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...

The Sunday of Four Popes

(That's what the Italian press were calling it, anyway)

We're well into our fifth day in Italy (and our nightly bottle of chianti) and I cannot even fathom the amount of things we've done and seen in such a short span of days. I can hardly feel my toes (or see them, thanks pasta) but we've accomplished more than I'd dreamed possible with three bambini in tow.

Before I go any further I have to thank you for your prayers - they were felt! And they have been so effective. The flights over here were absolutely flawless: kind seat-mates, sleeping children, and earlier-than-stated arrivals. And then the big day itself... Pure grace, plenty of Divine Mercy, and a couple of legit guardian angels waiting for us in the Square. After being ushered in through a side gate (along with a stray bishop and a handful of religious) we came down a ramp and entered a cordoned-off area that seemed very like a VIP entrance to St. Peter's Square. The only person who even looked twice at our press passes and three children in tow was a solitary Swiss Guard, but a Vatican police officer convinced him that we weren't worth bothering with.

Once in, we made our way to the obelisk in the center of the piazza, choosing a vantage point just slightly behind and to the left (facing the basilica) and settled in to wait. We arrived around 7:30 am, and the Mass didn't begin until close to 10.

The weather began to turn liquid about 15 minutes into the Divine Mercy chaplet, and we were waved over to a pair of women waving French flags and perched on folding stools. They gestured to a soft pile of sleeping bags and jackets around their feet, indicating that we should lay the kids down there. And then one of them opened her umbrella and insisted on holding over me and Evie, closing it intermittently between showers. She eventually insisted that I take her seat, as well, and thus was I found breastfeeding by a reporter for La Repubblica, Italy's largest newspaper.

Oh yeah, but first this happened:

I don't know, I guess it was a slow news day. Or we were the only family crazy enough to enter the square toting three stroller-sized pilgrims. I'm fairly confidant that might have been it...

We were treated to a lovely and poetically-timed break in the clouds when John Paul II and John XXIII were declared "Santo" and we were delighted almost to tears when Pope Emeritus Benedict appeared with the rest of the cardinali.

Oh, and we got pretty close to this guy, too:

It was a pretty amazing day. There were some rough spots, to be sure, like when Joey broke the reverent silence during the Consecration with a very audible scream of "pee is in my shoe!" as a visible dark stain spread down the leg of his jeans. But other than that, it was a peak lifetime experience for sure.

Even with the screaming children, the aching backs, and the seeming inability to concentrate on almost any of the Mass or really even reflect on the enormity of the moment, and our being there for it. Lucky for us we have a lifetime to unpack it, and a few more days in Italy to drink away the memory of John Paul putting his mouth on the cobblestones of a piazza only partially and recently vacated by of hundreds of thousands of fragrant pilgrims because he just couldn't take another minute of it. And so he licked the ground. And scratched between the cobblestones with his fingernails, looking for God only knows what.

Rome, you never fail to disappoint. And St. John Paul II, my love for you grows and grows. Thank you for this trip, and thank you for loving our family so well.

(This book is so good. A must read for the JPII generation, and all others, for that matter.)

Pilgrim Up

We're leaving tomorrow morning at 7 am, so naturally, I'm not quite done packing. Nor are my dishes done, but eh, what are frantic 11pm housecleaning sessions for?

What I am doing right now is camping out on my couch writing out the prayer requests we've received. I bought this adorable turquoise moleskin notebook with 100 pages and thought, meh, overkill…but it's more than half full already, and I'm not even done unloading my inbox. I am honored and deeply humbled that so many people have entrusted us with their prayer intentions. I felt really strongly that we needed to physically carry them with us, hence the notebook. Now I just hope I don't run out of pages.

We just found out an hour ago that we have press passes - journalist credentials, in other words - for the canonization ceremony. Which means access to the press entrance into the Square. Which means WE'RE GETTING IN!!! But if you could throw up a tiny, selfish prayer that the guards, um, turn the other cheek when they see us toting our equipment and three miniature assistants with us? I'm not sure it's totally normal (or even remotely permissible) for the press to bring their bambini along. So yeah.

I've got to go scoop this baby off the floor now but please, please know we are praying for you!

I don't know what kind of interet we'll have at our apartment, but if I can snag some wifi, you know exactly what I'll do with it.

Oh, and pray for a 12 hour nap for everyone in our family under the age of 4 tomorrow. Pretty please?

John Paul II, pray for us!

p.s. The JPII Love Story Linkup is live until next Sunday. Add your stories!

Have Kids, Will Travel

I did not set out to a be a mother who specialized in travel with small ones, particularly travel of the international sort. I don't really like flying, and I probably did it half a dozen times by the end of college. Fast forward to my present motherly self and I've probably logged 50 or more flights, many of them with children, in as many years as I've been mothering them, which isn't all that many. I'll tell you right now, it doesn't get any more pleasant the more you do it, but it does become more tolerable and certainly more predictable, as in, "I predict that one will freak out at 30,000 feet approximately 90 minutes into our 4 hour trip." And then bing bing bing, you're right! And your prize is a 400 calorie deficit and sweat-soaked underwear after wrestling a bear cub on a sugar high in a confined 12x12 inch space.

But it's not all bad. There are some practical tips a mama can employ to make sure the skies are, if not friendly, than at least not prone to profanity laced rants from fellow passengers aimed in the general direction of your offspring. Promise. Sorta.

The first and foremost rule of flying with children is thus: be prepared, be prepared, be prepared. You will lose a paci in the toilet of the airport restroom. Better have another (of darling's preferred brand, or else) ready and waiting in your purse. Cringing at the thought of paying $14 for a chemical-laced cheeseburger at Chili's, Too in terminal C? Load that diaper bag down with string cheeses, rice crackers, goldfish, fruit leathers, and any other low-sugar, moderate-carb portable snacks you can think of. Kids and babies aren't subject to the same idiotic stringent TSA regulations pertaining to food and drink, so pack it in!

Nursing and bottle feeding mamas, you're in luck! You can bring bottles of breastmilk, preprepared formula and formula powder through security with no difficulty. You will be asked to open the liquids and allow a TSA agent to dangle a test strip over the substance to screen for, well, I'm not sure what, but it's perfectly reasonable to bring an entire day's worth of liquid sustenance for your little one though the metal detectors. Which reminds me…

Wear your baby and/or carry your toddlers. If you have more toddlers than arms, form a human chain and (politely) defer the nekid screeners in favor of the more reasonable metal detector/wand waving/crotch grabbing pat down option. Sure, it's a little sketchy to have someone outside your marriage groping you in public, but not as sketchy as putting little baby brains through the big 'ol imaging scanners. At least in my opinion. (Note: if you're baby-wearing you'll be asked to approach the chemical testing agent at the end of the conveyor belt with open palms so they can swab you for bomb-building chemicals. Because baby wearing.)

Does your child have a lovey? Do you fear losing it more than you fear losing an appendage? Good. Bring the lovey, because it will ensure the best possible conditions for sleep during flight, and for all that is good and holy, keep your eye on the bunny. Maybe even tie the bunny to your child's backpack so that he can wear his baby, too. Maybe tie a double knot.

Have each child pick out a treasure trove of $5 worth of crap from the Dollar Tree or Target's dollar spot to fill his special airplane bag with. We use a single toddler-sized backpack which both kids share, but those ubiquitous drawstring bags that seem to multiply like rabbits in the front closet are good options, too. Forbid the child to touch the contents of the bag until takeoff, and talk up the bag like the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus reproduced and the bag is filled with the result of that joyful union. Also, more goldfish crackers.

We have a "one toy in, one toy out" rule on the bag, so there is always lots of trading out and opening and re-opening and guess what, you're already halfway across the Atlantic Ocean!

Which is in a different time zone…

So, melatonin! We adults use this to regulate our sleep cycles almost as soon as we land, popping a pill before bedtime and not taking much of a nap to ensure that the first night of sleep in a new time zone actually occurs at night.

Don't forget to pray for your travel and during your travel, either. Sometimes simply taking my rosary out of my purse and pulling it into my lap is enough to distract a fussy 2-year-old who is over his treat bag, over the laptop, and over this never-ending period of restrained travel.

A few more parenting life hacks:

• Bring all your children for an ear exam the week before you fly, symptomatic or not. Better safe and on antibiotics than sorry and screaming at altitude.
• Put your 'potty trained' preschooler in a pull up. Just do it.
• Bring a spare onesie, tshirt/shorts combo for each small passenger in your carryon
• Take your stroller all the way to the gate and make sure the airline 'gate checks' it if you'll need it during a connection, during which time you will pile it with children and carryon baggage and race across an unfamiliar airpot in record time.
• Bring enough snacks. Or a fistful of twenties.
• Carryon your laptop charger if you have a connection. Trust me.
• Download some actual movies to your physical hard drive. Netflix don't stream in the stratosphere.
• Run races up and down the terminal and in the gate area. Choose to board first if you have carryon that needs to be stowed and you're worried about space. Board last if you have nothing but a baby on your hands and you have assigned seating.
• Let the flight attendant/random old lady/friendly business traveler hold your baby while you pee if you're flying alone. There's nowhere for them to run if kidnapping is your fear, and they are secretly dying to hold that little cutie. 

Finally, relax. Yes, it's stressful to travel with kids, but it's stressful to travel period! And nobody on your flight booked a spa treatment when they shelled out for their ticket, either. Everyone on board is entitled to a safe, somewhat sanitary and (probably not) timely transport to their final destination. Nothing more. If your kids freaks the freak out as soon as the captain turns on the fasten seatbelt light, well, better luck next time…but don't let the anxiety of the opinions of your seat mates distract you from your real task at hand: disarming that inconsolable baby. Remember, if it's not your kid screaming and clawing the setback table this time, then it'll be someone else's. Purgatory.

And enjoy that glass of wine with with your tasteless, sodium rich dinner. You'll need it, comrade.

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.

The Urge to Purge

First, a quick aside on yesterday's semi-ranty 5 favorites: if you had a natural childbirth, I don't hate you. I actually think you're amazing, and I'm a little bit in awe of you. I just don't want to read stories about how 'all women were made to do this' and 'this is my one shot as a woman to unite my sufferings to the Cross of Christ.' It just isn't any good for me. And that's all I was saying.

My two bff's have pushed out half a dozen natural wonders between the two of them with nary a drip of narcotics to speak of...and I stand in awe. But having ridden in a couple of bucking backlabor rodeos myself, I can now confidently say that, unless a future child o' mine decides to debut in a moving vehicle, there is nothing that can stand between this woman and her spinal block. Nothing. And I've run 5 half marathons and had a cavity drilled without novocaine. So I guess there are just different kinds of pain that different bodies can handle.

Mmmkay, moving forward. We're packing. And last night while lying in bed awake awake awake until the heat finally broke close to midnight, Dave and I were discussing the logistics of next week's immigration flight and it occurred to us that schepping a double stroller, 8 suitcases, a hiking backpack, 3 carryon items and a computer bag through 4 airports is going to be really, really painful. And expensive.

My goal, then, is to pare our nomadic inventory down even further, and I'm happy to report that after a few hours generously gifted to me by Timmy the Sheep and Pimpa the stupid looking dog (Italian cartoons are the worst. The worst.) we're 2 entire suitcases of junk lighter.

I've successfully culled the boys' wardrobe down to about 20 pieces per child, which, honestly, still seems like a lot of clothes for two little people. That includes summer and winter wardrobe options, and one heavy jacket per kid. And like 3 pairs of shoes apiece. Yes, it will mean more frequent laundry, but such nice tidy little loads. I think I could conceivably launder their entire wardrobe in 2 washes now, which feels amazing.

I accidentally added 10 lbs of crucifixes, rosaries, and various religious kitsch to our chattel with my frantic shopping spree yesterday morning, so now I'm trying to justify having 4 separate icons of the Holy Family, and still hoping to score an authentic Fontanini nativity creche sometime this weekend. Because who lives in Italy and doesn't own a nativity set? It's practically a crime, I tell you.

Also on the chopping block after this morning's re-evaluation: picture frames, every single toy my children own except for 2 stuffed animals apiece, too-small shoes (sorry, little brother, if that's you in there) and various adult clothing items that made me pause longer than 3 seconds in considering their value.

I basically have 3 criteria for determining whether something stays or goes:

1. Do I love it/does it make me happy? A little subjective, yes, but what's more subjective than choosing an outfit in the morning? I find this works especially well with clothes, both for me and the kids. I might have tossed away a few pairs of perfectly good cords this morning from their stash...but I never dressed them in those pairs. And so even though they were a great brand/in decent shape/perfectly serviceable...they were just taking up space. Use it or lose it.

2. Can I easily replace this? This is especially helpful to me when I'm wavering between stay or go for some piece of something or other purchased from Target, etc. If it was cheap and easy to find in the first place, then why not let it go and pick another one up later, if it is truly missed? When packing for a move, I find it helpful to consider whether I'd buy the item in question a second time, which is essentially what you are doing when you're paying to ship or transport something you own. So IKEA picture frames, Target canvas storage bins, thrifted little boy's winter pants? Gone, gone, and gone.

3. Am I holding on to this for emotional reasons? I think this is more applicable for women who, unlike me, aren't heartless robots bent on world domination (thanks Jen for the alternate MB site recommendation), but I will still find myself hanging on to something simply for the memories it evokes, as I'm sure even Vladimir Putin does from time to time.

But in this semi-nomadic life we're leading right now, memories travel light and free, while filthy-yet-adorable Peter Rabbit pull toys do not. So, (sob) Peter, I'm afraid you'll find the Eternal City to be your appropriate final resting place.

Ours is just identical. Except for being encrusted with filth and disease and without a hint of plush left in his fur coat.

So there you have it. Packing for dummies who fear airport transfers and extra baggage fees.

Happiest of Thursdays mamas, be you natural birthing hippies, housekeeping queens, licensed interior decorators, or run of the mill slobs with the sheen of a week's worth of crappily-prepared meals glistening on the trays of your IKEA high chairs.

The internet is big enough for all of us, and I salute you.

'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.

Back in the Saddle

So.

Nearly 3 weeks off from stay-at-home mom-ing have left me flabby, exhausted, and a little bit shocked at the brute physicality this job demands. Last night, in a fit of what can only be classified as satanic toddler jet-lag, both boys screamed, alternating their tones and voices, from 8:30 until nearly 1 am. I am still not sure what we finally did to get them to sleep, but I know it involved multiple bedroom re-assignments, a situation involving the AC and a fan, an old laptop spinning Curious George flicks at midnight, and perhaps 5 bottles of milk.

My aching head is telling me that it was either a killer flashback to my first parental rodeo, or I got all kinds of crunk last night. (This baby bump I'm sporting is pointing to A.)

All 6 Senour cousins, in birth order. (We're tapping our next youngest and recently-engaged sister to provide #7, cause Lizzie and I need a b-r-e-a-k.)

I am so grateful we had the time with our friends and families - it was too short, it went too fast, but it was so much fun. And while I can't say why yet, coming back wasn't half as hard as I'd expected. Rome seems almost pleasant in these first few days back on the scene, half asleep in the sweltering summer heat and nearly emptied of tourists. They've all gone to the beaches, and so will we next week, to a charming little town on the Amalfi Coast called Atrani.

What do you think, worth the train ride/bus ride/hike?

While it still doesn't feel like home here, there is a familiar ache as I take in the beauty of Rome, and a realization that our time here, while sometimes difficult and always fraught with Italian bureaucracy, is fleeting. Will my kids remember that we did this? I think Joey will, but I'm sure John Paul will not. Perhaps he'll taste something years and years from now and it will jolt his memory and he will become somehow subconsciously aware that he has eaten octopus before, and that he loved it. Or maybe I'll just have to show them the pictures I really need to start taking again, because cell phone cameras don't really do life justice.

Whatever memories they escape with, I will always see Rome as the place where I became a mother in a fuller, more painful, and more exquisitely demanding sense. Now that I've had a few weeks' worth of love, support, and practical assistance with my blonde wolf cubs, I realize the magnitude of the task of raising them, essentially, alone. I mean obviously Dave is here in the evenings, but all day every day, it's me. No daycare, no gym play area, no mom's groups, no understanding friends with their own cubs willing to swap out for a quick trip sans bambini to the grocery store. I'm on, constantly. And it is almost debilitatingly exhausting. But it has also made me so strong.

We flew, counting our connecting flights, on 12 different airplanes over the past 2.5 weeks. Sometimes JP had his own seat, but usually not, and so he was perched atop my 16 week baby bump for the duration. 6 months ago I could never have done something like that. But I was a younger mom, and a less chiseled mom. And while 'chiseled' is not a word I expected to use in my self-descriptive vocab anytime in the next 1 million years or so, it's perfect for explaining this transformation in what I'm able to do and what I can handle now, as a mom.

Would this have happened if we'd never left the States? I'm sure it could have. I have dear friends whose husbands medical school schedules or demanding jobs require far more of them than what's been asked of me. But I don't know what other circumstances in my life could have made for this perfect training ground to toughen me up, and to ready me for my life-long career in motherhood.

So Italy, for whatever it's worth, thank you. You've been the hard place I've been slamming up against all these long months, and it really has made me stronger. But if you want to add AC onto those trains and buses of yours, I won't turn my nose up.

Stronger, but still not a sadist,

A mom.

26 Hours Later...

We're home in Rome, we've all survived the most whirlwind travel schedule of all time, and the baby just pooped on the floor. I have so much to report and so much to ponder, but first I need a lukewarm shower in our phone booth stall and a cold glass of prosecco on the balcony.

My toddlers are better travelers than your honor student. If I had a car, and I were a bumper sticking kind of gal, that would be my tag.

Ciao for now.

Tap, tap, tap

Oh heeeeeeey there.

Just popping in from an endless week of perfectly behaved flying children (I am not being one tiny bit sarcastic, they were amazing angels and I am equal parts proud and mystified), visits to TargetWalmartChipotleKohlsrepeatrepeatrepeat, and nights of blissful, uninterrupted slumber, facilitated by loving grandparents, compassionate siblings, and the best sleep American-made mattresses can buy.

In short, we are in heaven. And aside from Wednesday's little blip on the radar of all that is good and holy apparently dying a pitiful public death, all is right with the world. Case in point: I'm currently lounging poolside, typing on my brand new laptop, soaking in the Florida sunshine and free wifi, and not caring one bit if the kids are awake or not (probably not, they're angels, I tell you) because Daddy is  napping with them in our palatial hotel room. And we have a babysitter for tonight.

So thank you, Maggie, one of my sweetest and best friends, for getting married this weekend, for throwing such a swank Southern affair of a wedding (monogramed everything. Heavenly, I tell you.), and for living in America. Ironically, she'll be winging her way to bella Roma for a dreamy Italian honeymoon come Monday, and my wonderful husband wrangled the happy couple a private Mass with Pope Francis. Don't ask, cause I won't tell.

La dolce vita indeed.

If anyone needs me for the next 10 days, I'll be wandering the aisles of a SuperTarget (possibly near you) and eating way too much Mexican food. Gotta grow this baby bump to American standards somehow...

Jet-setting with Ankle Biters

Being 2 days away from a highly-anticipated trans-Atlantic flight, I thought I'd share some timeless wisdom for traveling with small children, which is almost as fun as sitting near a drunken bachelor party in economy class, but not quite as fun as sharing a row with a 'nervous flyer' who tends to yell the f-word or make impassioned pleas to our Lord and Savior with every bump of turbulence.

It's a little of both, truth be told.

There are some basic fundamentals to keep in mind when flying with children, and I firmly believe they are the key to maintaining sanity.

Expect this. You'll either be right, or pleasantly surprised.

1. You are definitely going to be hit with bodily fluids of some sort. Do not be afraid, rather, make it a kind of game to try to anticipate when and from where you're going to be splattered. It becomes almost fun then, like some kind of aviation equivalent to the license plate game. (Hawaii, in this case, being projectile diarrhea or more than a half pint of blood.)

2. Bring one change of clothes per child, and be liberal in your definition of what counts as an 'outfit.' I have no qualms about making my 2.75 year old do the walk of shame through baggage claim in an ill-fitting onesie if he ruins his first outfit. Because I need room in my carry-on for...

3. Snacks. Whatever your kids like to eat, bring twice as much as you think they will want. I try to sneak protein into the rotation in the form of deli meat and string cheese, but I have no problem loading up on the peanut M&Ms. Will they be intoxicated on sugar once you land? Yes, yes they will. But if you're lucky, you will have availed yourself of an in-flight cocktail and will also be feeling pleasantly loose.

4. Drink. Yes, while traveling with children. Yes, even if (especially, perhaps) you're traveling solo. One glass of wine can go a long way when you're enduring what is arguably one of the most dreaded acts in all of parenting. Plus, you're not driving! Diego is. Or maybe Buzz.

5. Movies. My kids have unlimited access to screen time when we travel. Because 1. free babysitting and 2. My primary job on a flight is to keep them as happy and quiet as possible, keeping in mind that there are a couple hundred other people whose comfort and sanity are depending on me. Is this going to work every time? Of course not. But now is NOT the place to make some kind of ideological stand on the dangers and destructive nature of moving pictures on developing young brains. Unless your kids are good little soldiers who are willing to read quietly and draw placidly on their coloring pages for 13 hours straight. In which case, call me, because I have all kinds of questions.

6. Toys. Straight up bribe your kids with a pre-flight trip to the dollar store, and then ration the goods over the span of the trip. Joey got to shop for and pack his treat bag yesterday, and you better believe he is raring and ready to board that flight to tear into all that made in China goodness. Stickers. Window clings. A notebook and crayons. Matchbox cars. A mooing cow keychain with demonic light-up eyes. All good stuff, all relatively quiet, and all for around $10.

7. Less is more. As long as you have some fun! small! cheap! toys you don't care about losing/breaking/giving away, enough food to keep them reasonably quiet, and a scrap of clothing to cover their wee naked bodies with after the inevitable accident, you're golden. Seriously, security is awful enough without adding 50 extra lbs of carseats, toys, strollers, etc. to the mix. We are so used to traveling, at this point, that we know exactly how much is 'enough,' and have therefore relegated some surprising things into the 'overkill' category: stroller, car seats, blankets, diapers.

I'm not advocating for baby endangerment here, but if you're traveling somewhere near family or friends, chances are somebody will be able and willing to loan you a stroller, car seats, pack-n-plays, blankets, etc. for your stay. We are done with strollers in the airport, unless it's a mucho cheapo umbrella model you are happy to part with should it be lost/damaged/destroyed in transit. Plus, if you have a tight connection, your stroller will be the last thing they unload off the plane and you will either miss your connection or have a heart attack while running to catch it As for diapers, there are actually stores that sell them all over the world, it turns out.

I always wear our littler guy in the Ergo when we fly, and we make the toddler march through the airporpt, sometimes on a leash, because it tires him out, and because it frees up daddy's hands for suitcases. Remember: suitcases with wheels also make good wagons...

Gypsy chic. Put a baby on it.

8. Use your neighbors. Not in a utilitarian sense, but seriously, if grandma in the next row over is flirting shamelessly with your one-year old...hand him over. Use the opportunity to make a restroom break, and remember that for many people it is a joy (and too rare) to see young children in public. Chances are you will also be treated to a sad story of how her daughter and son-in-law have decided they only want 'fur babies' for now and how much she longs for grandchildren of her own. Be kind to her, and let her hold your baby for as long as she's willing.

9. Speaking of babies in public, remember: you are a witness to the culture of life when you bring your kids out in the world. I try hard to keep this in mind (probably not hard enough), especially when my kids are being ter-ri-ble and I'm starting to sweat. While I can't always (ever?) control how they will act, I can always control my reaction to them. I've also learned through countless hellish flight experiences, it's always the worst for the parents themselves. Most of your fellow travelers are not freaking out nearly as much as you might think, and even if they are annoyed, they're likely not going to say anything. And if they do...

10. More drinks. We've offered to buy people drinks before, either because they traded seats with us when we needed them to, or after a particularly harrowing episode of baby behavior. They may not take you up on it, they may continue glaring, or it may just serve to sufficiently lighten the mood. It never hurts to try a little courtesy, though.

11. Relax. You are going to be home or on vacation soon enough, and you probably won't die on this aircraft. Kids can absolutely pick up on your anxiety and will respond accordingly. If you are relaxed, happy, and keeping your standards niiiiice and low, chances are they'll follow suit. Plus, you're never going to see any of these people again in your life. So if something traumatic/humiliating does happen...yolo.

End PSA. And thank you everyone who prayed for my family - they never did have to evacuate, and the fire is now 50% contained. Sadly, more than 500 families in our community did lose their homes, so keep them in your prayers as they begin to pick up the pieces. I am so grateful my mom and dad aren't in that boat, but it's awful to see some of the pictures of those who are.

Five Favorites

1. This piece, which my younger sister sent me, and has significantly improved my outlook on how my children might turn out fine, after all.

2. These.

I could eat a can a day. Lucky for my waistline, baby's cholesterol, and all that is good and decent, they are kind of hard to find here, and it's kind of ridiculous to shell out $3 for a can of chips. But still. I long for them...

3. This guy.

Some recent gems have tumbled from his lips in his raspy little toddler voice, and I almost die some days over the things that rattle around in his brain...

• Imma get bigger, and bigger, and bigger, and then I'll be a priest?
• Mommy, lay on that pillow. (Points to pillow on living room floor, strewn with shredded kleenex) lay down and rest NOW.
• Girls don't have a penis. Just a butt. 
• Oh! I have a little nipple right there.
• Jesus makes me happy, Mommy'
• Mommy, look there, you have a flower on your butt, Mommy? (Thinking about getting a tattoo, you hot, young, 18-year-old thing? Think again. Think long and hard. Actions have consequences, and God might send you a two year old boy some day to fill your days with verbal chastisements just to drive home that point. And no, it's not really on my butt. Thanks, son.)

4. My new smartphone.

My sweet husband snuck back into the house on Monday morning and surprised me with a genuine, made in this past year and compatible with modern technology smartphone so I can rejoin the 21st century. He even scribbled me a love note and left it near the box. Look out facebook, imma like all the things and share all the posts.

5. One week from today, I'll be happily loading toddlers onto a 747 at Fiumicino for a 12 hour flight via Heathrow to Denver...and I'm not even scared.

Well that was a fun image search. {Source}

Not a single ounce of hesitation or worry over their in-flight behavior, no cares about airport security or baggage issues, and no qualms about feeding them any amount of sugar and carbs to keep them happy and content. And then the 6 subsequent flights in the following weeks ... I don't even care! Bring on the screaming and the transatlantic meltdowns and the time change horrors! Hell, I would be eagerly anticipating a steamship crossing at this point. Bring on the scurvy, we're headed home on vacation!

Hallie, as always, thanks for letting my mid-week randoms have a happy place to reside on the internet.

Cinque Preferiti

See what I did there? 'Cause I parle Italiano. Sort of.

1. Working Han Solo in a coffee bar (doesn't that just have SUCH a nicer ring than shop? And it's true: there's a veritable bounty of booze on display along with the most fabulous espresso you'll ever put to your lips. Italy: 1, Starbucks: 0.) What about my kids? Oh, they're at the park down the street with their NANNY. Who is a sweet Romanian lady (read: not a gypsy. They're not all gypsies, despite what many native Italians believe) named Cristina who has graciously agreed to come to mi casa every Wednesday morning and party with my wolf cubs for 4 hours. I.have.arrived.

My love.

2. Ke$ha is bumping on the speakers right now. Italy is a lot of things, but it's not prodigious in the pop music production. Or at least if it is, they prefer the soothing sounds of Pink, Mackelmore, and the Lumineers to any of their own native sons. So e'rrwhere I go, I can get down with my 14-year-old interior self. But don't think I'm not thinking about Kendra's wise insights the whole time. There's definitely something to be said for too much of a good mediocre-at-best thing.

3. Papa Francesco's latest charge to adult Christians: stop being teenagers for life. Gosh I love his frankness, his Latin American-ness, and his way with analogies. Also, see point #2 for the way I'm directly disregarding this advice. Also, doesn't hurt that my talented husband wrote this piece.

4. This song. Thanks to Bonnie for feeding my ongoing pop addiction and pointing me in the direction of every song I've 'discovered' over the past year. Truly, I don't think I've discovered a single new piece of music without her recommendation.

5. This amazing flight auction site. A buddy from college (the Boulder years, not the Steubie years) is behind this brilliant and legit flight bidding site. And y'all, we just booked 3 round trip tickets from Denver to Jacksonville, FL in June for $88 a piece. So for under $300 bucks, my whole family - even the lap baby - is flying a couple thousand miles for less than it would cost to hitchhike and subsist on fast food for the duration. Incredible. Plus, they booked us on an actual airline (Delta) and with reasonable departure/arrival times (leave at 9 am, arrive at 2 pm). Nailed it. Orbitz, you're dead to me. I'm booking all forthcoming domestic travel via FlyinAway.com. (Now Eric, pretty please expand into the global market ASAP. K thanks.)

Go see the lovely Grace who is on Spring Break in the Big Easy and still sober enough to guest host for Hallie. Such a grown up, that Grace.