A way to wake up

I woke this morning to Primo dancing around the room and climbing on the furniture in a way that seemed surprisingly goal-oriented.


”What are you doing?” I muttered.


“I am teaching the fish to play hide and seek,” he replied cheerfully.


Is there a better way to wake up? To think, there was a time I used to wake to an alarm clock.

The Coliseum brings out the worst in people

School's started and summer is becoming what it works best as -- a memory. But if you thought I was done with the Italy stories, you were wrong. I've yet to relate the lowest point of our Italian adventure, and what kind of a mom amok would I be, if I kept my parenting failures to myself?

A few days before we left Italy, David's sister flew in from California to join us. All of us were delighted to see her and since she’d never been to Italy, I put myself in charge of showing her around the town.

“I’ve saved all the big stuff to do with you,” I told her before she came, “St. Peter’s, Galleria Borghese, and, of course, the Coliseum.”

Looking back with a clear mind, one not deranged by international travel, I see this was akin to telling her “I got you a root canal for you birthday!!!” Who the hell wants to go to the Coliseum at high noon in August?

I had, though, been priming Primo for the trip to the Forum and the Coliseum, having read half a dozen books about ancient Rome. We knew that the Romans ate stuffed jellyfish and camel’s heels and we knew all the names for the various rooms of the public baths (frigidarium, caldarium, tepidarium) and that Roman pater familiases could sell their children into slavery. We were ready for the moderlode of ancient Rome. We were ready for the vomitorium.

Since we never got up and running in Rome ‘til about the crack of noon, we arrived at the Coliseum by 1pm, the absolute peak of heat and crowds. The line to get in was beyond insane. Even more insane was the level of whining and complaining coming from the kids.

“I DON’T WANT TO GO TO THE COLISEUM!” Sec yelled over and over again, “I WANT TO GO HOME!”

“This is boring!” Primo whined, “I’m bored. I’m hot. I’m thirsty, My legs are tired. I need to be carried. I’m hungry. This is boring.”

When he saw the line, it was, “Are we going to have to wait on that LONG LINE????”

“No,” I said, Ingenious, resourceful Momgeuvyer that I am, “We are definitely not. No way.”

I'd done some research on avoiding lines at the Coliseum, and though I was not willing, under any circumstances, to give up any sleep to get there earlier, I was ready for some shortcuts. I’d read that as your tickets always includes both the Coliseum and the Forum, a good trick is to walk a few blocks to the Roman Forum ticket counter, where there’s hardly ever a line, buy the ticket there and proceed directly to the front of the line at the Coliseum. We did this, and it worked marvelously. Only problem was, we opted to actually go into the Roman Forum and take a look around, seeing as we were already there and had the ticket and all.

I knew this was a bad idea. I’ve NEVER had a pleasurable time at the Forum and I’ve been many, many times. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was all a big hoax engineered by SPQR centuries ago to generate some buzz and tourist traffic. Unlike the Coliseum or the Pantheon, which are both pretty much intact structures with irrefutable grandeur – the kinds of places that give you goosebumps -- the Forum is a collection of rubble. I’m not trying to be mean, and I know there are those who’d disagree, but let’s be honest here. You’ve got a bunch of broken-down columns and lots and lots of piles of broken rock: it could be ANYTHING. No one, not even those with electrifying imaginations, could possibly imagine any of it as anything other than well-placed rubble. It is impossible to ever discern what any of the rubble used to be because for some reason no one has ever bothered to erect any signs. If there was a large placard which read “Curia” or “Senate” then that’d be a start,

But as it is, everyone just trips along the uneven stone ground and stares at the columns and stuff and says

“Ohhhh. Wow,” like they’re moved or amazed when they’re all thinking the same thing as me which is, “Are you shitting me? I paid 12 Euros for this?”

This trip to the Forum was just as disappointing as the others except that we were carting around two tired, hot bored kids around and I felt compelled to educate them on the place because we’d read so much about ancient Rome, and this, we heard, was the very heart of it.

So I basically stood there in the middle of the Forum, shouting in no particular direction, “What is this I’m looking at?” and sometimes another tourist would make a stab at a guess and then I’d make up some shit about Julius Casear. After a half hour of this, everyone was worn out. We all wanted to go home. But this was just a warm-up to the Coliseum. So we walked BACK over there, in the heat, dragging now, really depleted of energy and goodwill.

But then something amazing happened. Once we were finally in the Coliseum, and once I’d secured a book from the gift shop with plastic overlays that showed what the Coliseum used to look like, inside and out, Primo was jazzed up and totally engaged. He sat on a bench and started sketching in his travel journal.

“This, right there, is what we do it for,” I was thinking.

Then David said, “OK, let’s go.”

“What?” I said, “He’s finally into it. We’re sitting down in the shade. Give him some time to sketch/”

“Well that’s great that HE’S into it,” he said, “but the rest of us are totally over it. Your daughter hasn’t wanted

to be here from the get-go and she won’t shut up about it/”

It was true. She was lying on the ground, crying and kicking her feet, a full-on tantrum.

“We’re going NOW,” he said.

“Well, I am enjoying myself,” I said, “And I don’t FEEL like GOING yet.”

“There are more people here than just you!” he came back.

“I KNOW THAT!” I yelled,

David’s sister was looking agonized, between Seconda’s never-ending tantrum and our shouting match.

“We should just go SEPARATE WAYS!” David exclaimed.

“GOOD!” I yelled back.

Then it occurred to me that it really was a good idea. “We should,” I said, “We should divide and conquer. Why didn’t we think of that sooner? You guys go get some food and I’ll stay here and sit while Primo sketches/”

Which is precisely what we did. And the day started looking up. It was clear that after nearly two weeks of constantly being together, we needed a break, particularly the kids, from each other. Both of them transformed from awful brutes to sweet, agreeable dears: David said Sec even APOLOGIZED for being such a pain, as soon as the strolled away from the Coliseum. Primo and I walked all over the city that afternoon – to Piazza Venezia, the Campidoglio, Torre Argentina, the little-known rooms of Saint Ignatius where there are three-dimensional angels from the sixteenth century on the walls. When we reconvened in a few hours, we all felt better and happy to be together again. Then David, his sister and I went out to dinner while my aunt and cousin watched the rugrats.

Togetherness is a wonderful thing but you know what they say about two much of a good thing. It freaking sucks.

I'd rather bang my head against a wall then listen to another Easy Reader

Hotdamn, its hard to learn to read. It is so freaking hard, in fact, that I don't know how anybody manages to do it. Seriously, as I write this, I am in awe of the fact that I know how to spell the word “spell” and that you know how to read it, and understand what meaning I intended when I typed it.

What I’m saying is that if you are reading these words now, you are a genius! And yes, I am one too. Not only are we genius, we are industrious, patient and full of faith. Because it takes all those qualities to learn how to read. This is what I’ve learned from my five year-old.

Much to my surprise, Primo has been totally uninterested in learning how to read. I thought he’d be the kind of kid that taught himself by the age of 3 by studying the cereal box, but I see now that was insane. I see that reading is hard, even for semi-brilliant children. And the English language has begun to annoy me too, because so much of it is not only non-phonetic but just stupid.

Like the way “k” is weirdly silent sometimes, as in “know” and “knock.”

And the inscrutable pronunciation of “ough” as in “through” and “furlough” (hey, screw you if you’re thinking what easy-reader has the word “furlough” in it – YOU think of another “ough” word.).

Even the way you say “one” is aggravating. Who would guess that’s how you say it?

An vowels. Good God, how are we ever supposed to figure out which exact sound the “i”s or the “e”s make. It’s EXHUASTING having to explain it: I can’t even imagine how exhausting it is having to learn and remember it.

Nonetheless, I have been forcing Primo to read a few pages of an easy-reader book almost every night, continually reminding him that the more he does it, the easier it will be. I don’t blame him for hating it. I hate it too. It’s fucking boring to listen to “Mittens flaps his tail./ Mittens hits the ball./ Mittens hears a noise./ What’s that Mittens?” especially when the reading of those mind-bendingly boring words takes ten minutes. I try to keep things suspenseful by commenting on the action of the book but it’s near-impossible.

“Oh, Primo! What do you think it is that Mittens hears?”

My son gives me a look that says, “I’m not an idiot. I just can’t read yet.”

“It’s a dog, Mommy.”

“Well, maybe but let’s turn the page and find out!”

I am tempted to just crack open The Iliad and have him learn to read with that. I mean, can I really ask my literature-lover to slum it with this awful I-can-read shit?

First Day of First Grade

Primo starts first grade today. This is a big deal to him because it is the first of the grades. In his opinion, kindergarten didn’t count.

All last year when people asked him, “What grade are you in?” he replied, “I’m not in a grade. I’m in a garten.”

Now, both he and I are both spared the strange looks we used to get in response to his reply, because he can simply say “First.” That, already, will be an improvement.

Big changes happen in my son’s school when kids enter first grade. Parents no longer accompany students into the classroom and help get them settled in. Now, Primo will be dropped at the front door, with several hundred other big kids. First graders don’t eat lunch in their classrooms or have recess in the small front yard, with just their classmates and with their teacher supervising. Now, Primo will have lunch in the cafeteria and recess in the big, back playground with the whole first grade and a half-dozen aides trying to keep order. He’s a big kid, and this is what big kids do.

The new backpack is hanging on its hook, with his name written in permanent marker on the front.

The new, matching lunch bag contains his favorite lunch and a vanilla wafer.

The bag containing over a hundred-dollar’s worth of school supplies specified by his teacher (and that’s just the mandatory ones, not counting the “Wish list” items – who knew flet-top pens cost so much money?) is waiting by the door.

We are all systems go.

Cross your fingers that neither of us sheds a tear at drop-off.

Labor Day: or someone save me from these maniacs I birthed

I’ll be honest and share that not only have I no flipping idea what Labor Day commemorates, but I’m so uninterested that I’m not even going to google it now.

I’ll continue being honest and say that I DO, however, understand what Labor is, and have, ever since I went through the most literal definition of it five and a half years ago. That labor took about nineteen hours, and at the end of it, I had one stunning, spectacular specimen of boyhood. If necessary – and let’s thank God its not – I’d totally endure an hour or two of that labor every day to have my boy and girl with me, snuggled tight for bedtime stories. Hell, I’d even go through transition daily if necessary, as long as I could have an epidural with it. These kids are worth it.

But, I’ll pursue this honesty policy further and tell you that the work it takes to mother them literally boggles my mind. I’m not precisely certain what it means to ”boggle” a mind but if it entails shooting pain in the brain between the eyes and a throbbing in the lobes, well, that’s what I’ve got these last two weeks of summer.

Summer was NEVER this long when I was a kid. No friggin’ way. These summers get more and more endless every year, and more intense, The kids get bigger, the apartment gets smaller, the temperature gets hotter and the kids get bored-er and whiny-er than ever before in history.

My kids have been out of school for only two and a half months but since camp ended at the beginning of August, every day has felt like a week. Since we got back from Italy, every day has seemed like a friggin’ month. I can only guess that tomorrow and the Thursday and Friday which we have off for the Jewish Holidays will feel like a year. A really cranky year.

And I know it’s not just me. Every mother I’ve run into this past week has echoed these sentiments exactly, even the ones who are exquisitely composed and never lose it with their kids. I have a friend who is a psychologist and has three kids whom she treats with the utmost respect, even when she’s disciplining them. After I see her and her kids, I think to myself, “Why can’t I be more like THAT?” One time, her phone accidentally called my phone and left a super-long message which was just the sound of footsteps and her sweet voice talking to the kids as they walked to somebody’s birthday party. And I listened to the WHOLE thing, for almost 10 minutes, hoping that I’d catch this mom screaming bloody murder or calling the kids “shitty little brats” or something, anything, which would make me feel better. She was impeccable, the whole time. It was wildly demoralizing.

But over the weekend, I ran into her in the playground and she said to me, “I am gonna kill these kids! They’ve been like animals. I can’t wait til they go back to school.”

I have loved having whole days with the kids so we can go to the museum, and check out the new fancy playground on the Lower East Side and get bento boxes for lunch. It’s been swell. But I’ll tell you one thing: this Wednesday, it will be with a heart full of joy that I escort Primo to his first day of school. Kids need to learn. And parents need a freaking break.

Happy Labor Day, and even happier End-of-Labors Wedneday.

In the piazzas

We have tons of good stuff here in the old US of A, like buses which run on time and Target and shower curtains, but we don't have anything like the piazza. The kids loved running amok over the cobblestones of the piazzas. Behold:

A very special birthday

Ferragosto is a huge national holiday in Italy which you’ve likely never heard of. Officially, it’s the day to celebrate the Assumption – the day the Virgin Mary’s soul ascended into heaven. I’m not sure the thousands of drunken youth having sex on the beach know that’s what their celebrating, though. In practice, Ferragosto means a day off (not that the Italians need it, since they’ve got the whole month of August off). And in the beach town of Terracina, where I (and hundreds of other braniacs) go to celebrate, it means a huge, blow-out bash on the beach culminating in fireworks and a midnight dip in the ocean.

Besides all of this, there is one particular reason our family loves Ferragosto. The big bash always takes place on Ferragosto Eve, August 14th which also happens to be my husband’s birthday. Before we had the kids, I took him to Terracina for Ferragosto and the two of us swam into the ocean at midnight – me, probably topless – and watched the fireworks explode overhead as we swayed in the black Tierian Sea. It was a pretty incomparable birthday celebration. So when I realized that we had happened to book our travel to Italy over Ferragosto, I was thrilled to repeat the experience and to bring the kids into the festivities.

We started the celebration at 6:30 on the piazza, watching some very trusted churchgoers carry the Santa Maria della Assunzione – a huge icon – down the stone steps of the ancient church onto the street, where they loaded her onto a pick-up truck to get the procession started. I’ve walked in the procession with my grandmother, years ago, and it was an incredible experience, even if I was the youngest person in attendance by oh, 50 years. My mother likes to joke that my grandmother can’t walk across the street but if she has a procession to go to, she can walk for miles without complaint. So me and about a hundred old Italian ladies walked up and down the hills of the town, singing hymns and, when it got dark, bearing candles. I pitched it to the kids this year and they were totally gung ho, for about five steps. We hadn’t even made it out the piazza before they were over it. It’s walking and singing. Got it, Now we can go get a gelato?

So we headed back to my aunt’s apartment for a little party she threw in honor of David’s birthday – spaghetti alla vongole veraci, mille foglie cake and plenty of red wine. With all that wine, by 10pm, I was lying in bed, nodding off as I read King Arthur to Primo. Seconda was already asleep in the other room.

“Mommy, Mommy, wake up!” he yelled, “Aren’t we going for a midnight swim?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, looking over at David, “Is that still happening?”

“I don’t mind if we skip it.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m exhausted,” I said, “Primo, do you want to just stay home and read?”

”No, I want to go!” he said.

“Really? Because it’s a long walk to the beach and then a long walk home, up the huge hill.”

“It’s OK.”

“Are you sure? Because if you don’t want to go, we can just stay home.”

“I want to go.”

David and I exchanged the “Do-we-really-have-to?-I’m-freaking-fried” look. We wearily got up and put on our swimsuits. We wearily walked the 20 minutes to the beach.

When we got there, it was like New Year’s Eve. In fact, in this beach town, Ferragosto is bigger than New Year’s Eve, because no one there’s on Jan 1st but in the middle of August, it’s where everyone is. Every club on the beach was blaring house music and all the Casanovas were out with their shirts unbuttoned, hanging on the ladies with their gladiator sandals and bikini tops.

The three of us sat in beach chairs by the water. Primo was so overcome with excitement to be part of something so special and adult, that he kneeled on the sand and told me he was saying a prayer. We began to feel peppier after that. Soon it was minutes away from midnight and we took off our over-things and shoes and watches and held hands by the shore. Then we heard shouts and whoops and fireworks and we knew it was time. Holding hands, we ran into the dark water, which was cool, but not cold, and jumped the waves and laughed.

Then we wrapped ourselves up in towels and looked up because directly overhead, and I do mean right over our heads, fireworks were booming. I’d never seen fireworks so close up and it did occur to me that we might end up burned to a crisp in a freak Italian fireworks accident. But we stayed anyway and held our breaths and watched the sky explode with color. It was a moment I’ll never forget. It was a moment you squeeze into a tiny. neat bundle and stick somewhere inside of you to remember later. It was sublime.

“I’m glad we didn’t stay home tonight.” I said, “Thanks Primo, for giving us a reason to come.”

He just smiled, stars in his eyes.

And that’s why, despite the jet lag, and the crowded quarters, and the heat, we had one helluva time on our Roman holiday.