is mad jelly he's not getting Papa smooched right now.

Sorry you can't see Gorgeous Georg's face. Truly.

But then there are moments like these, where it's 2 pm and naptime has ended all too soon and guess what? There are no backup plans. You're the backup plan. There are no friends, no neighbors, no in-laws, and no grandmas around to save your sorry ass from a long, cold afternoon of failing hard.

I don't know, I guess he looks pretty content.

Those are probably the days where I've learned the most. Without my trusted circle of girlfriends, my handy drop-off child care center at the gym, without being able to even call my mom because she is 8 hours behind our time zone and oh yeah, our internet still hasn't been hooked up so I don't actually have a phone...those have been the hard days. And those have been most of the days here, I have to say.

Shhhhh, he thinks it's just one big 'adventure.'

What's the takeaway from this? I guess just that when pressed, we can all do really hard things. And I'm not saying this is the hardest thing in the world that anyone has ever faced, by no means am I saying that. I know how grateful I must be for my precious, healthy children, for Dave and my own health, for our happy marriage, for this unique opportunity to travel and to grow and to introduce our children to the very heart of the Church.

But I'd be a lying fiery-pants if I didn't admit this was the hardest thing I've ever done, or if I pretended that life has been pretty lately. It has been beautiful, yes. But not pretty. Lonely is rarely pretty. Frustrated and fed up is unseemly. Pregnant is definitely not glamorous...at least not on this body.

But it's real. And I'm sorry if it's too real sometimes. God knows I'm sorry it's actually happening at the time, though it's usually funny just a few hours later. And so I write about it. Because that's what I know how to do: write.

I think my biggest take-away from our time here will be an awareness of increased competence. I may not being doing it especially well, but I am doing it, nonetheless. And when the day is 2 hours old and there are still 11 more to go before relief in the form of D-a-d-d-y is due back...well, it won't kill me. Test me, yes. Cause me to question my vocational choice, occasionally. Make me really, really grateful that we have family to go home to, always.

I'll also live all my life long with a profound and abiding love for espresso. And travertine marble.

So Rome, thanks for the memories, the life lessons, the moments of blinding beauty, and the experiences of searing pain. I'll keep it all in my heart. And vomit it all over this blog. And if you occasionally want to click away to read something more edifying then maybe try here. Or if you're looking for conflict-free warm fuzzies, may I recommend here. Or perhaps it's just home decorating tips and ideas? I've gotten many a good idea here.

Arrividerci, amici. It's been real.

Raising Little Caesars

Okay it doesn't have quite the same ring to it, but it'll do.

I am admittedly no expert, having put in a paltry 8 months in market research, but I believe that application time could be stretched to 16 months, considering I've been going at it with two kids at once? No?

At any rate, I'm here to tell you about parenting, Italiano style. Or rather, Roman style, as my capers across the rest of the boot have been mainly limited to long weekends and painful hotel stays.

I've been to all of Rome's most famous piazzas, eaten in a whole bunch of her mediocre restaurants (and a few truly remarkable gems) and I've hauled bambini into many a chiesa across this gorgeous city. And I've observed a few things about myself and my compatriots in arms. Some of which are worth sharing, either because they're fascinating, or because they are so obviously superior to the standard American practice in childrearing that I am humbled into submission. And then there are some which are so ridiculous that I feel I must document their existence, even at the risk of unbelief.

So here you have it: How to be a stereotypical Italian Mamma:

1. There is no kid's menu

Walk into any given ristorante or trattoria and try to ask if junior can see a special list of piati de giorno, but don't expect to be greeted with anything other than mild confusion. 

A special menu of junk food options for the baby to choose from? No, no signora, nothing like that...but we can make a plate of proscuitto e melone or some penne con pomodoro and have it out in 2 or 20 minutes, depending on your luck.

Happy meals.

I actually don't mind this. I have one kid who is gluten sensitive and one who would probably take a bite out of a living animal if he could get his paws on a slow-moving side of bacon, so we have a wider variety of food on our table on any given day than the average toddler set does, I'd wager. Joey has actually never had a chicken strip, and his single foray into hot-dog land ended in salty tears of rejection and a sad Costco footlong masticated and discarded on the warehouse floor. John Paul will eat anything, and so we regularly take him up on that.

Italian kids put a whole new spin on the idea of baby gourmonds though, let me assure you. Pizza with Gorgonzola and walnuts and a sprinkling of arugula, pasta with sheep's cheese and anchovies, cured meats with smoked mozzarella and olives...and the list goes on.

The point is, the little people eat smaller portions of the same food that the big people do. Because they are, after all, little people, and not some kind of odd human hybrid made to run on PB&J. It's a helpful practice that cannot, of course, cure picky eating completely, but that goes a long way in cultivating a broader palate on your little person. And yes, we still order french fries all the time. Because we're not sadists.

2. There's no such thing as bedtime

An early dinner is 7 pm. Dignified people eat at 8. Carefree and fabulous people dine at 8:30, and not a moment sooner.

Venture out for your evening passagiata and you'll see there are children of all ages cruising the strip, Roman style in their Maclarens. Kids don't go to bed at 7 pm here, especially not in the blinding heat of summer. Because honestly, it's not even cool enough to hit up the park until almost 8 o'clock most nights.

It's a regular thing to see Italian babies of all ages out in their strollers (or the few, the lucky, the hard-to-find highchairs) in restaurants all over town. Not only do they eat what mom and dad eat, but they also eat when mom and dad eat. And for most families, this is closer to 8 pm than 5 pm.

On a practical level I kind of love this. I mean yes, your kids will melt down when they're up late sometimes and yes, circadian rhythms and sleep cycles and brain cells...but the overarching theme I detect here is: your life doesn't stop when you have kids. Moms, you need not be banished to a string of consecutive evenings on the couch in yoga pants shoveling down some cold dinner at 6:36 pm because little peanut is sleep training and you had to get that bad boy slammed by 5:45 pm. And live to note it in his sleep chart.

I'm all for scheduling little people, don't get me wrong. But do you have any idea how freeing it is to be able to accept a dinner invitation for 8 pm on a Thursday and know that 1. it won't be the end of the world if the babies don't go down till 11 and 2. you can still go out, even without a sitter? It's magical, I tell you. And I'm a full-on believer. Well, 2 out of 7 nights a week, anyway. (Because I'm pregnant, and sometimes yoga pants + sofa sitting = pure bliss.)

3. There's no segregated space for shorties

I am so happy you are taking me to another piazza!

Okay this one actually sucks sometimes, but it's true, there are very few designated 'kid spaces' in Rome. Sure there are playgrounds, but most of them are dirty, in ill-repair, and filled with trash, pigeons, and old ladies smoking butts and shooting the breeze. In other words, they're just like the rest of Rome!

The upshot is that kids make do. No park? No problem! I'll just clamber over this ancient ruin and summit this marble column. You get the idea.

Our playgrounds here are piazzas filled with gelato-slurping tourists, smoking locals, and scavenging pigeons ... and the not-so-occasional guy hawking polyester scarves. Sick of running around? There's a fountain to cool off in (not technically in, mind you, but we've had a few near-immersion experiences).

Damn I'd like to get in that fountain. If only she'd look away for  a moment...

Feeling parched? There's a guy selling water and beer right over there. Here's a liter of mineral water, don't choke. (No sippy cups either, unless you feel like shelling out $10 USD for a cheaply made model from the local Farmacia. No problem, just one fewer step between boob/bottle and self sufficiency, right?)

There are also (are you listening, Kendra?) no crying rooms. Because when your churches are this beautiful, it'd be a shame to muck up the aesthetic with a bunch of plexi-glass.

Look, no gathering space either. Who designed these places?

It's really nice, actually. And sometimes, like last Sunday, it's God awful. You really haven't lived until you've taken your 2-year-old in and out of Mass four times, ping-ponging between rows of glaringangryglaring American! (we're the worst at stink-eyeing parents of littles, it's true) tourists on the inside and a verrrrry persistent gypsy woman begging alms on the outside. And it's one million degrees and your stylish Liz Lange maternity sack is pitting out like a football jersey. But I digress.

Most of the time, it's great when there's no cry room because 1. no option for escape when that familiar faint-hearted feeling creeps in and 2. Well, what do you expect me to do with him? Leave? Would you like to take a turn holding him whilst he flails and pummels your torso? Just say the word...

The truth is, Italian kids go everywhere because honestly, where else can they go? There's no space, there are no 'activity centers' or fun drop off daycare options. There's just the real world. And so adults (and kids) learn to deal with each other. And, dare I say, enjoy one another at times. My boys regularly interact with teenagers, the elderly, kids their own age, and everybody in between. And to me that seems really healthy and really realistic. 

Joey and his bff+e+e Tonio, our fav barista

I have a few other less rosy observations, but this list is already on and on anon, so I'll save that for another post. Plus, it's strictly enforced and rarely-broken-from naptime right now. And I've got 2 hours of babyless freedom stretching out in front of me.

Cleaning House

So what do you think? Graphic design and layout are the opposite of 'my thing,' and I'll never be able to justify paying somebody else to spruce up the imaginary world that hosts my tales of bodily fluids, selfies and political rants, but I rolled up my tech sleeves and dusted off the 'ol template last night. And updated 'About Me' to be slightly less endless. And annoying.

I think I like it. Though I do miss seeing that tacky big ass cup 'o coffee. Sort of. (Missed it too much, had to bring it back.)

I have to say that yesterday, on my first full day sans FB, I was a productive little housewife the likes of which has hardly ever been seen. At least 'round these parts. Books read, forts built, ice creams consumed, leisurely walks taken, dinner planned and cooked...and a full-on self mani/pedi. In the closest shade I could find to this:

at the local 'Profumeria,' because they were offering the good stuff for the very reasonable price of $14 US dollars and, call me martyr, but I couldn't justify pulling that trigger. So I went with an Italian knock off and it's a bit closer to Orbitz wintermint than I'd normally care for, but...thrifty!

One week from today, we'll be winging our way to Denver via Dublin via Boston (don't ask), so you best believe I'm spending this last hot week 'packing' (Aka throwing everything away. I think our cleaning lady accepted, among other items including-but-not-limited-to our entire medicine cabinet, my proffered  quarter pack of Camel Blues from my very attractive 'pre-pregnancy numero 3/holy shit we moved to a foreign country without clothes dryers' days.

Give away all the things! Throw away all the toys! The boys can share two pairs of cargo shorts between them!

I tend to get a lil bit carried away when it comes to decluttering. You might say it's my gift. Or, if you're my husband, you might just get really nervous about your supply of black dress socks (do you really need 4 pairs? Four?) about once a quarter.

So aside from the frantic purging, what would you guys do with a week in the Eternal City during 'the iron of August?' Just to set the stage for your little imaginations: it's 99 degrees every day by 10:35 am, the buses are running sloooooow and are full of the most unimaginable aroma of the crush of humanity, and I'm 5 months pregnant and the proud owner of a wonderful and heavy double stroller.

Any ideas?

Meanwhile, I've got my eye on an entire toy box of c-r-a-p whose destiny is calling for a trip to the big, brown dumpster in the street. If only I can successfully sneak it downstairs...

My Euro Pregnancy: 20 Weeks In

Sitting here on the brink of halfway done, and I thought it was time to come clean with some photo evidence of this baby's existence.

First, let the record show, taking pictures of yourself while pregnant is a bad idea. Unless it's your first child, and you've hired someone to follow you and your husband into a field whilst the two of you clasp hands over your burgeoning belly and gaze into the future. I did that. I get that. But damn if it isn't all kinds of embarrassing now. Joey, self-absorbed firstborn that he is, loves those images of 'baby Joey in Mommy's tummy right there' so...I guess it was worth preserving for posterity? And we never took engagement photos, so you might say we were overdue for a little shame of the self-absorbed variety. Ba dum ching.

Anywho, fast forward three years and three closely-spaced pregnancies to now, and my body definitely bears evidence of having been stretched and snapped and streeeeetched and not-quite-snapped back. Multiple times. So I apologize if these images are scarring. They are to me.

toddler tilt with a Blanqi sneak peak

Buttoned-up mug shot

So I bit the big, fat, nearly $70 bullet this time around and sprang for a Blanqi, because I've read great reviews and because one of the creator's sisters (thanks, Annie) went to my alma mater and because, well, I was pregnant in a foreign country and figured I had money to burn, being as there was no guarantee I'd be able to shell out for an epidural or a hospital gown. So. No regrets. Not really.

This is the first week I've really worn it and my thoughts so far are ... mixed. Most of the perceived 'flaws' are probably my fault: I ordered a size large 'extra long' in black. So...I can't imagine why it isn't supremely comfortable in this balmy 89 degree 110% humid Roman summer. 

But, I rationalized to my newly-pregnant internet-shopping-happy self I'll be pregnant in the wintertime and we don't have a car, so black will be warmer. And more slimming. And I'd read multiple reviews warning to 'size up' for when your belly gets big. As for insisting I needed extra length for my 5'5" miniature torso? I don't know, maybe I was drinking. But one thing I hate hate hate about maternity wear is the dreaded belly creep. Whether the fabric starts migrating up or down, I can't stand the end result. So I panicked and thus, made sure that my entire frame would be covered from shoulder to well-below-booty. Anyway, it is rather slimming. And it does feel great to work out in. At least I surmise that it will. Technically I haven't worked out in 3 months...but that's about to change. Today.

I'm declaring a moratorium on 'vacation eating' and basically breakfast carbs in general. The Italian lifestyle is no longer working in my favor, probably because I've cut down my daily walking to roughly 3 square blocks orbiting our apartment building, and instead of pushing my 100 lbs of toddler across cobblestoned streets for hours every day, they run around clad in diapers (or less) only and frolic under one of our two AC units for hours...and hours on end. And I lie on the couch and re-watch Downton Abbey teach a homeschool unit on pre-and-post WWI Britain.

Would you believe me if I told you my cappuccino habit were catching up with me? Or perhaps it's the recent obsession with salami milanese. Yes, probably that. Whichever the culprit, the weight gain is a-creepin, and it's high time to reconcile with Jillian. Or this site. Or maybe just the possibility of limiting my diet to things that don't list 'salt' or 'Nutella' as a primary ingredient.

All and all, I'm feeling pretty good. I can still sleep however I want, which feels oddly liberating. Maybe I am carrying much differently? Or maybe I am sufficiently 'padded' to not feel acutely as if I am crushing baby while not-quite-but-almost lying on my stomach at night. Whatev.

I think I've gained around 9 lbs - maybe 10, I don't do kilos well - at this point. But it's all in my love handles and upper arms. Maybe a tiny bit in the appropriate abdominal region. (Thanks, Viking genes. Or whatever heritage dooms me to crushing canons for guns and the ability to lift twice my weight in offspring and groceries.)

I am just starting to feel baby move every now and then, which is a huge relief and it will be really nice to move on to googling other potential problems now. I'm sure I'll think of some.

I'm craving saaaaaalt, salt, and more salt. Pre-popped pop corn, salami and some-fancy-central-Italian-hard-cheese-on-pizza-bianca sandwiches, regular Coke (hangs head in shame) and, oddly, cucumbers. Probably to sop all the water retention out of my poor, salt-addled body.

I'm desperate to get home the the dry, arid climate of Denver, where sweat is always purposely induced via exercise or exertion of some sort, and not the result of climbing one set of stairs. Or getting out of bed in the morning. 

And, let's be honest, I'm a teeny bit excited for Chipotle.

We leave August 13th, so technically, I think if I don't count today or departure day, we're looking at 11 big ones. But who's counting?

Imports and Exports

Do you know what I have been fantasizing about for the past 3 weeks (ever since this little adventure novel we're living took an abrupt and fascinating twist toward home)?

Super Target.

No but seriously, there's more to life in American than vapid consumerism, and I know that now. And there's more to life here in bella Roma than sipping cappuccinos and taking in the sights (and smells) of a summer in full swing. But all things considered, I'll gladly swap one for the other.

I have been so blessed during this time here in Rome. And as I may have mentioned here once or twenty-seven times before, I've also been challenged and stretched and tested beyond my level of comfort. As I sit and type this, the shades drawn and the AC cranked against July's last stand, I'm still being tested. Because I just said goodbye to my cleaning lady for the last time and I'm really, really going to miss her. And not just because she does my dishes for me once a week. Okay, mostly for that. But she is also a huge sweetheart. And deep cleans my entire house in 2 hours for only 20 Euros.

That, my friends, is a luxury that I never knew I was missing out on. And one I've actually come to rely on quite a bit. And even though it is, for some reason, far more humbling and feels much more ostentations to admit "I have housecleaning help" than "I hired a babysitter for the morning," I think it's one Euro-luxury that I'm going to try my darndest to replicate, Stateside. Because while I am uniquely qualified to take care of my own children (not that I am opposed to a night off now and then. Hell no I'm not), anyone can clean my bathroom...and I'm happy to pay them to do it, if the budget permits.

Another thing I'm refusing to settle for upon our repatriation? Bad coffee. And you know what qualifies as bad coffee? Anything that you can't drink black, or with a bit of sugar. And if you have to pump flavor of some sort into it to help it go down? Fail. So yes, basically, I've become a huge coffee snob. Espresso for me, or a double cappuccino if the weather permits. Starbucks, we had a good run, but my forays back into your arms during our air-capades last month showed me the light: you don't taste that great.

I'll still be lining up for my annual first-of-Fall pumpkin spice latte, though. Because I still have a heart.

Finally, I'm really going to miss our beautiful church ... and the roughly 803 other beautiful churches around the city. This one in particular:

But all the rest of them, too. It's a beautiful thing to be able to stumble into the most beautiful church you've ever seen, just because you took a slightly different way home from the grocery store. But it's also a really beautiful thing to be able to drive to the grocery store. And to have it not be the size of a Circle K. So.

Italy, you've been good to us. Hard, but good. I'll miss the friends we've made, the espresso habit I've developed, and the subconscious hope that anytime I'm walking near Vatican City, I might stumble across Papa Francesco out for a surprise and unexpected public appearance. But I'm ready.

I'm ready to come home.

Life's a Beach

5 days out of 7.... that's not bad, right? That's like a solid C. I'll take it.

It has been HOT here in Rome. Like too hot to leave the house between noon and 6 pm. And pretty much too hot to do much of anything else, the rest of the hours, aside from wandering up and down the shady side of the street eating gelato and drinking regular Coke. I have become a disgusting sugar addict in these past 8 months, and I've had mornings where I'll happily slurp down a cappuccino con zuccharo, a cornetto con nutella, AND still eat nothing but fruit and flavored iced tea for lunch. Gestational diabetes, here I come.

We took a day trip to Santa Marinella on Friday, which involved lots of train riding, stair climbing, toddler coaxing and sand scraping...but it also involved 90 glorious minutes of being submerged up to our ribcages in the gentle waters of the Mediterranean. Joey sort of has zero fear of the water now, and happily took off paddling in a borrowed (stollen?) water ring for 'those boats over there Mommy, imma be right back.' 

Okay, el Capitan. But dipping your head under water every 4 minutes and pretending to drown isn't helping your campaign to convince me that you know how to swim.

JP, on the other hand, was happier scrambling on the shore right where the 'waves' (this was a very protected and idyllic bay with practically zero chop) hit the sand, playing with beach toys and occasionally allowing himself to be perched, semi-submerged, in my lap. Eventually we all got burnt to hell, despite our careful re-application of sunblock and the hottest modest swimsuits on the beach. So home we went. JP spiked a fever on the train and he has been in and out of febrile madness for the last 48 hours. So, I think it's safe to say he's a 'mountains' guy.

Speaking of beachwear (we were, weren't we?) Europeans have a muuuuuuch looser definition of age-appropriate and definitely have a different take on modesty. What I found disturbing as hell 3 months ago I am now utterly accustomed to, and, in fact, I don't think there's really anything all that wrong with dressing like you're going to the beach when you're at the beach.

Plus, I really don't know how to say this tactfully, so I'll say it the way I say everything else: there is something incredibly refreshing about seeing women with less-than-perfect (read: real) bodies rocking bikinis. Am I about to bust out my 2-piece circa 2008? Mmmm, probably not, but only because I have theeeee worst stretch marks on all of God's green earth, and I would never ever feel comfortable flashing them up and down the sand.

But the cellulite on my legs? Oh, it turns out every other woman over the age of 30 pretty much has that, too. And the less-than-toned midsection that looks like it has borne children because it has...yep, everyone else has got one of those, too. So the conclusion I've arrived at is this: bikinis, the great equalizers! And the men don't look that hot, either. And they couldn't care less! What a refreshing change from the country club scene where only nipped/tucked Marilyn rocks the teeny weenie while the rest of us schlump around in tankinis and skorts that I wouldn't have been caught dead wearing in the 5th grade. Made of Lycra. Oh for the love...

Anyway, Euro fashion...you're growing on me.

In Which I Melt Under the Tuscan Sun

Eh, the Roman sun. Close enough.

Checking in today and doing my duty in posting for a third consecutive day, a feat so incredible it had to be recorded on the internet for all of posterity.

It's really, really flipping hot today. In lieu of sitting around awaiting our errant AC repairman, I made the dubious decision to load up the troops and schlep down to the Vatican hood to crash Daddy's office once again for some reverse-sauna treatments.

Regrettably, this decision was made close to naptime, and so while we were cooler, we were not all a happy bunch. About $60 worth of pasta lunch and 2 hours later, I trundled home with my sweating masses, and we were mere meters from our apartment building when bam - or rather, almost bam - a freaking Fiat making an illegal uturn in a taxi lane almost took us out. A visibly pregnant lady sweating her ass off and pushing 100+ pounds of babies and stroller.

Excuse me!! I politely screamed at the top of my lungs, followed up with a much more predictable you asshole because I am a classy non-Italian speaker, I am.

The non-plussed driver didn't pluss, nor did any of the mildly intrigued passersby. So I grumblingly hauled babies up onto the curb and thundered onward, cursing the Eternal City.

I ducked into our favorite bar to buy 3 consolation popsicles for us to lick our almost-wounds over, and wouldn't you know it, I was a Euro short.

Damn this backasswards country and their tax-evading mafia-protected businesses and their shady debit-card-refusing policies. I just want to buy my kids some freaking ice cream to celebrate being alive and I don't have a witch's coin purse full of freaking gold deblooms on hand, just this suspicious piece of plastic linked directly to my bank account so of COURSE you wouldn't accept payment in such new-fangled form. Damn you, Italy.

But then Carlo, our favorite barista, bought my popsicle.

Italy, I still don't understand you. Charmed at this moment, but who knows what the next one will hold.

These are the bomb, by the way.

'Once in a Lifetime'

Not always an uplifting phrase.

You know how when you're a teenager and you're not a parent but you're completely sure that someday in a million years or so when you are, you'll do a much better job than yours did?

Well, now I'm the parent. And even though I was thee worst 17 year old in the world, (I mean, I guess I didn't get knocked up, arrested, or married to my high school sweetheart at the tender age of 17, so it could have been worse) I got to go to Ireland and France with my entire family + a couple of dear family friends, and I spent my precious first experience abroad bored, drunk, and generally terribly unhelpful for the entire 13 day ordeal.

Meanwhile, my saintly parents had taken 7 kids on a transatlantic misadventure and had one very, very colicky 20 month old in tow who was absolutely insistent that no-one-but-mommy, not even my father, push his stroller. If he craned his fat little neck to look back and saw anyone but mi madre at the wheel...banshee screams.

I thought about my parents a lot this past 5 days whilst we optimistically traipsed up and down the endless and multitudinous staircases of Amalfi and Atrani, Italia, dragging an umbrella stroller, 2 angry and feverish toddlers, and a big-ass overpacked metal clad suitcase (I'm really sorry, honey) because oh hell, I didn't know we were going to have a washing machine.

And then yesterday morning, blinking blearily at each other over really, really good cappuccinos in the lobby of our emergency-booked (and priced accordingly) hotel, we had the good sense and the very blessed convenience of being able to pull the trigger and say 'enough.' So we went home. 3 days early. From paradise. Because our kids were sick, nobody was getting any sleep, and because we got enough beautiful pictures to prove we were there, and isn't that good enough for this stage of family life?

And now, lying in my air-conditioned Roman apartment and savoring the not-noises of 2 toddlers napping in separate rooms and listening to the traffic go by in the street below, I think this is the best vacation ever.

We had some amazing experiences, swam in the clearest blue water I've ever seen, and ate some delicious calamari that can never hope to be replicated more than 1 mile from the seaside. But mostly we checked temperatures, administered ibuprofen, broke up fights, yelled at bedtimes, and collapsed exhausted into puddles of heat at the end of the day. In other words, it was business as usual.

I don't know why I'm providing all this background except to say, look, being a parent is awesome and gratifying beyond belief and is truly the noblest calling ... and it's also awful a lot of the time. Even in exotic locales. Maybe even more so, given the heightened expectations?

Don't get me wrong, it was an amazing trip born of good timing, an available house-swap, and built up vacation hours, and I'm insanely grateful we took it. But I'm also offering the following photographic evidence with the disclaimer that 'items in photos make appear shinier/more appealing than in reality.'

Ain't that always the truth?

So we broke up fights,

Posed for pretty pictures,

Marveled at the charm,

counted castles,

Persuaded angry babies to stay onboard ferries,

encouraged lots of independent motor skills,

breathed relieved sighs in moments of peace,

and tranquility,

and idyllic views,

and got lots and lots of exercise.

Bribes were offered,

Church steps were ascended,

coffee and gelato were consumed,

and we all lived to tell the tale.

Looking more or less,

like the crass American tourists

That we are.