Not what I’d planned…

Clockwise from top left: hiking in the Alps, a sailing camp Gemma attended, cookie-attack at 3 am, a teeny canal house in Amsterdam, Rembrandt’s studio, Gemma and her cousin as flower girls with Anna, the bride

I said I’d give you a blow-by-blow account of Operation Roma: moving my little family (my husband, our daughter, our dog, and myself) to Rome for our daughter’s 5th grade school year.

Well, I got a LITTLE overwhelmed.

I was going to tell you how, 24 hours before our renters moved in, a workman carefully smeared adhesive on the wrong side of the flooring material so we had to rip it out leaving the laundry room dangerous to stand in because you’d get permanently glued to the floor like Loony Tunes’ Wile E. Coyote.

I was going to tell you about Gemma’s and my giggles- and jetlag-induced 3:00 am late-June raid on the crispy, crumbly chocolate-chip cookies my mom made and how it took me back to my teenage years when I last did the same.

I was going to tell you about living under one roof in the family home with my mother, brother, sister-in law, niece, their cat, my husband, our daughter, our cranky dog, adhering to the terms of an unspoken Entente Cordiale and occasionally conducting peace treaty negotiations after a Blown Fuse (usually my own).

I was going to tell you about the dream-like family wedding we attended in Tuscany, where Gemma and her cousin were flower girls and where we wept at the moving words spoken to each other by the bride and groom as the sun cast a golden glow over the almost comically picturesque cypress-dotted hills.

I was going to tell you about an exhilarating 8-day solo trip to 7 cities and 3 trillion museums in the Netherlands and Belgium where I’ll be bringing a group in October to see paintings by Rembrandtvaneyckrubensvanderweydenbreughelvangoghvermeer so glossy and enticing they look lickable.

I was going to tell you about hiding from the suffocating heat of Rome with my family in the Alps for two weeks of deliciously cool mountain air where we hiked, biked, watched the Olympics, hiked, devoured local cheeses and cold cuts on a daily basis, biked, took photos of dainty wildflowers, and hiked again until we ached all over.

And I was going to tell you how now, back at the family home in Rome, I’m trying to line everything up – Italian tutor, swim team, American Girl Scouts, meeting with the principal and the teacher – ahead of Gemma’s start of 5th grade in a new school, new language, new soon-to-be friend group all while she quietly sobs every evening into my shoulder, “I want to go home. I want to go home.”

But I didn’t. I couldn’t. It’s all been too much.

I hadn’t taken into account that I’d be blindsided by the physical and emotional impact of each of these experiences in addition to the whiplash from reacquainting myself with a city and country I left 20 years ago (??!!!!). Just call me Rip van Wrinkles - instead of waking to a long white beard I have sunspots and crow’s feet.

But I’m here! In Rome. I made it. WE MADE IT!!

And in just a few days the three of us will be settled into our lovely little rental apartment in the city and before we know it day-to-day life with its blessedly predictable routine will take over. The weather will begin to cool. There will be homework and play dates and aperitivi in the piazza with friends and boring checkout lines at the grocery store and walks in leafy local parks…

And once we’re more rooted my hope is that my husband and daughter will begin to feel less freaked out by this mad, beautiful, chaotic, extraordinary, indifferent, and generous city and that they will warm to it. Even just a little bit. That they’ll feel even just .001% of what I feel. 

And when they do, I’m going to (try to) tell you about it.