One of the unexpected benefits of our time in Italy this summer was Dex and Neve’s sudden realization that relative to the rest of the world’s children, they actually aren’t so short. 

Over the past year, both Dex and Neve have become hyper-aware of their size, dare I say sensitive. Neve reminded me on a weekly basis that she was the smallest person in her class, and I don’t know what his classmates are being fed, but a full 60% of Dex’s classmates are taller than me. Dex is on a new program to gain weight because he doesn’t want to get blown off the playing field during games this year. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that  he had to catch for a Little League pitcher this year who, at 11, was already 5′9 and 185. He iced his hand after every game.

It’s foreign to Tom and I how concerned they both are about being small. Neither of us, both technically “short,” ever really cared. The only time it crossed my mind was when I was moving up the ladder of elite sports and a coach might mention it every now and then, but you know, everyone was smaller back in the day. I look at the kids on my nieces’ hockey teams and I consider them huge. The biggest player on my college team was 5′7 and 135. Ever watch our US track team compete against other countries? As they go down the lanes introducing runners from Czech Republic, France, Greece, GB, and all these athletes seem wiry and strong, but then they pan to the US runners, who look 6 inches  taller and 50 pounds heavier than any one else (well, except the Germans).

It is just another item in the list of ways in which kids differentiate one from the other. The clothes, the look, the hair, the physique, the family, the neighborhood, the hobbies, the “being in the know” on everything from music to videos to tv shows. The cool from the uncool. It is a rite of passage, one we all endured, but there were a lot less things to be aware of in the 70’s. I was teased for wearing glasses and polyester double-knit suits, and I survived. I wish there was a way to make it easier for them, a way to make other kids kinder, yet I can’t. There are lots of things I’d prefer they don’t have to endure, but I can’t, and I shouldn’t.

But I can buy them cool t-shirts, which is exactly what we shopped for in Rome.

Both kids actually had to go up a size from their age, as opposed to here, where they are two sizes smaller than their age. So they loved that. And when they played with Italian kids in the piazza, they’d exchange names and ages and they were always stunned by how much younger they thought the kids were. “You’re 9? You’re kidding me!” I heard Neve exclaim one night.

Later, I overheard them as we headed home.

“Hey, Dex.”

“Yeah.”

“If we lived here, we’d be one the biggest kids in the class!”

“Yeah . . ..” Dex replied and offered his hand up for a high five. “Cool.”

So much for my traveler’s high. I’ve spent all my time since I returned sorting out the  water damage incurred by various leaks that sprang in our house while we were gone. Buckled floors, ruined rugs, a moldy basement and a warped coffee table were only the first offenses. The insurance adjuster was as baffled as I was. I felt like  detective trying to piece together how all of this had happened, how all of it was related and how to fix all of it, as workmen filed in out giving me opinions and estimates. And then all the rain began again, and I’ve been hesitant to leave the house because I am on mop and bucket brigade. How quickly I fell into a funk. As Tom said to me one night, “Uh oh. You have that look.”

“What look?”

“That look that says, ‘between the kids and house and aging parent I am going to have to give up working.’” He looked a me over his glasses. “That, all those books that will never get written, my dream is slowing dying look.”

Usually this is a joke between us, since we both know there have been a lot of bumps in both of our careers because we always choose people over accomplishment. But much to both of our surprise, I said, “Yeah,” and I began to cry.

Maybe it was the extremes. Maybe it was coming back from such a wonderful experience to such painfully mundane but crucial problems. There was a good chunk of exhaustion and overwhelment, of course, But I think it comes down to freedom. Feeling chained to a set of tasks, a role, expectations and problem solving, planning and execution for a whole group of people is my usual mode, and for 17 years now I have just done it, as most people do. But for three weeks I was free of the majority of the things I manage, and I loved it. The ongoing mental list simply faded away. Now I am back into my practical role in the extreme, and the shift in perspective I had on the trip has left me questioning how much I really want to manage all these things. I had a taste of freedom for three weeks and I am unquestionably greedy for more.

And that is the real cost of travel for me.

I got a few emails asking, “Where are you?”  I have to admit, it is lovely to be missed, but I was having a marvelous time. I went silent for a month only because I was under Italy’s spell. 

Before I left, I joked that I was either crazy or stupid to take a 19 month old to Europe at all, especially in the heat of the summer. But so many factors were at stake, not the least among them that I wanted to prove to myself that we were still a mobile family despite the addition of the baby. Prior to Colin’s arrival, I had been researching teaching positions in Spain, hoping to expose the older two to a different pace of life. But things got complicated, my mother got ill and came to live with us, and a year in Spain whittled down to six months, then three . . . and Tom started to panic about his work, and I got more and more deflated. Then the kids became obsessed with Italy, and so when the chance to go there came up, I jumped on it.

The planning, the packing, keeping Colin happy during 24 hours of flying, enduring the nausea driven by serpentine country roads  — it was all worth it. I lived abroad when I was younger, and did the whole Eurail thing, and Tom had done similar trips with his buddies, so we had already seen the “sights.” Thus, we were able to focus on the kids, go at their pace, and actually live more like locals than tourists. That is where Colin really showed his strength. What some would consider the problems of taking a toddler really became advantages. We could only move as fast as he did, which meant we really observed a lot more than we might have otherwise. We had many delightful encounters with Italians because of Colin, either because they were so taken with him or because he marched right up and insinuated himself in their situation, running around piazzas, hiding under cafe tables, chasing all the cats. Got to love a country where multiple people offer to buy your cranky kid a gelato instead of shooting you cold, hard looks of disdain.

There were so many wonderful moments, big and small, so much to relate, so many insights into my kids and their character, it is hard to know where to start.

Neve showed me her diary entries about the trip, and her first line was, “Oh . . .my . . . gosh. Where or where do I begin?” I feel exactly the same way.

I’ll leave you with this, though. Colin runs around saying “ciao” and “Vespa,” Dex and Neve are automatically saying “grazie” and “prego” to each other, and I overheard Dex saying to his friend on the phone, “Dude, the Coliseum was awesome, but you really need to check out those medieval hill towns, man. Gubbio is totally cool.” Ah, makes my heart a-flutter.