“屁股! 屁股!” shouted Sasha as we wandered through the corridors of the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. Translation: “Butt! Butt!” Which was kind of also my reaction to the incredible collection of sculptures and busts: what a lot of glorious nudity!
But Sasha’s understanding and interpretation of the classics wasn’t just limited to recognizing bare bottoms. “He’s sad,” Sasha said in front of a statue of Hercules and a centaur, the hero pulling on the beast’s head. She meant the centaur, but why? “Because he [Hercules] wants to wash his hair.” Ah, of course. That makes sense. If it would make Sasha sad, it stands to reason it would sadden a centaur as well.
Elsewhere, Sasha continued looking at classical art from a different point of view. At a statue representing the rape of the Sabine women, Sasha gave the rapist a time out for fighting. Very appropriate, although a T.O. at such a critical juncture might have prevented, or limited, the rise of Rome. As we looked at yet another painting of the Madonna and child, Sasha gave her interpretation: “The baby likes the princess.” Well, yes!
And then we were back to nudity. “He has no clothes on,” she said of Michelangelo’s David. “He needs to peepee.” Perhaps, I thought, although when I have to pee, the expression on my face is usually not so reflective.
The effect that the David, often considered the ultimate expression of Western art, had on Sasha was not just titillating. No, by the time we left, its power and majesty and eloquence had reduced her to tears. At least, I think that’s why she was crying.
As I’m writing this, I’m in our apartment listening to my mother-in-law debrief the children after last night, when she looked after the kids for a few hours.
“I heard that two little birdies told their mother that I didn’t feed them any dinner last night.”
“Two little birdies?”
“You. You two. You told your mom that I sent you to bed without any food.”
For the record, the kids had been given dinner, though it consisted entirely of Mexican pastries. But the no-snitches message (remember Baltimore’s byword: “snitches get stitches and end up in ditches”) was clear enough.
Now, whether “stop snitching” is a lesson my mother-in-law should be teaching my children is a question best left to someone else to answer. But even if she’s enforcing omerta, I don’t have big gripes about my wife’s mother. Not since we realized how much child care with strangers costs. And especially not since she learned how to connect to the Internet a while ago and could theoretically be reading this on an actual web browser now.
IF I had an issue with my in-laws, however, I sure as hell know what I would do to solve the problem: take part in a reality show about those problems. Yes, the same salve–cable TV–that saved Jon and Kate’s marriage and rescued Sarah Palin’s political career could be yours as well. DadWagon was contacted last week (not paid!) about just such an opportunity for you to trot out all your dirt in front of the cameras for the second season of Monster-in-Laws. From their producers:
“MONSTER IN-LAWS” on A&E Is Now Casting Nationwide
Are you struggling to maintain a relationship with an out-of-control in-law?
Is a cultural or background divide challenging your relationship?
Does the statement, “When mom/dad says no, ask grandma/grandpa” ring true in your family?
Does your mother or father-in-law still baby your husband/wife, challenge your parenting style or openly disrespect you?
If you’re desperate to repair your relationship with an in-law before it’s too late, we want to hear from you! Families who appear on the show will have the opportunity to work with a professional relationship expert who will help them to identify their issues and repair their relationships. Families who appear on the show will receive a financial honorarium as a “thank you” for their time and commitment to the show. In addition, we offer a finder’s fee for anyone who nominates a family that appears on the show.
Rome is a city of piazzas and cobblestones, hills and catacombs, high heels and pick-up soccer games—that is, a walking city. Which is to say, if you’re there with a 3-year-old, you’re fucked.
Well, that’s maybe putting it a bit strongly. Sasha has held up pretty well here, considering her jetlag and our erratic use of public transportation. She’ll walk for a while, run across the streets (holding hands, of course), and play happily at the Piazza Vittorio playground. But then comes “Daddy, I’m tired!” or “I want 抱抱!” or simply a whiny “Shoulders!”
Sometimes we give in, especially if it really is the late afternoon and she really is exhausted. (Hasn’t been napping much.) Often, we’ll bargain it out: “Sasha, let’s get to the next corner/the bottom of the hill/the pink building, and then I’ll pick you up.” It keeps her on the ground and happy, and lets me rest up a bit before the inevitable.
And so here’s what I’m curious about: After three years of carrying this kid around, in an Ergo, in my arms, on my shoulders, I don’t feel any stronger. The kid is as much dead weight as ever, if not more, and my back and neck and shoulders hurt to exactly the same degree they did a year ago, when she was maybe eight or ten pounds lighter. Why is this? Shouldn’t the regular exercise improve my strength and overall endurance? Instead, I’m achier than ever.
Maybe, and this is only a theory, Sasha is secretly sapping my vitality when I hold her—aging me and transferring much-needed energy into her reserves. If so, I think this warrants a feature in the New York Times Health section.
Sasha's first night in Rome: sampling San Crispino gelato at the Trevi Fountain. A good start, no?
About nine months ago, Jean, Sasha and I attempted to visit Jean’s family in Taiwan. The trip was an almost unmitigated disaster. The moment we got on the airplane, Sasha was scared out of her not-quite-2-and-a-half-year-old wits. “I scared! I scared! she screamed, trying desperately to climb out of her own seat and into Jean’s lap. The flight attendants were not pleased. Nor were we. Once we’d reached cruising altitude, things got better (i.e., quieter), but we realized we were looking at many more hours in the air, plus a landing-and-takeoff-and-landing. Fuck. Let’s not even get into the week of extreme jetlag, universal crankiness, and touristic ambition that followed. It was not an adventure to be repeated.
At least, not until now. For the next two weeks, we are here in Rome, and things have gone—knock on wood—surprisingly smoothly so far. Almost two months ago, we began planning, mostly by preparing Sasha for the trip: getting her excited about Italy, letting her know what we’d be doing here, and informing her about the experience of being on a plane. Two books helped immensely:
1. Going on a Plane, a pretty self-explanatory book by Anne Civardi, takes us on a family trip with the Tripp family, following them as they pack suitcases, go through X-ray (but not backscatter) machines, wear seatbelts, struggle with the baggage carousel, and get ripped off by a foreign cab driver. It’s not exactly sexy or creatively drawn, but it got Sasha familiar with the basics. By the time we boarded the Alitalia flight at JFK, she knew all about overhead compartments, strapped on the seatbelt without question, and recognized—without fear—the noise of the engines. She even resisted holding hands as the plane took off—”I’m not scared!”—until we reminded her that it was, in fact, Mommy who was scared. When we finally deplaned in Rome, the woman behind us told me Sasha had been wonderful—and complained about traveling with her own child. Victory!
2. This Is Rome, the beautifully illustrated children’s book by Miroslav Sasek, is a fantastic introduction to the sights of the Eternal City. And even if its text is above the level of a 3-year-old, we’ve been making up words to go along with everything. From reading the book together, Sasha knows that Rome is all about eating pizza, noodles, and ice cream. Which is about as sophisticated as most adults ever get. Surprisingly, though, the book is also a good intro guide for us as well, and we’ll probably be using it to figure out which sites to visit, if only so we can say to Sasha, “Look! Do you remember that from the book?”
Of course, we’ve only been here a little over 24 hours. There’s still plenty of time for things to go horribly, horribly wrong. And to tell the truth, jetlag has left us all (i.e., me) a bit exhausted and cranky. But all in all, we’re doing 1000% better than last March. More updates to come, this week and next. Oh, and if you have recommendations for family-friendly things to do (and places to eat) here, I’d love to read them in the comments.
