I have found that Italians have a peculiar way of interpreting time. When my husband says he’ll be there in “cinque minuti,” I’ve learned that really means ten minutes instead of five. When a dinner guest calls to tell me that he’s looking for a parking spot, I know that means he’s just leaving home. And, whenever an Italian asks if he can “buttare la pasta,” I know that usually means we’ll be having dinner about ten minutes later.
During the work week, I spend a lot of time at home wondering when I can “buttare la pasta.” I’ll often put a pot of water to boil on the stove at around 8pm and watch it evaporate as I wait for my husband to come home from work.
On some days, all day with a two-year-old can feel eternal. Mr. Big Eyes usually wakes up anywhere between 6:30 and 7:30 in the morning, and goes to bed about twelve hours later. I’m on all day long, with the exception of a couple of breaks from a fabulous nanny, primarily when Luca takes his afternoon nap, which can last anywhere from 45 minutes to three hours.
On most days, I’m on my own, with my husband sailing in from work usually about an hour after Luca goes to bed. At times, I’ll keep Luca up an extra hour just so his father can see him during the week. But that often results in an early morning wake-up call the next day, which leads to a cranky toddler and an even crankier mother.
I know I’m not alone in this lifestyle of motherhood where you feel that you’re a married but single mom. Being the wife of a hard-working diplomat is not much different than that of an ambitious lawyer, investment banker, or doctor clocking in the hours as he works his way up the totem pole. Yet in speaking to friends in similar predicaments, I sense a general frustration among those of us watching the boiling pot lower its waters to evaporation. It’s not easy for the men either, I realize, as anyone coming home from a long day of work needs time to unwind before switching gears to life at home. But I can’t help but wonder: did our moms suffer from the boiling pot syndrome, too?
Many of my female friends in Brussels who are parents have resorted to life at home, all day and all night. They may have a babysitter but they seem to call on her infrequently. They are married to the idea that a weekend “tete a’ tete” with their husband will come later on down the road, and that weeknights are spent at home. My husband and I have a different schedule, however. We go out at least twice during the work week and usually both nights on the weekend — not just by choice but mostly for work.
Just as he may have a hard time switching gears from putting a foreign policy issue to bed to putting a child to bed, I have a hard time switching languages (French or Italian? Both.) and channeling my mommy brain to topics ranging from the American elections to garbage in Napoli.
I guess this is where my experience as a journalist — or a speed-reading generalist — can come in handy. Before I head off to a reception of a retiring Italian general from NATO or dinner party with people from six different countries, I find myself skimming the NYT website for sound bites of newsy items that might pepper up a conversation or trying to listen to RAI for new Italian topics as I put on my make-up. The editorial and op-ed page of the IHT often give me the best fodder needed on global opinions to avoid my looking like a stunned deer in headlights when asked to express my own opinion about something. As much as I love thinking and talking about my son, I’ve seen enough eyes glaze over in social occasions to realize that I need more in my conversational repertoire than tales of a toddler. I rely mostly on maintaining a sense of humor as I sometimes struggle to keep up with current events.
Reading keeps me sane — even if it’s only two pages of a book or magazine that I manage to squeeze in before the print leaves an impression on my nose and snoring defeats me. To avoid all moments in which my ignorance in current events is revealed, I often ask my dinner party what he is reading. An unscripted question often produces the most interesting conversations. Again, my experience as a journalist, turns me into an interviewer at the dinner table in between courses.
While writing this, my husband just called to tell me that we have three events to go to next week on three separate nights. This week, we had three events on one evening. It’s hard work keeping up with this lifestyle, raising a little boy, and trying to write about it all somewhere in between. As much as I love meeting people, speaking in different languages, and learning about different cultures, I feel as if I’m a marathon runner at times in need of some social Gatorade.
I met an Italian diplomat’s wife the other night who is Argentinian. During her four-year stint in Brussels, she made a documentary about her experience as a foreigner living in a foreign city with her foreign husband. It’s showing at Brussels’ BOZAR right now (“Histoires de Pluie”), and it’s a triumph. I cried throughout it as there was so much that I could relate to in it. She spoke about the making of the documentary after its screening in fluent, flawless French. She blew me away with her gumption, creativity, and perseverance. And, she inspired me to perfect my French which she “picked up” while living in Brussels.
An American lawyer married to an Italian kindly had us over for dinner the other night. He is one of the few Americans I’ve met who speaks two other languages (French and German). When in Rome, I was determined to try to become fluent in Italian as a way of proving that Americans are capable of speaking a foreign language. Here, I want to show that Americans are capable of speaking multiple languages. I get by with my French, resurrecting my high school French and speaking Italian but changing the vowels at the end of words. I slur my ‘rs’ instead of rolling them. And, so far, I seem to be understood. But I want to be able to tell a story in French, and captivate my audience or, better yet, make them laugh. There’s nothing that discourages me more than when I notice the flickering of eyelashes as I struggle to recount my day. Translation: you’re boring me and when will you stop making those excruciating errors?
Maybe the boiling pot syndrome is just what I need to spend time declining those French verbs and enriching my vocabulary. Is all I really need “cinque minuti?” Sometimes I’d just like to bag the French lessons and have my husband home by seven. Good news: he just called again. Butto la pasta.
