First Day at the Bus Stop

Leave it to my daughter to attract a high school boy! Yep, her first day at the bus stop which intermingles high school kids with middle school…. the 6th through the 12th grades….. and who talks to her, but a high school boy! He’s cute and all and it appears he was raised right because he allowed her to get on the bus before him. My friend Tom said the guy had just wanted to check out her legs! Yeah, I’ll be breaking those heels off those shoes when she gets home!

I didn’t have legs like those when I was her age, or maybe I did and I just never saw them! I wasn’t into fashion and dressing up to go to sixth grade. It was the early 70s, and I was happy that we had just been permitted to wear pants to school so that’s ALL I wore! I attended a country school where men were men and sometimes, so were the women. We had to wear dresses with short white socks and Mary Janes until a new school board member who’d attended Woodstock pushed for change. Fast forward to thirty-six years later as I watched my dear girl walk down the sidewalk in her heels, black shirt (just an inch above the knee), denim jacket (with cuffs Frenched thanks to mom’s fashion sense), long blond hair, big blue eyes, fashion specs, and my hoop earrings. Sigh. Darn hippies.

Growing Pains

This is a first for me, er, maybe not. I remember I was very nervous on my daughter’s first day of preschool in Italy. I remember walking back to our house and feeling like I was going to pass out on the sidewalk. This time, I drove her to her first day of middle school. She was supposed to ride the bus and was very excited last night to do so. When the alarm rang at 6 a.m. she asked if I would “PUUUUULLEASE” drive her so she could sleep a little longer. Of course! I wanted to hang on to her for as many more minutes as I could this morning.

On the way home, I thought I was going to throw up in the car. Okay, I hadn’t been feeling all that well lately anyway and had probably picked up a bug at work (or from a shopping cart), but I’m the “cool” mom. I’m the one that has lived out most all her dreams and am even encouraging my daughter’s dream of going to fashion design school in Italy. Uh huh. I should be able to let her go and do and be anything she wants, no matter how far away that takes her from me. At least that’s what I keep telling myself that I should be able to do. Somehow I don’t think I can let her go without me moving back there too. I’m familiar with the country, so what the hell?

This morning should have been no different than any other school year. It’s just a different building, right? But this year, I’m worried. She attended one of four elementary schools in the district. She’s attending the same school where I graduated. Could it be that all my bad experiences on the bus are coloring my peace of mind? You bet your ass they are. I don’t like that the sixth graders are riding the same bus as the high schoolers. Sixth and twelfth together? That’s just asking for trouble. I don’t like that she’s with four other elementary schools’ kids that are probably a little rougher around the edges than she’s accustomed to. She attended the elementary that’s a little more progressive than the others — the curriculum is a little tougher. My graduating class had well over 300 graduates and I’m happy to know that her class will have less than 290. That means less students per teacher. Last year’s ratio was 1:18.

I know the bus thing isn’t the only reason I’m quite nervous about this school year. I analyzed my malaise and can only surmise that it is because I’ve raised her alone. For those that don’t know, I was widowed while I pregnant, so it’s been mom and daughter from the start with a healthy dose of friends and family thrown in for support. My bond with her is still unshakable at the moment; I believe its a result of our years in Italy when we had only the two of us. And although I’m getting plenty of attitude at times, and more hormonal outbursts — she still wants to cuddle with me at the end of the day, still wants her hug and kiss before bed, still wants me to check on her before I go to bed and cover her up, and I still get to call her “lovey” (just not in public).

She came home from school today and was pleased to report that her friends thought it was cool that she was wearing heels, and “fashion” glasses. She told me that one girl even called her a “fashionista.” I’ve no doubt that she’ll want to go back to school tomorrow after such a successful day. I guess now it becomes less about grades and more about how you look while getting those grades! Fabulous…. just as long as the “in” look doesn’t become ‘sexy chic.’ That look is rated ’21 and over’ please.

gloria

Daughter’s First Heels

I bought my daughter’s first pair of heels yesterday. She’s excited. I’m having a stroke. She’s only 11!! Yes, we attend many events throughout the year where a little dressier shoe would be appropriate rather than her forever flats. And yes, I could have said ‘no,’ but she’s worked on me. My dear daughter is very subtle in her manipulation. It’s never whining. She understands that there are times when the budget is limited, and that she can’t have everything that she wants. She’s just as content curled up on the couch with me watching a movie as she is going to the cinema. She’d rather go to Borders and read the magazines for free and simply enjoy a small dessert coffee than to come home with an arm full of teen gossip rags. She’s a good kid. She’s a patient kid. She does the laundry for both of us, takes care of her rabbit and helps clean the house. And she questions. Her manipulation for the shoes consisted of once a week stating (within the context of a discussion we were having, of course…. she’s really slick), ‘but I can’t wear heels until I’m 13, right?’ ‘Right,’ would be my reply. Until yesterday at the store. There was a BOGO for 50% off and we couldn’t find another pair of shoes that would work for ANYTHING. It just wasn’t happening no matter what we looked at, and I already have too many pairs. I walked around the corner and there they were…. a 2 1/2″ black patent pump. I brought them over to her, hoping and praying that she’d say they were too impractical for school (she’s actually very practical for the most part). Yeah, no such luck.

The heels weren’t in my hands for 3 seconds. She grabbed them, put them on and her legs instantly rose to her neck. Hurt me. She said, ‘you know you can’t take these back now.’ Yes, I knew that, so I rewarded her with the heels. I just hate that they are a venue that allows her to walk a little further toward her independence from me.

Oh, and did I mention this is her first year of middle school? Wake me up when she’s ready to graduate please…..

Something’s Gotta Give….

I called my “real” closest girlfriend today. She lives an ocean away in Italy. I hadn’t realized how much I had missed her. I miss my life there too. My daughter and I talk about going back more and more these days. As we see America change and become less friendly even to Americans, we long for the simpler life we had in Italy. We didn’t have much, no one there really does. Even the richest Italians, don’t live like the richest Americans. They may live in palatial villas, but compare their homes to Bill Gates’ and you’ll find it’s not as technologically advanced (of course), or even well-heated with updated plumbing. Grocery stores aren’t as well-stocked. People wear clothes they’ve worn for years. The young people scour the open air markets for decent jeans (okay, so those are better here), fabulous shoes (those are everywhere) and one of a kind fashions. STUFF is cheaper here. I can go to the dollar store and buy all my household cleaning products for under $10! I’d need about $50 in Italy. Food is more expensive; cars are cheaper, but I can expect to pay a few hundred dollars to take the license test. Getting around is a much bigger challenge… fewer roads, rail and bus strikes, and childcare if you don’t have a relative there???…. forget it. It’s damn near impossible to get a babysitter and then they earn as much as I did as an English teacher.

If I went back now, at least I’d be an American-educated Registered Nurse. I know that the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center has a hospital in Palermo, but I can’t see myself living in Sicily…. too many public works left undone that would drive me up the wall.

I miss the slower pace in Europe; the greater reverence for living and no one being able to keep up with the Joneses. I appreciate how easy it is to live in America compared to there; I really do! But there is just something about there as opposed to here. I also appreciate that we have a better education system, although that can depend a great deal on where you live in America. When I first moved there, it took me about four months to really adjust to their way of living. You learn to do without a lot of stuff. After awhile, however, you don’t miss it as much…. and after an even longer time, you can’t imagine why you ever wanted or needed anything except what you have. It’s a simpler life. A more reverent life. You learn to do without air conditioning or screens on your windows for that matter — you don’t need them. You drink homemade wine, eat the freshest tomatoes and learn the difference between a good olive oil and a bad one. And I swear the sun there doesn’t scorch your skin like it does here, even though the heat comes up from Africa! I NEVER burned there and never wore sunscreen, figure that one out.

I think what I miss more than anything is the history and walking by building after building that has stood for thousands of years. We don’t even have anything 500 years old here.

I remember sending pictures back to the States of my visit to the Roman Forum. My dear young nephew exclaimed, “Yuck, why would she want to live there? It’s so run down!” Well, I’d move back tomorrow if I didn’t have to pack and start all over again. My daughter would be at a disadvantage for forgetting her Italian, but she could be tutored or better yet, enrolled at the International school in Rome.

I have more “stuff”…. or should I say more “convenient stuff” here. I indulge in my favorite pastimes — garage sailing in the summer and sipping expensive coffees on the patio of Starbucks and traveling freely between the States. You would think the lure of the easy would quiet my wanderlust and quench any desire to live in a country where you have to buy extra milk on Fridays because you may not find an open store until Monday afternoon!

With all the conveniences available to me in a country where I am a natural born citizen, I have to ask myself, are the conveniences merely a temptation which prevent me from living the life that wants to live in me?