"Spento"

His eyes were big and round and tears formed what looked like lenses of glass over his pupils. Big, salty tears made their way down his flushed cheeks and onto his sweatshirt. His sleeves became tissues as he wrapped his hands into them and, making cotton fists, he dabbed his eyes, repeating as each glass-eyed tear was released.

"I just don't want my teacher to yell at me again," He sobbed.

Heartbroken, I took him under my arms and pulled his little body into mine, rubbing his hair, meanwhile feeling hopeless and fearful and desperately needing some emotional first-aid kit to make it all better so that we could get out the door by 8:20 a.m.

I'm always in a hurry.

But since emotional band-aids don't exist and since I recently stopped taking my emotional pain-killers (aka Lexapro), Elias and I melted slowly into one sad mess as we stood in the middle of his room (a familiar scene to those of you who read my blog).

Our routine went awry. His tears were like a faint siren, like the one I hear coming up from the tunnel that runs under the train by our apartment.

Emergencies, even little emotional ones, require time.

The tactic of making a child learn his multiplication tables (in second grade, mind you) by using fear as a weapon makes the mother bear in me very upset. My son has never been yelled at by a teacher...that is until this year. Negative reinforcement as a teaching method is as common here as black coffee after every meal.




Italians use the word "spento" to imply that one has been turned off and has thus run out of juice, of batteries, of whatever it is that keeps him going.

And lately, I am "spento."

I have nothing else to give--not in any realm of life.

So like any emotionally-imbalanced mother would do, I let him stay home.

In fact, I let them all stay home. I couldn't fight--not today--not with gaping wounds wrought by unkind teachers and pressure and feelings of inadequacy and hopelessness.

Not today.

But I am not one to sit still. When I am "spento," the only things that keep me moving are my kids. Because I know they are the only eternal and tangible people in my life that I can invest in and see a return no matter my emotional state, no matter the circumstances.

A few years ago, when I was pregnant with Ezra, we spent a summer in Africa. The trip was awful in almost every sense of the word. I remember this moment of hopelessness in my heart as I felt alone and depressed, as if my heart had been replaced by a ten-pound weight. And tears formed in my eyes as I set up plastic bottles as a make-shift bowling lane for my kids. And we threw the ball and knocked the pins down. And I'm pretty sure Elias, who was three then, asked me if I was crying. And I'm pretty sure I had a meltdown in front of him and his baby sister.

They are used to that kind of thing.

And when it was over, we set the "pins" up again and rolled the big rubber ball.

I cannot, will not, give up on this one thing.

Mothering.




And so, Elias and I sat and wrote his multiplication facts on construction paper. We cut them out and made them into color-coded flash cards.

And we practiced.

With each correct answer, the air became a little lighter and his shoulders became less tense. And he smiled. And I laughed at his silly jokes...even if they weren't very funny.

Because laughter is the best kind of medicine.




I spent most of my twenties living in the land of what-ifs. Prone to depression since I was thirteen, I have often felt like I was running from sadness, questioning every good and perfect gift God has given me, foreseeing an unforeseeable future where all of these good things (mostly people) would be gone and I'd be alone and depressed.

With cats.

And I don't even like cats.

And thus, in my twenties, I didn't get too close to people. I watched a few friendships fall through the cracks or simply dissipate. I didn't understand balance in terms of humans and so I stood at arm's length so as not to get hurt.

Without expectations, there can be no disappointment.

But living without expectations is like living in pastels. We go through life avoiding conflict and in turn miss out on the deepest parts of one another as humans.

Without pain, we would not know joy. Without Burnt Sienna, there would be no Cobalt Blue.

Barely doing the splits into my thirties, I like to think I have learned to live a little less in pastels and a little more in vivid colors. I confront a whole lot more, but with more grace than when I was a teenager, before the world taught me that you lose a lot of friends when you speak your mind, especially when you aren't doing it in love (hence the pastels in my twenties).

On the flip-side, I have learned that when someone confronts me, the world isn't ending. My identity is not at stake. This is part of being an adult, after all. I swallow. I accept. I think about their words. And I try to be humble, even though (with certain people) that can be a very daunting task.

I have also learned to laugh a little more, to take each day as it comes and to not (always) live in the land of what-ifs.

These gifts could all be gone tomorrow.

Would I live with regret?

Or would I have loved despite the breaking? Would I remember every detail of my child's face because I took the time to sit next to her on the couch and marvel over each perfection? Would I know that despite the junk of deep, authentic relationships, that I put my heart on the pavement at times?

I do not know these answers for sure.

But in my thirties, I know I'm trying to find them.




So when I am spento, I suppose there is only one thing I can do. It's the same thing I tell my little sisters when they are dealing with the crap of their twenties.

Breathe. One foot in front of the other. Breathe.

And love.

Because there is always someone to love. Right in front of me, in fact.

La Mia Cucina

Ah, the kitchen. SO much living happens in the kitchen. For this reason, it is essential (to me) to have my organizational needs met so that I don't feel like I'm always living in chaos, though I do admit, the kitchen is the most difficult room to keep clean. Children eat. And then they get hungry again. And then they eat again. And since restaurants are so expensive, we rarely go out to eat. A LOT of cooking goes on in our kitchen.

In Italy, you buy your kitchen when you rent. We found a great deal on our kitchen from a store called "Mobilandia" here in Italy. It was around 2000 Euro and that included all of the appliances (a tiny refrigerator, freezer, dishwasher, stove and oven). It's completely mobile so if we have to move, the kitchen will travel with us. While there are obvious downfalls to our kitchen (lack of cabinet space, small refrigerator and TINY freezer), I LOVE the fact that most of the appliances are hidden behind cabinet doors. I love the clean look.


Above the Stove: While it may seem a little cluttered, we have utilized this space as our "coffee bar" and keep all things coffee/tea related right there, within arm's reach (because I do drink coffee at all times of the day). We also put our spices on a shelf so that they are accessible while cooking. The magnetic strip from IKEA (9.99 Euro) is handy because we are always in need of sharp knives and don't have to go looking for them in a cluttered drawer.



Side of the Sink: Our kitchen did not fit all the way to one wall, so Thomas screwed hooks into the cabinet walls and we store several of our pots, pans and even pot holders over there, out of the way. We also brought some funky animal hooks from the States (Pier One - Clearance) and Thomas spray painted them orange. We keep dish towels and our strainer (since we make pasta DAILY) right there, also within arm's reach.



Above the Radiator: We bought these wooden drawers and file holder and of course, painted them. The drawers are nice because they are shallow and I can file away the kids' school papers and know that they won't be buried too far underneath anything. The file holder is great to store mail and important, pertinent documents.

Table/Bar Stools: We bought the four piece shelf (dark wood finish) from IKEA (29 Euro) and found a really cool counter top in the as-is section at IKEA (30 Euro. Thomas bought the legs to give it more height so that it could act as both a counter and a table. I like that it is small enough to give us room to move around in the kitchen and yet big enough to seat all five of us when we are having a quick meal. The (black) bins underneath (3.99 Euro - IKEA) the table serve as storage, something we are always in need of. One houses food items, another school supplies, and another paper/plastic products.



THE MAP: (IKEA- 75 EURO, although we found it on clearance marked down from 125 Euro) This map is BY FAR my favorite thing in this kitchen. Living oversees, we have several people into our home who have traveled the world. It is so fun to sit around the kitchen table, especially as we are preparing dinner, and point to all the places each person has been. AND with three small children, it's great to always have the context to speak about the world, at large (no pun intended!).

Silenced

It's amazing the books you'll pick up in a bookstore when there's only a barren rack of best-sellers under a small sign labeled "Native Language," meaning, I guess, that if you can read the sign, then English must be your native language.

But the ridiculous novels and memoirs were worth a few moments of my time--just to stand in a crowded bookstore behind a book, without struggling through the text, trying to conjugate verbs and recall nouns from my daughter's first grade homework assignments.

"Eat, Pray, Love" was one of those lonely titles on the shelf. And since I just saw the film, I hastily picked it up, although I've on all other occasions avoided my encounter with the book, despite the suggestions to read it from people whose opinions I value.

I knew that the book would find its way into the parts of my mind that I have been training, like a hyper puppy, for years. I am not a person who can simply read a book or watch a movie for entertainment's sake. If I am "involved" in a book or a movie or a show (yes, it's much like a relationship...except it's a bit like dating a dead person), I generally talk about it in all contexts. I can think of a House episode that correlates to some bizarre scenario in life. I talk about whatever book I'm reading at the moment with intense passion...because if it held my attention after the third page, then believe me, I'm passionate about the subject matter. When I've seen a good movie, one that moved me and inspired me, I will likely ask you if you've seen it three or four times, forgetting that I've asked already. I am a hopeless addict in all realms of life. So it's just healthier when I avoid those things that would suck me into another (perhaps unhealthy) world and leave me fantasizing about the what-ifs...the greener grass...

But of course, the opening lines of "Eat, Pray, Love" drew me in, as I knew they would (hence my avoidance), and they coddled my emotions, gave way to whispers of "freedom" and I drew a small breath...and kept reading.

Then it hit me. This chic spent three MONTHS in Italy. This book recounts one YEAR of her life. And no matter how dreamy she made "finding herself" sound, the reality is that she didn't even hit the nitty gritty culture shock of the places she "lived."

Three months is just enough time to fall in love with Italy...or to decide "it's just not the place for me" (although I think the former applies to most people). There are far too many quirks and small pleasures to physically and mentally take in within three month's time. I have been here a little over a year and I'm still enamored everyday. In fact, while I was waiting in line at LIDL (think Aldi, but just take out an L, add an A, and you are so there in line with me), this old man kept rambling to everyone...and then breaking out into song while looking in each person's cart, asking questions that I didn't understand. I expected him to throw his cane down and start dancing, like Charlie's grandpa after he discovers Charlie just found the golden ticket.

Those moments...the ones that make me feel like I'm an extra in a perfectly scripted Italian movie, they make me want to live here forever.

And then there are the other moments.

The really dark moments.

Like yesterday.

I hadn't thought it possible to have a complete and utter meltdown by 9:00 a.m. But indeed the events of the morning perhaps were just a piece of straw laid on top of a half-ton pile of hay that just did the camel in. Seriously, did I just type that?

What I'm trying to say is that it was a normal morning...except for the fact that my alarm clock, which is also my cell phone, was DEAD and thus didn't go off and thus we didn't wake up until twenty minutes before we were supposed to be out the door. Twenty minutes just doesn't cut it when you are working with children who can't find matching socks or decide on what to eat for breakfast. And that's not mentioning the every day whining stuff and the convincing that ensues.

"Mom...I have a headache."

To which I routinely reply, rather heartlessly, "You don't have a fever and you aren't puking. Do you want some medicine?"

And on and on it goes. So of course, we were late for school. Ten minutes late. Our daughter (5) does not handle things well when we are late. She freaks out, convinced her teacher will be mad at her, and clings, claws, cries, pleads, and begs to not have to go into school, and this is all happening while she is being dragged into the school. The secretary (who is also the janitor...and the nurse) knows the routine and has become quite accustomed to it. She reluctantly allowed me to walk Keziah to her classroom, even though this is a big no-no in socialist buildings (also known as neighborhood public schools), where parents are pretty much expected to take off their parental hat and hand it over to said teacher when entering their territory.

So we arrive at the classroom and I'm suddenly hoping that the "nice teacher" (as Keziah refers to her) is there. No such luck. Curly headed "Maestra" (teacher) pops her head out, intimidating me meanwhile with her icy blue eyes and heartless glare. And suddenly she reminds me of Ms. Massingale, my 7th grade Gym teacher. But I tell myself I'm 31 now and she's not forcing me to play dodge ball, even though I just got my period and have really, really bad cramps.

I take a step back, apologizing (once again) for our tardiness, gladly accepting any reprimand, so long as she doesn't take it out on my daughter.

But then...she just keeps going. I'm not catching a good 30% of what she is saying, but I keep hearing "8:30" and "punctual" and "Senyyyora"...and she keeps saying those words over and over again and I'm having scenes from a Stephen King movie flash through my head and she has those gym teacher eyes and I swear...I swear...if I wouldn't have sounded like an angry preschooler due to my lack of intelligent argumentative skills in Italian, I would have given her a piece of my mind. I would have told her all about Mrs. Bryant, Elias' Kindergarten teacher, who saw the value in Thomas and I and our willingness to volunteer in the classroom at the drop of a hat...and how she saw how much we cared for our son and his education and therefore didn't give us a lecture when we were five minutes late. I would have told her how difficult it is to live in a foreign country with no family to help us out when we are in a jam. I would have told her how much it sucks that I have no language skills to defend myself in any situation. How hard I have to work just to help Keziah with her homework.

But instead, I glared at her, trying to show my disapproval of her public reprimand with my "mommy" eyes. I sent Keziah into the den of wolves (pause for dramatic effect) and then turned around just in time for the tears to fill my eyes and begin their ascent onto my freshly "madeup" face. The poor secretary/janitor/nurse lady asked me if I was okay.

"No. Questa non e' va bene. Fata le vuole Keziah lascia a casa perche' siamo diece minuti di ritardo? Questo e' ridiculoso. Non esista questo in America."

At the very moment I strained to pull my words together, the Italian just kept coming out of my mouth, as ridiculous as it may have sounded. I rushed down the stairs, out the door, into the cold, and back into the car where a silent Thomas and Ezra awaited me.

I screamed and said some really nasty things in my native language because I could. I told God I hated this place and that I was done.

We dropped Ezra off at his school. I dropped all my plans for the morning. I knew I needed a good, long cry. Thomas went on his way. I went home.

When I got into our apartment, I rushed for the bathroom (where I have all meltdowns), shut the door, and let out every tear that has been waiting to come out for the last few months (since last bathroom meltdown). I poured my heart out to God, let Him know verbally how I really felt about the situation. I didn't hold back anything. I seldom do. Told Him I needed Him to speak to me, like really speak to me. Like take my face in His hands and speak to me.

There was silence.

And peace.

And I cried and cried. And then they came to me. Images of women all around the world. Women enslaved to abusive men. Women without the right to vote. Women without the right to choose their spouses or a career. Women who have faced injustice on every level and have no right to defend themselves. And for a very, very brief moment, I empathized with them, felt a small sliver of their pain. Not just because of the teacher incident, but because of the bondage of silence. Everyday, every place I go, I long to communicate efficiently. I long to make small talk with cashiers and waiters and parents at my kids' school. Of course I can get my needs met. Of course I can answer some questions and ask a few myself. But I rarely walk away with that feeling I get in the States when I really connect with a total stranger.

Verbal communication is a gift. It is such a gift. And you don't realize it until the capability has been stripped from you. And every step toward learning the other language leaves you feeling like you are getting closer to a mountain only to realize you are further away than what you first imagined the distance to be.

Fluency.

And so in that moment on my bathroom floor, I was silenced. Not because I couldn't speak in my native tongue to the Creator of all nations, tribes and tongues...but because I saw those women. And I knew that this moment was an answer to all of those prayers I prayed to be more compassionate, to empathize with the poor...to help bring the Kingdom of God to earth.

And I knew what my next move was to be.

The tears subsided. I gathered my things, including Elias' forgotten glasses that I promised him I would bring back, got into the car, and headed for the school. I walked in and spotted the kind secretary right away. She greeted me with a smile, as if I hadn't completely had a foreign lady meltdown right in front of her an hour earlier. I held back tears and began my apology.

I thanked her for being so kind to my daughter and assured her that my outburst had nothing to do with her, but so much to do with the fact that I feel like I cannot explain my "cuore" (heart).

Of course she understood. And she kept saying how much she loves Keziah, which meant a lot considering she has seen the absolute worst of the girl. I love when people look for redemption. God knows I need people like that in my life.

I left the school, knowing I had listened to God and responded in the right way. And that always feels good.

All too often, I turn my back on the beatitudes, Jesus’ own words...and seek justice, hate my enemies, and curse those who curse me. But in the corners of my heart, the ones that have been gently rounded off over time, their sharp edges sanded away through experiences I’d rather forget, I know that the Kingdom that Jesus proclaimed is lived out in humble experiences, in the giving up of my rights, the laying down of my will.

In silence.

Silence comes easy when it’s forced. But I cannot help but think that this (me, moving to a country of unknowns) was all in God’s mind when He sent me on my way to a land that would indeed, very literally, silence me. It hurts. It aches.

I typically expect to learn compassion, kindness, and humility through some act of service or in some big moment in life. Not through reprimands from a first grade teacher at 8:40 a.m.



So I put “Eat, Pray, Love” down after about the fifth or sixth page and I walked to a café’ across the way, ordered a cappuccino, and took a seat next to a group of disabled people. I gathered my thoughts and began writing. Because I have not been silenced in this manner.

And I drank the cappuccino slowly, like I always do. And I took my spoon and scooped out all of the sugary foam at the bottom. And I listened to the men next to me, with Cerebral Palsey, communicate the best they could with each other. And I watched as the couple across from me wrapped their bodies into each other as only Italians do. And the clanging of coffee cups and the steaming of milk was the background to all of my thoughts.

And once again and in silence, I was glad to call this place home.