How can this be?

My daughter hates shoes. She is literally afraid of her shoes. All of them. I. Am. Not. Kidding. How could this happen to me? To you?! Yes, to me! I honestly don’t care why she doesn’t like shoes, but she’s my kid, how can this be? Because, for those of you who don’t know me, I love shoes, I live for shoes, I will buy crappy, cheap clothes and dress them up with uber expensive shoes. I literally own hundreds of pairs of shoes, to my husband’s endless despair. So to have a daughter who cries, shaking and screaming whenever I try to put shoes on her, seriously, it’s the universe punishing me, terribly and unequivocally for all of the ills in the world.

Just to give you an example, these are her first shoes:

These she wore (of course she did, she wasn’t even aware of actually having feet back then). But then, and this is where I believe it all went to sh*t, once she started moving around I put her in Robeez, or Robeez-like shoes. She has like twenty pairs (in her current size, not overall, are you kidding me!), I love these slipper like shoes because they’re comfortable, adorable (she’s got them with flowers, and butterfies, and ladybugs, and kitties, and doggies… in pink, and white, and green, and blue, and red and… well, you get the picture), and it’s like she’s barefoot all the time, but her feet are protected better than just with socks. But of course there comes a time when you want to dress up your little girl and put her in a cute pair of patent leather mary janes (for example), or the temperature drops and you want her to wear the cutest pair of teeny tiny brown baby uggs, and she stares at her feet wide eyed and starts shaking her arms and legs and emitting a high-pitched, siren-like screech that makes your blood run cold, and you wonder… is she really mine?

Now, of course I know she’s mine. Apart from the fact that I watched her being born, and that for the first month of her life she looked exactly like her brother, so no chance of her having been switched in the hospital (seriously, some pictures of the two of them the husband and I are like, huh, which one is this? Oh, wait, is that a little pink corner of a baby blanket? Huh, it must be the girl then), now she looks exactly like me (at her age, I’m not trying to imply I have the complexion of a one year old). So basically no chance of her not belonging in this family. But she hates shoes. How can this be? But most importantly, how do I solve this? brain washing? Maybe I can make shoes an integral part of her life, I’m thinking a shoe shaped bed, shoe print sheets and towels, maybe a shoe stuffed animal or two, just so that she starts feeling comfortable with the concept… I can even read her that nursery rhyme… there was an old lady who lived in a shoe…

But seriously, I have to get her over her aversion to shoes, I refuse to have a barefoot Christmas, or New Years. Plus, on a practical level, it’s snowing now, and she’s walking, at this point I can’t even let her out in the yard lest she get frostbite. I mean really, I can’t let those Uggs go to waste, and there’s another pair, in pink, on its way to me from the US. What do I do? I mean, really, what do I do? Said the old lady who lives for her shoes….

Vairy, vairy Hairy

I’ve got a hairy leg dilemma. You see, my legs are very, very hairy right now. To the point that I have to wear pants, tights just don’t cut it as I now have the hairiness poking through and it looks like I’m wearing weird angora tights. In fact, I hadn’t really noticed the state of my legs, as the husband and I are on hiatus due to health issues right now, and all the extra hair actually just helped keep me warm what with the first snow falling and all. In truth, the only reason I even noticed was because I wore a dress on Thanksgiving with black tights and halfway through dinner looked down and thought, what’s with all the fuzz on my tights? Aaack, how did my legs get so hairy??!!

So what’s the dilemma, you may ask. Well, you see, I hate shaving, it’s time consuming (once I start I have to do it every day, cause the only thing I hate more than vairy hairy legs is spiky legs), I live in Italy, hence my shower is tiny, hence when I bend down to shave my legs I get the whole rear on cold tile effect, which frankly is bothersome as I’m already bothered cause of the having to shave thing. I usually wax, but this entails me making (and keeping) an appointment, leaving the kiddos and driving twenty minutes to the appointment… etc, basically wasting 3 hours when the whole thing takes at most thirty minutes. Also, if you’ve never waxed before you may not know this, but the longer the hair, the more painful the procedure. Right now, I would probably need an epidural to get through it. So, what do I do? No, really, what do I do?  It’s just, well, honestly it’s getting embarrassing, I went to pilates on Friday and spent half the session readjusting my pant leg so you couldn’t see my hairy ankles. The indecision… it’s driving me nuts. Plus, the longer I wait the harder it is to just get it done. And then I start thinking, maybe I’ll forget about my legs, simply basking in the added warmth of my natural leg warmers, and then the husband and I will decide it’s time to end the hiatus, and after all the issues with his health, literally surviving cancer, I’m going to end up killing him with a heart attack from utter horror.  

Missing in action

I’ve been MIA the past few days. We had the Girl’s birthday on Tuesday, Thanksgiving on Thursday, the Girl’s birthday party on Saturday, on Sunday the girl decided it was time to start walking,  and today it also snowed and that just sent me over the edge. Oh, and Monday I went to a cake decorating get together, where a chef friend taught us basic decorating techniques. All posts coming soon! Also, the girls is teething. Not just any boring teething, her gums are swollen, she's got the mother of all diaper rashes, her mood is deathly, she's ODing on Motrin, and her mother (me) is doing not a damn think about it, and the stupid teeth just won't cut the gums and get it over with already! All this makes her want to torture us (and by us, I mean me) at night, she's in pain so she damn well better not catch me sleeping! For almost a week now. Basically, lack of sleep has impaired my ability to operate machinery at this point, and that includes the computer.

 So for now pictures:



moi and my chef d'oeuvre. first turkey I've roasted on my own. the tension in my face? due to the 20 pounds between bird and serving dish I'm holding - not constipation.



the artist, formerly known as Husband

now I'm hungry again....

Birthday Girl in her Birthday Girl Dress

She got a birthday cheesecake too. Hers is strawberry, and properly cooked, unlike mine was. Lucky girl!

the spread
(that second cake, it's carrot cake. what? are you kidding?, she couldn't have just one cake on her birthday!)

the whole family gets to blow their germs on the cake!

What?

That's all folks!

Happy Birthday, Darling Girl

Today is a special day, my baby girl turns one year old, and my mind has been a year away all day. Last year today I got a wonderful gift, a tiny, reddish, warm, cuddly gift.

Fair warning: the following few paragraphs describe my labor and her birth. If this is too much information for your delicate dispositions scroll on down and just check out the pictures of the birthday girl.

Last year on Sunday the 22^nd at 6pm I started feeling cramps, I was tired from lugging around my enormous belly, my back hurt, my feet were swollen and I had missed my afternoon nap. The baby boy was whiny, he wanted my attention, he must have known something was up, though I didn’t yet. I’d been crampy all week. I just wanted the stupid Braxton Hicks contractions to stop already cause I needed to relax and watch a movie. So, I put the boy to bed, took a bath (hoping the damn contractions would stop) and settled in bed to watch a movie (17 again, a masterpiece of cinematography starring Matt Perry and Zack Efron, that is now inextricably linked to one of the most important days in my life). But damn, were those contractions bothering me. At around ten pm we call our midwife (I had decided that I wanted to do as much of the labor as possible at home. Yes, crazy pregnancy hormones), she says try and get some sleep, there’s plenty of time, it’s probably false labor, call me when they’re three minutes apart. And at 12.30 am we call. She gets to my house and announces the torture won’t end until at least 2pm that afternoon. 14 more hours…. I can do it, it’s not so bad. At 4am I was lying in my bed hoping for death, after having done everything short of a ritualistic rain dance to relieve the pain naturally, and mentally kicking myself for not having a scheduled c-section. By 5am I was screaming at the midwife to call the hospital and find out if there was an anesthesiologist available for an epidural cause no way was breathing going to get me through the morning. (Of course I was only mentally screaming at the midwife, in reality I was doing that really emphatic whispering one does when pissed but unable to make noise, cause I didn’t want to wake the boy up in the next room). Of course, she didn’t call the hospital because I had insisted to her, the husband and everyone else I know throughout the entire pregnancy that I didn’t want another c-section, I wanted a vbac and an epidural greatly increases your chances of having another c-section, hence I didn’t want an epidural. Note to self, when pregnant avoid giving the people around you directions regarding labor that you will come to greatly regret during the actual event. At six she notices a change in me (how, I will never know) and decides it’s time for another exam (the second one since her arrival as I was not letting her or anyone else near me, the only thing I could tolerate her occasionally doing was checking the baby’s heartbeat, for a few minutes) and I will never forget the look of surprise on her face, nor the calm voice with which she said: you’re at 8cm, we need to go NOW.

At this point I need to take a second to clarify for those who have never given birth drugless or at all, that if you tell a woman who is twice her regular size, carrying what feels like a hot air balloon in front of her and who’s been in active labor for what feels like eons to get up, get dressed and get in the car to go to the hospital now, now, now the only reaction you’re likely to get is hysterical laughter, or a fireball in your face from the intensity of the hatred in her glare.

Suffice it to say that I got up, almost mauled the husband when he couldn’t find my pink sweat pants (without which I evidently could not give birth), got dressed and made my way to the car, in the midst of massive, body breaking contractions, cause the baby had decided it was time to GET OUT. All I remember of the drive to the hospital was the midwife yelling DON’T PUSH at me repeatedly, that I hadn’t put my seatbelt on cause I was in too much pain, that she was driving so fast that I had to hold on with both hands, and that I really, really wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, but was afraid the baby would pop out in the car and we really couldn’t have that. Finally, we arrive, the OB on duty examines me and catapults me to the labor room as I am now at ten centimeters and it’s time to start PUSHING. Bizarrely this part was less painful than what preceded it, though way, way more surreal. (but I’ll spare you the description)

 I walked into the hospital a little after 6am the girl was born at 7.08. I held her in my arms as soon as she was born; she fell asleep right away, not surprising, after all the work she did to get out.

And today she walked. Four steps to come to me, not by accident like the other times, but purposely and she didn’t fall on her butt when she got to her destination. She now gives me kisses. Not when I ask, of course, but random, big, open mouth kisses. She says Mama (to me!), and Pa-pà (to her daddy) and pàppppppa (that’s food), and eh, when she wants you to look at her. When the boy doesn’t pay enough attention to her, she gets right in his face and whacks him open handed on the chest. She wants to taste everything you’re eating, she pulls at her hair when she’s frustrated, she loves dogs, from afar, she loves technology (from up close!) especially my iphone and ipad. When we call her, she shakes her head no, with a mischievous smile on her face, and makes big dramatic scenes when we say no to her. She plays peek-a-boo with me while she nurses by covering her eyes with her hand. Today I looked at her, sleeping in my arms, and thought back to the first time I held her. She’s so big already, where does the time go? Today someone said to me, “she’s only one year old!” , but all day I’ve been thinking, with a knot in my throat and a weight on my heart: “she’s already one year old!”. She’s a toddler. She’s my baby.

Happy Birthday, baby girl, you make my heart sing, your smile lights up my life, and I’m so lucky to have you.

Can I touch the cupcakes?

Us

A year ago today

Stuff that amazes me

Today our friend D, introduced in this post, is running the Philadelphia marathon. Two weeks after NYC marathon. What is with these crazy running masochists? Blame it on the endorphins, I guess. Putting my slightly envious streak aside, I just wanted to say that D, we’re thinking of you, virtually running with you (so that’s what’s slowing you down, just so you know!), and totally cheering you on. From Italy. But if you listen closely you’ll hear us: VAI, D, VAI!

Stuff that amazes me

I announce to the Boy that we’re going to the supermarket and he starts gathering essentials: his protective eyewear, his Zorro hat, his gun, his sword, his tool kit, his lovey Leo, and his binky. Methinks he takes after his Mama, if you don’t believe me just take a look in my purse.

excuse the crap quality picture, but I'm not photoshop literate yet.

This life

Today we went to Milan for a few hours, actually we probably spent more time in the car driving there and back than in the actual city. (240km or about 2 hours each way, though we got stuck in traffic around Torino so it was significantly longer – though that’s neither here nor there). We hadn’t been back for over a year (for obvious reasons) and this time we drove through our old neighborhood to get to our appointment. It was surreal. Things had changed, but they were exactly the same. We spent the whole (ten minute) drive going: oh look, our favorite Japanese, oooh a new store there, look, didn’t we see an apartment in this building, and that one, and that other one? (we saw a lot of apartments in Milan over 3 plus years, but somehow never managed to buy anything). It was sad and familiar and nostalgic and strange, thinking of this other life we lived, in a big bustling metropolis, with no kids, in a tiny apartment, going to the gym at 7am before work, taking the subway, never having allergies cause there’s not enough plant-life to make me allergic. And we looked at each other and wondered, would we go back? Moving to Cuneo was hard, we left friends, a life, a city we loved and moved out in the middle of nowhere. Don’t get me wrong, we made more friends, Cuneo is cute and now that we have kids it’s much, much easier than a big city; but we liked Milan, we liked having options, restaurants, bars, stores, entertainment, loads of things to do. Also, we moved to Cuneo and left family, friends, my Dad died, Alex got sick, so when we think back we imagine ourselves young(er), healthy, safe, with fewer responsibilities.

But then I called home, to check in, and the boy “Mama, where you?” with the girl squealing in the background. And well, we realized our life is perfectly imperfect the way it is. Would I raise my kids in Milan? No. I like that they have a yard to play in, that the air here is clean, that you see middle schoolers walking home from school, alone, safe, that life is relatively uncomplicated; I don’t like that we have fewer options, fewer things to do, there’s no International school (which for me is a big deal), we’re often perceived as strange because we have different customs, we speak a foreign language, we have different views and opinions. But, no place is perfect. You make the best of what you have, right? We still love Milan, and we are happy to go back, occasionally, and be nostalgic for the life that was, but then we get home to big smiles and little arms and “Mama miss you” and we realize that this life, this life that we’re living right now, is perfect for us.

Us in front of one of our old haunts Bar Magenta

Sandwiches at Panino Giusto, Perfection!



Me and the best Tiramisu in the world (though I look like I'm feeling ill, I was actually laughing)



Why Mama, why?

The boy is almost three.  A few months ago he started in with the occasionally “why, mama, why”. We thought it was cute, plus I had always said that I was really going to make an effort to answer all my kids’ questions and really pay attention to them. So the other day we were watching some show on tv with pirate ships and the ships’ cannons were shooting at another ship, so he asks “why shooting, mama, why?” and of course I answer that that’s what pirates do, they have cannons on their ships to protect themselves (he gets PG answers, of course) and they navigate the seas to rob other ships and fight, cause… that’s what pirates do. He nodded like it all made perfect sense and went on with his life. The next day, we’re in the middle of his naptime routine and he starts asking me about the cannons again. “Why cannons, mama, why?” So I repeat the above answer and move on to “why shooting, mama, why?” well, I answer, because that’s how pirates defend themselves, with guns and swords and cannons, you remember when you dressed as a pirate you had a gun and a sword, right? “why boom, mama, why?” well, I answered, because cannons have a ball inside them that shoots out and goes boom and breaks the other ship. And so on and so forth for quite a while. And then somehow I hear myself answering the 34^th question about the cannons with: they’re like big guns, except cannons shoot at ships and guns shoot at people, and the boy: guns break people, mama? At this point, I had an out of body experience whereby I was looking at myself sitting on the armchair with my almost three year old in my lap, wondering how the heck I had gotten myself into this conversation that I had no idea how to handle and I was yelling at myself, shut up, shut up, shut up!

But of course I didn’t shut up, shut up, shut up… I went on to explain how guns shoot a little ball (cannons shoot a big ball) and if the little ball hits a person they get a really bad owie and bleed and can even die, as in they go to heaven with the angels.
And I swear to you, out of body me was staring at me, shaking her head in horror and going change the freaking subject you moron! But, well, I wasn’t paying attention to out of body me, so the conversation continued for quite a while.

So this little event, in which I did a truly horrible job of both explaining and avoiding what I consider a really sticky subject for such a small kid has got me thinking about what I should’ve, could’ve, would’ve done.

I mean, how do I explain violence, and firearms, and death to a toddler. And really, should I be explaining it at all or should I have changed the subject and left him wondering about it, albeit for a really short time considering the average toddler’s attention span. I honestly don’t know.

Part of the problem is that I don’t know how I feel about the subject myself, so I don’t know exactly how I want to handle it with the kids.

Obviously, having grown up in Texas gun use and gun ownership was pretty common. Most people I know had some sort of firearm in their house. I mean, even my extremely liberal Dad, who I’d be hard pressed to believe ever shot at anything in his life (and he was a young man during WWII) had a rifle at home, he even went so far as to have cartridges.  I’m pretty certain I have the basic knowledge to load and shoot a gun or rifle myself. (whether I actually hit the target is another story!) But I live in Italy, where guns are the devil and rifles are only used for hunting by those fanatics, plus you’re not allowed to shoot at an intruder in your house anyway so what would be the point of owning one? And so my own view of firearms has changed over time. I still think that my kids will need to learn about firearm safety, and I’ll probably take them to a shooting range at some point so they know what they’re dealing with (hey, you never know, what if the world ends and we have to go back to hunting and gathering?), but do I really want my toddler to understand that the real version of that toy he’s playing with will actually kill someone? How do we keep our children innocent, when we’re surrounded by violence? And, no, I’m not judging it, though I don’t like it this is the world we live in. So what do I tell him when he asks about these things? Cause if I avoid the questions I’m afraid he’ll read in my reticence that it’s a forbidden, therefore interesting, subject, but I don’t want to fall in the too much information trap either, I mean he’s not even three yet. And also, there’s a lot of violence in the history of mankind, do I simplify history or change it to explain away some of the unsavory things that happened. Cause what if we watch “The Sword in the Stone” and get into a whole drawn out “why” sequence there, I mean, how am I supposed to explain the middle ages?

And all this leaves me wondering, I have many, many years of “why mama, why” ahead of me and this includes conversations that are possibly even scarier than death and violence, like sex, should I just start implementing a no question policy at my house?
But seriously, how do you deal with the tough questions?

Lasagna, salad and Meringues

Saturday we had our BFFs from Milan over for the day (2.5 hour drive each way, with kids, they love us!) and since one of my friends is a food blogger (an actual food blogger, who posts recipes that usually don’t involve pre-made stuff, unlike yours truly! Check her out at Nuts about food) I went into a bit of a panic when I realized I was going to have to cook… actual, real food… for everyone… yikes! So I made a Lasagna… and salad… and the husband bought dessert… I shouldn’t even have a food section on this blog!

Also, I made it with ready-made pasta sheets, it comes out quite well, but it’s nothing compared to making it with homemade pasta. My mom used to make several lasagnas at a time (due to the hassle of making fresh pasta) and freeze them, I’m planning on following in her footsteps as soon as I manage to empty my freezer of the insane amounts of homemade vegetable puree cubes and jars for the baby… any day now…

Anyway, here’s the Lasagna, it tasted about a gazillion times better than it looks!

This is what you need:

I made two lasagnas which worked out great cause there was nothing left when we were done with them! But the ingredients here are for just one lasagna.

Changes to Moomser

I have decided to rearrange things a little here on Moomser, Moomser Food and Moomser Baby. I’ve decided to group everything under one blog: Moomser (www.moomser.com)

I simply am not organized enough at this point in my life to maintain three separate blogs. I’ll still be writing about the same things, I’ll still be posting recipes and talking about specific child-related concerns, you’ll just find it all under Moomser along with the slightly neurotic ramblings of my sleep deprived brain. And if you’re just interested in recipes or babies you can click up top on Moomser Food and it’ll automatically select only the posts labeled food (recipes and such), or on Moomser Baby for the baby and child stuff. I hope this works for you! Any suggestions are welcome as always.

I will eventually be shutting down the separate moomserfood.blogspot and moomserbaby.blogspot accounts so if you've bookmarked anything you won't find it anymore, but it's all on moomser.com already. (phew! sorry about the confusion!)