A Year of the "Francis Effect"

One year ago today I stood with my little family under the left arm of Bernini's colonnade, squinting through the rain and craning my neck to keep the solitary smoke stack jutting from the roof of the Capella Sistina in my line of sight. As the crowd continued to surge, Romans and tourists alike pouring in from all directions in the dark night, mounting barricades and hopping over wrought-iron railings to secure a spot, I hushed my wailing 11 month old, fumbling in the stroller basket beneath him for the bottle of prosecco we'd brought along 'just in case.'

I had a good feeling about round 5 of the consistory's vote.

Suddenly a puff of…what was that? Was it black? No, it was grayish…it was, no, no…it was white! White smoke!

The crowd went berserk, us included. My heavily pregnant Italian friend and I shrieked and hugged each other, slapping high fives and whooping over the crowd noise. It was a roaring tidal wave of pure joy as voices in dozens and dozens of languages clamored and shouted for joy. And then there was only one language …in latin we heard those immortal words intoned for all the world to hear:

Habemus Papam.

We have a pope.

And while it would be close to an hour before he made his now famous appearance on the balcony of St. Peter's Basilica, looking more like a stunned deer in the headlights than the charismatic leader of the world's largest Church, we didn't stop celebrating for even one of those 60 minutes.

Long after the last drops of the bottle of prosecco had been emptied out, and long past the bedtimes of the squirming toddlers we'd toted with us, he finally emerged to a roaring crowd.

And the first thing he asked? Do you remember?

Pray for me.

It was unprecedented. But then, so was his choice of the moniker Franciscus. And while we'd been certain the announcement of that seraphic name meant our boy from Boston, Cardinal O'Malley (himself a Franciscan) had been tapped for the big job, we nonetheless fell swiftly in love with our very first Latin American papa as he haltingly began his papacy from a rain-drenched balcony overlooking a square teeming with humanity…and iPads.

We loved him right away. And we've spent the past year loving him, being challenged by him, being shaken from complacency by him…and falling in love with Jesus all over again, at his invitation.

So one year out under the Francis effect, I say bring it on, Papa. Bring us the Gospel message of poverty, of radical engagement, of discomfort and even, dare I say, suffering? You are a breath of fresh air in an era stifled by selfishness, by sameness, by the tiresome parade of shock and awe trotted out by the secular culture in an attempt to reinvigorate a weary and wearisome world.

Christ  and His Church is more radical than anything you're reading on Huffington Post. And while Rolling Stone may have thought they captured his essence quite nicely with their hatchet job of a cover story last month…they didn't even come close to the real thing.

So keep stirring it up. Keep calling us on. Keep making people, by fits and starts, both insanely elated and intensely concerned. It's so good for us. All of us.

Happy anniversary, Papa.

Defending Benedict

Holding down the fort over at Catholic Exchange today...

This morning I was feeling pretty close to a native here in my new land. Eschewing a lukewarm/cold shower for a spritz of perfume and a leopard-print scarf, I left my 2 little terrors in the capable hands of my foreign nanny (aka my little sister) and made my way downstairs and out the front doors of our apartment building, umbrella in hand.

I headed out the street into a beautiful Roman spring day, complete with hurricane force winds and horizontal rain. Feeling confirmed in my decision to spend no more than 2 Euro on any umbrella ever again, I watched with detached resignation as the cheery red number I'd chosen this morning flipped inside out, spines snapping with the force of the wind. Never mind that, a little rain never hurt anything, and I only had to drop off dry cleaning, grab coffee, and grocery shop for a family of 5, without a car. But I digress.

After successfully negotiating the cost of removing cafe e cioccolato from most of my husband's dress shirts, I decided to duck into the bar down the street for a quick espresso to fortify my grocery shopping muscles. After slamming my coffee with near-Roman speed, I stepped back out into the elements, only to be greeted and waved over to a table filled with acquaintances. One of the plus sides to city living is how very small a neighborhood becomes, and thus, despite the language barrier and enormous age difference, I've made 'friends' with several regular faces at the surrounding shops and cafes. 

I held up a cigarette with a questioning gesture and 4 lighters were promptly brandished, confirming my suspicion that indeed, everyone in Italy smokes. As we puffed away and caught up on the weekend's happenings, I put my infantile Italian to work and started soliciting opinions on our nouvo Papa, Francesco. Immediately eyes lit up and hands started flying as a consensus of approval was voiced in enthusiastic Italian.

"Molto simplice, molto piccante...uno bello Papa"

I agreed wholeheartedly, thoroughly relishing this phenomenon of being openly and unabashedly Catholic in public. Italy does some things better than America does, and public displays of religious affection is most definitely high on that list. From the image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus hanging over the fishmonger's stall in the market to the conspicuous images of the Madonna and Child adorning buildings and walls throughout the city, it is evident that we are living in a Catholic country. At least in appearance.

No sooner had the cries of adulation over Pope Francis' election subsided than one of my companions face darkened as she spat the name 'Ratzinger,' shaking her head and asking me what I thought of the man. I was somewhat taken aback by the change of mood - weren't we just celebrating the Pope? I smiled and admitted I'd loved that Pope, too. And Giovanni Paulo II, the one before him. Pushing my luck with the past tense, I awkwardly explained my love for 'all the Popes,' attempting to convey my esteem for the Office of Peter.

I must not have succeeded, for the unfavorable ratings for Pope Benedict continued on.

"Si, si," said my Italian friend, "Papa JP was magnifico..." but Papa Benedetto, or 'Ratzinger,' as they insisted on calling him, had apparently not won their favor.

This was an almost entirely foreign idea to me, contrasting the personalities of different Popes and proclaiming preference or dislike of one or the other. Coming from somewhat farther away than down the street from St. Peter's, I'd grown up knowing the Pope as a leader, a father, and a tangible representation of Christ's leadership here on earth. These people had known him as the guy down the street in the Big White House, and they had very definite opinions on his personality, his management style, and even his accent.

The contrast was especially striking when I realized that I, too, have been guilty of a little bit of this 'cult of personality' business these past few days. I stumbled in my poor Italian to convey my love for both Pope Benedict, now Bishop Emeritus of Rome, and for Pope Francis, his successor. I tried explaining the courage I thought Benedict had demonstrated in his resignation of the papacy; they parried with charges of corruption at the Vatican bank. Certo, I agreed, but he was a holy man, and he was our Pope, and there is some real work to be done in cleaning up the Curia.

They begrudgingly admitted that perhaps not all Benedict's legacy was scandal and excess, but it was apparent they far preferred their new Papa to their former.

I made my way to the grocery store wondering what this all means for the Catholicism, that in our media-saturated age, a person's personality can make or break another person's opinion of the very nature of God and His Church. There was no mention by these friends of mine if they planned to attend Mass on Sundays again...or indeed if they had ever stopped. But there did seem to be a renewed hopefulness and excitement in their eyes when they spoke of Papa Francesco. And I agree! I love him, I really do. I have lapped up eagerly every story of humility, every endearing image to hit the web these past 5 days, and every homily he has preached since his election last Wednesday night.

But I loved Pope Benedict, too. And while he might not have had the same magnetic attraction that this new Servant of the Servants possesses, I think it's important to keep in mind that very much of public opinion is shaped and deliberately cultivated by a media trying to tell a story. Do you think Pope Francesco is a humble man filled with charity and simplicity? I think so, too. But it doesn't hurt that the media seems to agree with that narrative, at least for now.

Did you think Pope Benedict was an aloof, power-tripping, money-hungry aristocrat with an inflexible view of the human person and a profound incomprehension of the state of modern man? Well I didn't...but if I were letting CNN or MSNBC shape my view of him, I sure might have.

The point is, they're both only human. And their different humans, at that. Different personalities, different strengths, different backgrounds, different struggles...what united them, and what unites those of us who follow them, is love of Christ and His Church. And if we love Him, then we must obey Him, for love without obedience is lip service. And if He saw fit to appoint a broken, humble, and even sinful man (self-admittedly!) from Galilee to take the first watch, then who are we to question it?

Popes don't have to be particularly likeable. They don't even have to be holy, actually. They just have to keep the Ship on course. That's the whole idea of papal infallibility, in a nutshell. In matters of faith and morals, the Pope cannot err...because he does not deviate from the appointed course, namely, the Sacred Tradition and the Dogma of the Faith.

This is the only possible explanation for a 2,000 year old roster including saints like Peter, Gregory and maybe one day even JPII...and more than a few bad apples, too. But thanks be to God, the Church doesn't need a celebrity or even a great saint to keep Her upright...she just needs someone who is willing to go to the Cross in Her defense.

And even if the Holy Father isn't a guy you'd want to have to dinner, that isn't really what counts in the end; and we shouldn't let the media fool us into thinking otherwise, even when they're giving two thumbs way up for the new guy.

In the end, for all of us, there's only one Guy whose approval we ought to be seeking. And the Pope is really just the Mr. Carson to His Downton Abbey. Which is why he really doesn't have the authority to authorize menu changes or other major household restructurings, if you catch my drift.

He's only the butler, after all.

Holy Smoke!

Last night was simply amazing. Despite being in the same bedroom from 10:30 pm on, both boys slept through the night. Oh, and some other significant milestones were met, too.

First Latin American Pope.

First Jesuit Pope.

First Pope Francis, ever.

Needless to say, we're already smitten with our new Papa, whose election we were privileged to witness as a family, from drizzling rain to anxious pacing to seagull-watching to white!smoke! spotting to more waiting and crowds pressing and tip toe standing to breath-catching to eyes filling to crowd cheering to the punchline: Habemus Papam.

And my God, we are thankful. It wasn't evident until about 7:13 pm Roman time last night that we'd all been collectively holding our breath for the last month or so, as a city, as a Church, heck maybe as the world. And with one act of faith, one simple 'yes,' we were able to exhale. The Cardinals had voted, the Holy Spirit had prodded, and a faithful servant had given his consent.

After we heard him announced, we were turning to eachother and to the people crammed elbow to elbow beside us asking 'who? who is it?!' All we could clearly make out was "Francesco," and so for the first 5 minutes or so, until some helpful Spaniards standing 10 feet behind us identified our Argentinian Papa, all we knew him as was "Francis."

The words from Christ on the cross at San Damiano to St. Francis were ringing through my head, so much so that I spoke them aloud to my sister Christian while we wondered and craned our necks and cheered for our new - but still mysterious - Papa.

"Go and rebuild my Church, for it is falling into ruin."

Perfect.

If I were the type to throw potentially irreverent words around at a time like this, I'd probably have just one thing to say to the Holy Spirit:

Nailed it.

Habemus, Papam. St. Francis, St. Ignatius, and St. Peter...pray for us.

Life On Hold

We have plans to spend the next however many days it takes (1 more, by my official bracket position) making twice daily pilgrimages to St. Peter's Square to smoke watch with a couple thousand of our best friends. Today's itinerary has been completely designed around trips to the Square at noon and at 7:30, in fact, and I have every intention of picking up a bottle of prosecco to stash in the stroller basket just in case...

Last night I was blown away to see how jammed the piazza was, even in the cold drizzle that had been falling on and off throughout the day. There were easily 20-30 thousand people there, all craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the world's most famous chimney stack. Lucky for us, we had a stellar view of both the roof of the Cappella Sistina and the jumbotron screen, where a camera was trained on a (thankfully) lighted stove pipe.

As the first wisps of smoke started to emerge from the chimney, the crowds shifted and I couldn't see the screen for about 10 seconds. But I didn't need to; the universal 'oohhhhh nooooo's' were enough to tell me that a new Papa wasn't in the cards - or on the ballots, rather - for last night.

It was such an incredible energy, to be surrounded by all these happy, hopeful people, all drawn either by curiosity, faith, the lure of celebrity, or maybe a mixture of the three. There aren't too many watershed historical moments which are scheduled and predictable, you know. The fact that we have a printed timetable for when the smoke will make its appearance is equal parts ridiculous and awesome.

For those of you who aren't familiar with the Conclave schedule, here is a brief sketch of smoking times:

• Morning session and first vote: around 10 am. (Note: smoke will only appear if a new Pope has been elected. If the morning session fails to produce a 2/3rds majority, nothing is burned.)
• Seconds vote: around 12:00 noon. At this point there will DEFINITELY be smoke, either black or white, as they will burn the ballots from both morning sessions at this point, adding the necessary chemicals to produce either black or white smoke. Black smoke, no pope; white smoke, new pope.
• Afternoon session and first vote: around 4:00 pm, producing smoke around 5:30 pm IF a new pope is elected.
• Final evening session: around 7:30 pm, producing smoke either way, as again, ballots from both afternoon sessions will be burned at this time.

So does that make sense? Though there are 4 possible times per day to see smoke, there are only 2 times per day we will definitely see smoke.

Jury's still out on whether we'll be making 4 treks to and fro today, but my money is on 'most likely,' because we're only a 20 minute walk, and let's be honest, it's a great cardio workout to push a double stroller loaded down with booze and sippy cups.

Tune into my facebook page for breaking, grainy cell-phone pictures and pithy, thoughtful commentary as always. Or maybe just grainy cell phone pics.

Come on, Papa!

Adventure is Exhuasting

Just when I thought I couldn't go at this parenthood thing any more ghetto-like, I stopped looking for a bi-lingual preschool/daycare situation for Joey and just settled on 'taking him everywhere/sneaking downstairs to the market in front of our building while he naps' route. So far, so mediocre, but we'll see if we can't tweak some things.

Mingling with the neighbors.

Today marked our 7th Monday in Italia, and like most of the other Monday's before it, dawn found my trusty nanny sister Christina and me on duty once again. Dave has been working like a dog since the whole no more Pope situation reared its sad/exciting/confusing/mostly stressful/hopefully sanctifying head, so he is gone for 12 hours most days, with the exception of weekends, where we see him for all but 4 hours during the day. Wee.

"Is this an adventure, Mom?"

Having digested a grim forecast via Weather.com for a '100% chance of rain,' we did what any sane caretakers of children would do in such a situation, and after one too many hours indoors over the weekend, and made the executive decision to go to the beach. Because everyone knows the only thing more fun than a rainy day at home is a rainy day at the beach. With babies.

Regardless, fortified by espresso, we marched our charges down to Stazione San Pietro and settled on a regional train bound for a medieval castle/town place, complete with a large lake. Close enough, right? Besides, the beach train wasn't leaving for another 45 minutes. Now, lest I leave the impression that I am some kind of adventurous spirit who enjoys washing her undergarments in the bathroom sinks at local hostels and eating everypartofthepig at local kitchen table establishments, I'm not. I like eating at chain restaurants of the Mexican variety, and I really used to like my washer and dryer back home in the good ol US of A. But that's neither here nor...well, actually, I guess it is there. But the point is, when in Rome...okay I'll stop, I promise.

Scraping powdered dish soap out of the latch with scissors. Or teaching Joey a vocational trade. I don't know.

We're here now, anyhow, and life is hard. It's beautiful and exhilarating and rewarding and once-in-a-lifetimeing...but the overarching theme is most definitely 'hard.' I spend anywhere from 1-3 hours per day doing basic household maintenance like laundry, dishes, and light cleaning, and if that doesn't sound like a lot, then I'd like to cordially invite you to my former life where I cranked out 45 minutes, tops, on a good day, and called it health-code compliant. Dear God, I miss my dryer and my Bissel upright. And Super Target. But I promised myself I wouldn't cry while writing this, so I'd better stop there.

The dryer with a full load.

Not to go all #firstworldproblems on you people, but I think my issues are becoming legitimately of a second-worldly nature. I have turned like 30% of my wardrobe greyish green because I can't figure out how the flip to use the washing machine, and we have no dryer. That might not sound awful, but it is awful. I spend like 2 hours a day on laundry alone, and if I don't we wear dirty clothes, because we each have so few options. And it takes hours for stuff to dry in the humidity. 24 hours, precisely, for most adult-sized pieces. And about 30 hours for jeans. And we each own 2 pairs, so...you do the math.

Speed drying on the radiator.

Also, we walk or take the train or bus everywhere, except the one time per week when we take a cab somewhere, during which period I anxiously watch the fare climbing on the meter and mentally tabulate how many bottles of wine could otherwise have been purchased. Let me tell you something, until you have schlepped home enough groceries and drinking water for 5 people for a day or two on your back, you haven't lived. Truly exhilarating. When I'm going on a specifically water-seeking mission, I usually take the (empty) double stroller and load both seats down with 1.5 liter bottles. (We also drink the tap water, but we have been warned that the estrogen concentration is so high that the boys and Dave really shouldn't, so we try to limit how much of it we consume.) Now, I realize this is hardly walking 4 miles each way to a plague and crocodile-infested river with a jug on my head, but it sure as hell isn't Costco with a car. Somewhere in the middle, I guess.

Speaking of carseats, this is pretty much JP's now...and he loves it.

Also, the complete!lack of any discernible! order! Oh my gosh, these people run their businesses like, um, well, like they run their government. It's a shitstorm, I tell you. Case in point: we still don't have our permanent internet. We signed the contract in January, but it's only March, signora, and you can't rush these delicate matters.

I realize I sound like the world's most ungrateful and depressing downer right now, but I have to be real about how much I'm missing my friends, my parents, my car, my gym membership, and my beloved dryer. And Windex. And Oxyclean. Okay I have to stop now.

What I do have? Amazing coffee. The most incredible front-row seat to this historic moment in the life of the Church. Kids who are learning to speak Italian and interact more comfortably with adults than with other children (okay that one's kind of sad, actually, but there just aren't any here!), a beautiful view of St. Peter's dome from my balcony, a balcony, great wine, a husband who is doing an amazing job and loving his new responsibilities, a very helpful and generous sister who is staying with us an entire extra month.

And really, really cheap train tickets to nearby adventures. Just so long as I try not to think about the laundry they're going to generate...

Toddlers and (Papal) Tiaras

We had lived in Rome all of 3 weeks when Pope Benedict announced his intention to abdicate the papacy, setting in motion a frenzy of events and news coverage the likes of which the world hadn’t seen in 6 centuries. Naturally, my two darling children took it all in stride, one going so far as to volunteer to be kissed in front of an audience of about a billion by the outgoing Holy Father. Yeah, we’re living the high life…but we’re also rolling dirty, toddler style...
Head on over to Catholic Exchange to read the rest of this post.

7 Quick Takes from a Crazy, Crazy Week

Alternate title: 7 places my kid's face has been on the news throughout the world. Too obnoxious? Yeah, me too.

1. But obviously this was the highlight of our little family's week, followed by write ups here and here, a phone interview here (don't read the comments, you might have a rage-induced stroke), a screenshot here and a shout out from my favoritest boss in the world here. Plus a couple of filmed broadcasts via EWTN and the Italian national news channel (but I will just send those directly to you, Mom, okay?) As for the other million or so more-than-usual-visitors who made their way to my humble corner of the internet this week: thank you! I'm sorry most of what I write is not quite so exciting, and I'm also sorry for the occasional curse word (happy, Dave?) which sneaks its way into my riveting sleep-training rants. Speaking of...

2. JP, despite his newfound celebrity, is taking it all in stride, still staunchly refusing to sleep in the daylight hours unless strapped to my chest via the Ergo-maybe-I-can-pee-while-wearing...nope-Baby carrier, though he is putting in a more acceptable 9 hours overnight. At least that's what the non-earplugged members of the household tell me.

3. Last night was so emotional. After being fully immersed for weeks in Vatican biznez, I wasn't sure I'd have a tear left to spare once Papa finally bid us all adieu. But the moment his helicopter bounced on its hydraulic helicopter wheels (technically speaking) and made off for the setting Roman sunset, I lost my composure. Luckily, a helpful and not at all creepy or disrespectful Czech cameraman was there to hand me a tissue stick his giant ass video camera in my face and proceed to film for 90 or 120 very painful and snot saturated seconds. I thought if I avoided eye contact he would cease and desist, but barring results via that tactic, I opted for plan B and blew my nose repeatedly into John Paul's fleece hoodie while studying the back of his neck.

4. I am wondering if I am doing something wrong by not responding to every single comment I get? I am super awkward in real life, I promise, and I regularly entertain thoughts like 'If I make the first phone call to arrange this playdate between our kids, does that make me seem desperate?' and 'I hope he understood that my nervous winking thing wasn't so much a come on as it was a facial tick.' So sometimes I just don't know what to say to a comment besides, 'hey, thank you so much, I can't believe you took the time to read something that I wrote AND react to it.' But that is precisely my sentiment each and every time. Seriously, comments...they make my life. Like a sale at Banana Republic + a recently-deposited paycheck in the bank. That's how good they make me feel.

(Except when they're coming from you, you Polish troll. You know who you are. And you can crawl back into your pirogi-lined troll hole.)

5. Is now a good time to admit that based largely upon recommendations from some of my most trusted arts and culture advisers, I have opted to pay $2 per episode to download and consume episodes of the Bachelor on iTunes? God bless America, land that I miss...

6. Needless to say, I'll be bringing you lots more original (though perhaps not necessarily riveting or well-written) content from Rome as the Papal Conclave gets underway. I don't claim to be much of a theologian, having completed approximately 1/4 of my theology MA (sorry, mom and dad...but hey, grandkids!), but I know enough to communicate to you fine people the basic gist of what is happening in this historic time for the Roman Catholic Church, and I couldn't be more blessed to be here in the heart of it all, so come back for updates. And advice on where to buy tequila in Italy and the very best off-brand foreign diapers.

Not a bad view of a not-bad view.

7. Jen, thanks for the shout out. Now I've had 2 Catholic celebrity encounters this week.

Sede Vacante

Our Pope, our little pope, he's gone.

We watched his helicopter take off from behind the Vatican walls tonight, on a big screen in St. Peter's Square with a couple thousand of our closest friends.

Just when it seemed like he had flown out of sight for good, we saw onlookers atop nearby roofs waving at the sky, and turned to see the Papal helicopter coming in for a final pass over the crowd in the piazza.

When Pope Benedict emerged from the Apostolic Palace tonight my throat closed up, and when a sweet Italian man in his late 40s knelt before the aging pontiff to kiss his Fisherman's ring, I burst into tears.

Here was the driver of the world's most famous Mercedes Benz, the Popemobile, paying his last respects to his departing boss.

I have nothing profound to add to the conversation much of the world is having tonight, except to express both gratitude and sorrow: gratitude for a man whose love transcended human bonds, whose deep humility guided his pontificate and his decision to step aside and let another take his place, and sorrow for the world whose rejection, hatred, and scorn he must surely have known every day of his papacy.

But then, the One he serves was treated much the same.

God bless you, Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI, Roman Pontiff. A father who can no longer care for his children will always choose to entrust their care to another more capable than he rather than see them suffer for his lack. We understand. But it doesn't lessen the pain of your leaving much.

Still, gentle Papa, in your own words to us this evening...buona notte.

A Kiss Goodbye

'When I see you, I see the Church is alive.'
-Pope Benedict XVI

We made the trek to St. Peter's Square early this morning to line up with the crowds of faithful and curious onlookers hoping to catch a glimpse of Papa on his last full day in the Fisherman's office.

We were not disappointed.

We spent 3 hours fighting through pressing crowds and stalwartly holding our position against the barricade, hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of our beloved Holy Father,
And then this happened.

And then this.

My son, the Pope, the Popemobile. Dreams do come true.

Dear Pope Benedict, as I was able to say to you this morning, however inelegantly, when I looked into your eyes after my youngest son, John Paul, was handed back into my arms, thank you.

The Church is, indeed, alive.

What I Wore (on Pope Benedict's last) Sunday

We made it to St. Peter's square in time to squeeze in with the crowd for a farewell to our beloved Papa B. I ran several people over (literally) with the stroller while trying to fight through the crush for a spot on the square, was probably cursed at in Italian, and we settled for being just slightly east of the piazza proper.

Proof, not of my outfit, which was nothing super special, but our presence at said historical moment:

Angry, work-weary, slightly stunned, squinty mad, and ginger-haired, in that order.

Peeking at Papa past this precious Italian gentleman and his dapper outfit.

Don't be fooled by the sweetness. He bit two people in Mass this morning.

And this one...I can't even talk about this one. But he did go 9 hours straight last night.

No filter, no edits, just a glorious parting of clouds and a pause in the rain for Papa's last Angelus. A beautiful and surprising moment.

The words to his address were beautiful, and you can read the full text here, courtesy of my talented and hard-working husband.

Ciao, Papa, and grazie tu.

Flap it out.

P.S. I made two - 2! - friends after Mass today. We bonded over expensive diapers, a disappointing lack of dryers, and other laundry-related issues. Riveting stuff. I smell slumber parties and karaoke nights in our future...

7 Quick Takes

1. These kids are killing me. Killing me, I tell you. I am literally considering enrolling Joey in a half-day, thrice weekly preschool program - okay, fine, daycare - to the monthly tune of roughly what tuition cost per month my freshman year of college. But, but, he'll learn Italian! And they have a gymnastics class on Mondays! And visiting hamsters! (Compelling, persuasive, and sad, all bundled into one, am I right?)

2. They don't sleep. Or rather, Joey sleeps, but not if John Paul is in the room. In fact, when I want to severely threaten him at nap/bedtimes, I drop my voice an octave lower and warn him "Joey, JP is going to sleep in your room if you don't lie down now."

"No Mommy, no JP, no no NO! JP go away, no JP please Mommy please!!"

Et cetera et cetera, in an increasingly frantic tone and with his hands clapped over his ears, until I back slowly out of the room brandishing Mr. Piercing Decibels Only Dogs Should Be Able to Hit.

Works every time.

3. Speaking of bleeding ear drums, while recovering from their respective ear infections, both boys managed to scrape together a cough/cold combo, no doubt 1 part torce cuolla and 1 part traipsing around St. Peter's mugging for photographers and staring forlornly up at the windows of the Papal apartment. What can I say? We're still in shock, and wandering around and creepily eavesdropping on other English-speaking pilgrims has been our favorite pastime this week.

Fr. Lombardi, spokesman for the papal household, addressing the Vatican newscorp, stolen from husband.

4. Which brings me to Valentine's day, which was something to behold in a city which takes its flowers verrrrry seriously. A florist stand or shop on every block, and then maybe one more in between, I tell you. Florists are the new Starbucks, McDonald's, and medical MJ shop all rolled into one. (Which may have something to do with Romans being about 40% slimmer than the average American.) Anyway, I scored these bad boys and a very interesting literal interpretation of the term 'hamburger' (think on that for a while) at our local Irish pub, which may not sound romantic to you, but then, you aren't a frat boy hiding in the body of a 30 year-old woman, are you?

Big baby, my love, (slightly) smaller baby, and a human-sized bouquet

5. Can we revisit number 2? JP literally sleeps 9 hours in a 24 hour cycle. I'll let you speculate how many of those are at night, but it isn't nearly enough, considering the meat on his almost 19 lb frame. He isn't quite 10 months old, and he has the sleeping patterns of a colicky 10 week old. Which he was, at one point, so, in sum, f word. Thank you for your time. Any suggestions are welcome, though we've tried everything at least once, and are currently rocking a really healthy combination of CIO/co-sleeping/baby-wearing/threatening abandonment/daily happy hour. Can't imagine why he isn't better adjusted...

"I'll sleep when you're dead."

6. This week's 'When in Rome' highlights included Carnivale (mardi gras) fireworks in Piazzo del Popolo (awesome), Ash Wednesday Mass outside of St. Peter's, for 20 minutes, in front of a jumbo-tron screen, after being glared out of Santa Ana, a charming little church inside the Vatican walls that isn't overly keen on small humans, and watching the first tide of pilgrims, Vaticanista, and spring tourists roll through the city. Overnight, the Vatican area has gone from tepid foot traffic to surging crowds across the square at all hours of the day. Also noteworthy: the dozens and dozens of white-lit media tents springing up all along Via Della Concilliazione and on rooftops of apartment buildings with a line of sight to the Basilica. White smoke is coming...

Sister date at the Spanish steps. I tried to get her to smooch me, but she declined.

7. Please pray we make some friends. Gosh, how hard up does that make me sound? Terribly, I'm sure. But we have a great friend in Dave's co-worker and his wife, a lovely couple with baby #2 on the way and a Nebraska heritage, to boot. But besides them...friend desert. And all the wine and pastries in the world can't replace something like that. Trust me, I've been attempting it.

Now off to Jen with you.

Losing Papa Benedict

We rang in the one-month anniversary of our arrival to the Eternal City with some truly shocking and historic news which is already old and promises to be seriously over-reported, (so let's add another voice to the clamor): the abdication of the papacy by Pope Benedict XVI. He is the first pope to resign the papacy in nearly 600 years, so it's kind of a Big Deal. Which explains why we can't walk across St. Peter's Square this week without being accosted by photographers or reporters, and why Joey has probably been snapped 200 times by various paparazzi (isn't the term so fitting right now?) as he runs around waving a little Vatican flag we bought for him, yelling 'I love you Papa!'

It feels both surreal and sad to be preparing to say goodbye to our Holy Father, a man whose papacy marked my return to the Faith and to the Church of my childhood, and whose gentle countenance and soft, German accented voice has become as familiar as that of my own father's. John Paul II's death called me home to the Catholic Church, but it was Pope Benedict who held the door open and welcomed me inside.

We've talked about it as a family these past couple days, what it means to be living in Rome right now, what it means for the Church, what it must feel like to be in Papa's shoes right now...there are so many questions. We don't have many answers, but I want to share with you, via Facebook and the blog, whatever we can over these next several weeks.

One thing is certain: He loves us, and the One he serves loves us, and we will not be abandoned or left orphans. Pope Benedict has a servant's heart, and the wisdom and love of a father, so it makes sense that, in recognizing he can no longer adequately care for his flock, can no longer provide for his family, he would make the heroically difficult decision to step aside to let someone take his place.

We, as the Church, now have the unique privilege to say thank you and goodbye to our Holy Father while he is still with us on earth. What a gift. What a weird situation. What do we wear for this?

I'll keep you all posted, promise, whether you like it or not.

St. Peter, pray for us.