It's odd taking a shower and not being able to see my toes. Or trying to buckle my belt because I can't see the hole. I guess it's just called seven months pregnant, which is what I am now. My bowling ball is starting to look (but not feel) like a Pilates ball. My cheeks are rounder than any cherub's, and photographs feature me with newfound cleavage. My most common state of being is inertia ...More »

As a writer, I spend a lot of time sharpening my pencil and rearranging my desk. I stare at the blinking cursor and think how it resembles that damn metronome that used to tic to madness in my piano lessons until I played a piece properly. But, since last Tuesday's elections, I have felt an itching urge to write. I have never been more interested in American politics as I am now. And I'm glued ...More »

Today I am more than proud to be an American. I have lived in Europe for ten years now. The damage former President Bush has done to America in foreign policy and beyond has been detrimental to its reputation overseas. I've seen enough raised eyebrows and tried to dodge too many questions that have made me uncomfortable for far too long about my country's president. I have experienced many moments where I have been embarrassed ...More »

One of the few people who manages to get me to sit down is my two-year-old son. When he has had enough of my multi-tasking, he commands attention by piping up: "Mamma, sit down." It stops me in my tracks every time. If a toddler notices how much I'm running around trying to do too much at once, then it's time to sit back and revel in the moment that he's craving my attention now. Sitting ...More »

My son's bedroom floats alone on a quirky floor of its own between the ground floor and the first floor, branching off our townhouse like a tree-house. The four yellow, wooden letters stuck to his door announce who sleeps behind it. But the letter "L" often goes missing, leaving just "Uca," which, until only recently, was how my son pronounced his name. He peels it off the door; we tape it back on. My son's bedroom ...More »

Every September, wherever I am, in whatever climate and in whatever state of employment or unemployment I may be, I always feel that back-to-school feeling. This September feels different -- and I realized it today. Last year, returning to Brussels after a glorious holiday spent with friends and family in the States and in Italy, I came back to the lonely world of motherhood and no friends. I'm not saying that to welcome a pity ...More »

In today's Herald Tribune, a profile of Sarah Palin, the Republican vice-presidential candidate, depicts her as one tough lady. This isn't news. But what is news to me is the fact that she kept her most recent pregnancy quiet for eight months from family, friends and colleagues. She managed to do this by hiding her bump with flowing scarves and baggy blouses. So determined was she not to let on to anyone that she was ...More »

In Brussels, life is a box of chocolates. Chocolate is everywhere. And, almost all of it is delicious. My favorite is Pierre Marcolini. But I've been known to devour large quantities of other brand names, too. I didn't drink coffee before I moved to Italy (now I down at least one cappucino every morning, and a daily espresso after lunch). I can't say I didn't eat chocolate before I moved to Brussels. But I didn't ...More »

As Mr. Big Eyes becomes more active and interactive, I feel I need to entertain him more than ever. But sometimes too much stimulation -- a ride on a play car or a puppet show -- is more than his energy level (and, consequently, mine) can handle. Yesterday, I played it simple. It was a beautiful day outside, and I took Mr. Big Eyes and our dog to the park. All three of us sat ...More »

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 ...More »