William's walking journey - Il cammino di William

If I hadn't had a child I would have never known that walking is a journey and that in between you moving the arms to pick up a toy hanging on top of your head and you going from the couch to the table in the dining room there is a long physically and emotionally exhausting journey. Being short in words but overwhelmed with joy, I've asked William to walk you through his journey (see video below). Merry Christmas everyone!



We say in Italy, "don't say it too fast" because then the opposite will happen. Well, I guess William has decided to scoot and to hold onto things a little bit more. He will walk when he decides to do so. No more pushes, I promise.

William's little girlfr... oops, I mean friend - la fidanz... no, amichetta, ehem, amica, compagna (di giochi) di William

"I swear that if I have children I will NOT be like my mother! I will not tell them what to do. I will not tell them who they should go out with, I will not read their diary and I will have nothing to do with their sentimental matters, I will not call the first good boy (or good girl) that comes to our house "boyfriend" or "girlfriend" without their permission and, above all, I will not arrange marriages for them! " I used to loudly say to my mother after being introduced by yet another one of my marriage candidates. Usually a bold Italian guy wearing a large pair of Harry Potter like glasses (when nobody knew who Harry Potter was and how cool were his glasses) and which would have suited my grandma better. "But he is a doctor and his father has an established business!" my mom would say in excitement. "Ma mamma, questo obiettivamente fa cagare!", I would reply to her in disgust. Few days later, another atrocious looking guy (perhaps a lawyer or a big brother of the Fiat people living up the hills of Turin) would appear at our doorstep, ready to be humiliated by my evil actions (e.g addition of vinegar to ossobuco). Still, my mother WOULD NOT get it.

On the day I got married, my mother said to me on the phone five minutes before the beginning of the ceremony: "Are you sure you want to get married? You can still back out if you want!". She couldn't trust my decision (and probably thought she could make a better suggestion herself at that point) until she met and got to know the man I married, and gave me her approval, which luckily didn't take long.

Now look at me as a mother. As soon as I make an Italian friend with a smart and cute baby girl close to William in age... that's it. I immediately find myself making jokes on our two kids dating, often with the thought at the back of my mind that William will have a nice and smart Italian girlfriend, that one day he will marry a nice and smart Italian woman and that he will have nice and smart Italian children (hopefully with the same woman). OH MY GOD!

When I catch myself thinking like this (like my mother) even out of jokes, I almost immediately feel the need of making clear to William, the little girl and to everybody else involved that I am not the one who decides such things and that William's friends are all welcome in our house until William decides that one is more welcome than the others. Very good intentions but it only takes one phone call to bring the "little girlfriend" back into my words. Do you want an example? "Ciao Gaia, come sta l'amichetta di William?" Unfortunately, in the Italian language, as soon as you talk about the "amichetta" (the little friend) - I know, you don't do that with the ugly looking girl you bump into at the playground -, as soon as you refer to her as the "amichetta" everyone's thoughts go straight to "girlfriend" and it doesn't take much before you start calling her "fidanzatina" (little fiance'). If you call her "compagna" instead to avoid this, you have the associations of the couples living together without marriage. So you go back to calling her "amica", hoping that the term is not too close to "girlfriend".

Then if you allow kisses and romantic dinners (which by the way William had a week ago), you have lost all of your good intentions. If the girl is not Italian, you will think: "Hey, this girl is not Italian. Your roots William, don't forget your roots!" At least, this sounds better than "Wives and bulls from your own country!", which is what my parents' used to say to me with little success - in fact I took both the man and the bulls not from Italy but from Wyoming. If the girl is Italian, you will then be thinking that perhaps she is not attractive enough or that she is too short or too demanding or too good looking or too old for him, the list being endless. And you will soon turn into that type of mother you were desperately trying NOT to be: jealous, noisy, deus ex machina and with the highest possible standards, hoping that your child will stay with you for the longest possible.

But look at the pictures below and tell me if these two are not cute together. What? Ok, ok, I'll shut up.

William having fun with his friend Naima at the Italian Christmas party

What happens when you stop producing milk? - Cosa succede quando smetti di produrre il latte?

First two months: Ouch, do I have to continue?

In my life I thought I would do anything but certainly never thought I would produce and offer milk. I remember being completely puzzled when an English friend of mine, who was the mom of a 10 months old at the time, told me to start wearing nipple shields, cups, pumps and breast lotions. After talking to her, I tried to figure out ways to explain to the world that I did not wish to become a cow and that formula would have been just as fine for my baby.

Then, just before William was born, I attended an hypno-birthing class. The class was full of tips and scenarios to visualize in preparation for a happy natural birth. Natural means "drug free". I was attending the class with my husband, with one strange couple who was not comfortable hearing words like "vagina", and the other even more strange: 4 people in a group marriage. During the class, I was often asked to close my eyes, to relax and to "picture a big giant thermometer containing a rainbow of colors which, color after color, would get me deeper and deeper into relaxation". How can you not laugh when someone says this to you? The purpose of this exercise was to help us achieve maximum relaxation which would help our mind control the pain of the contractions during labor. For someone like me who used to shake or faint before getting a flu shot, imagining a colorful rainbow coming out of someone's ass (as my husband would have put it) would have been as helpful as constructing those weird scenarios.

What helped, was the idea I got from the hypno-birthing class that I was doing 'the right thing' for the baby. This thought became my most powerful weapon for challenging pain. During and after labor. Same with breastfeeding. Did I say breastfeeding? What happened to make me change mind on that?

William was born and I started telling myself this over and over again: "as long as the baby benefits from it, I will do it!". All of a sudden, there was a new me out there, wearing nipple shields, cups, breast pumps, experimenting with nipple lotions to reduce the breasts pain and, listen to this, old me, using needles to unclog the milk ducts! Painful but, as long as the baby was gaining weight (that was the right thing to worry about) and as long as I was still able to carry those two bowling balls around, everything was good. I had basically become one of those Italian mother-martyrs trying to make the "sacrifici" for my child. Bless me!

Have you heard of the moms' baby blues? Shortly after William was born I was having days with ups and downs (more downs than ups) and breastfeeding was a major cause. There were days when I was looking outside the window of my living room at 4 pm still in my PJs and I was thinking: yet another day is about to finish with me breastfeeding all day with just poop and burping in between. Nice. The hardest part: my tits had to be on display on a self service basis all day long and in the middle of the night, both in the heat in summer and in the freezing cold in winter. No clothes on me as it would have been more painful. No excuses, they had to be available. In bad and in good state, in sickness and in health.

Having been told the benefits of breastfeeding from literally every person I talked to, it would have been too irresponsible of me to not give it a try. I thought I would give it a go in the hospital, where the help was at hand. So my baby would have got the precious colostrum with the nutrients. I would have then be able to seamlessly move to formula. Great, easy, not quite.

If I had rubbed my nipples with sand paper, I would have probably felt better than when I was trying to latch my little vampire on. They kept telling me that 2 weeks of breastfeeding would have made it better. At the back of my mind, there were all those comments: "Don't give up. It is good for him. He will not get sick. Stick to it. I promise. It gets better" So I made the promise of continuing until William was one month old. Two weeks later, I was crying at the Baby Cafe', a crisis center for breastfeeding moms. There I was, sitting next to a confident breastfeeding pro of 6 months. I felt she was looking at me with an air of superiority while I was helplessly trying to latch my baby on. There, the guru of breastfeeding told me that cutting the frenulum would release William's tongue and all my problems would be solved. Hallelujah!, I thought. I will soon become a pro like that mom. Nope. A week after the surgery, I still had cracked nipples and a couple of milk ducts plugged making me scream in the bathroom.

Stubborn like a donkey, like we say in Italy, I decided to move the target to two months. At the end of the second month, despite seeing 5 lactation consultants, my breastfeeding journey was not getting better. In addition to the plugged ducts, I was experiencing blood circulation problems, issues that were later solved by the 6th lactation consultant I saw. She had the brilliant idea of making me try lecithin for eliminating the clogged milk ducts and vitamin B6 for addressing the blood circulation problems. Bingo! Most of my trouble started going away.

I was then able to move my target to three months. This was the first serious achievement in breastfeeding. I was getting close to being a good mom. But why give up after achieving so much? - I decided to try one more month. I started feeling like a runner who starts a 10k but wants to keep going at the finish line. My husband asked me how long my breastfeeding marathon would last. Answer: all I know is that I want to continue.

Every other mom I talked to had forgotten when their torture ended - my pain continued for almost exactly three months. Then what happened? My breastfeeding experience completely changed. I used to close my eyes and grind my teeth while waiting for William to stop biting me and draining the energy from me. Now, I was free from all the pain and was happy to spend the whole time starring at him, without a single worry in my mind. Not even the fact that I had forgotten to take my lecithin pills for 4 days in a row (which in the old days would have caused me to panic!) In those golden days of breastfeeding, I just wanted to lock eyes with my baby, to look at his playful activities and his occasional smile while he nursed, and finally to see him falling asleep with a full belly and his head on my chest. Breastfeeding was a wonderful thing and I was happy. Despite seeing many friends with similar age babies giving it up, I didn't want to stop.

Recently, he had been pulling my shirt to ask for more milk every morning even though his nursing sessions were getting progressively shorter. Finally, three days ago, I was about to feed him when something unexpected happened. William was about to nurse, but suddenly turned away, rolled on the bed, and started playing. My milk supply was gone. Goodbye breastfeeding. He was not upset. I was the one who needed consoling! He was happy to play.

Welcome back...

martini rosso, campari and punt e mez,

Dolcetto, nebiolo and barolo

moretti and extra cold guiness

limoncello, amaretto and bacardi and coke,

margarita, mojitos (White Russian and Sex on the beach included)

and as many double espressos as I want!! Uoouuoooo!

Ettore and William finally meet - Ettore e William finalmente si incontrano

Video of Ettore and William meeting in the bar behind my house in Turin. Interesting details below.


Ettore, the son of my best friend Laura from high-school, the girl I spent a night with reading Seneca, and reciting entire passages of Dante's Hell, while sipping all the coffee made by her caffettiera, the Petrarca's Laura (we both believed she was!), the girl who shared with me her sinister insights into the foul-mouthed strophes of Petronio (in latin) and Aristofane (in ancient greek), the girl I spent a night with in my dad's office exchanging intellectual thoughts, what else? Well, she was the girl I smoked the first cigarette with (and sigarillo with THC, oh yeah, opps is William going to read this? I mean... only once or twice, before my mom caught us. She then got the thing analyzed and short after that she started calling us drug addicts. Short after that, we started calling her Krof!. How could we? You need to know that my mom is not very accurate on such things. She was the kind of person who would say to the guy smoking marijuana next to her, with an innocent look on her face: "mmm, there is a nice smell of grass here. Where is it coming from?"). Back to Laura, unlike all my other classmates, she was not smug. On the contrary she is down to earth and funny, but not just funny, funny to the point of making me cry. This is precisely why I had a hell of a good time with her! She was the one I would attend non Catholic ceremonies with (more discussions than ceremonies, thanks God), the one who lost a shoe on New Year's eve, while we were trying to escape from a party we were not supposed to go to, the girl I kept a secret diary with, the one thing that convinced my mom that I was a bad girl. Laura's drawings were to blame, oops. She was the person I spent the first holiday with on the Italian coast (without my mom telling us what to do), the girl I went interailing with (i.e traveling and sleeping on trains in between a trip to a city in Europe and another), the girl I went to a prison farm in England with to escape from my mom, who would never stop treating me like a three year old. She still does. The prison farm was advertised on paper like a beautiful country resort with swimming pool. It turned out that Laura and I had to beg the farmers to put us in the list of the onions pickers just to be able to make enough money to pay the rent of a hut which was falling apart. The swimming pool actually existed. It just looked like a dried puddle. We escaped from the prison farm to go to London, both broke and without a place where to sleep. She is the girl I also shared with an uncomfortable bench made out of royal chairs and slept in the Edinburgh castle. This happened after she talked to a drunken soldier in a nightclub!... She is the girl who got me to leave the Edinburgh castle before 6 am in front of another soldier pointing a gun at us, just in time for us not to get into trouble. The girl I ended up singing drunken songs with in Leicester Square and shared the excitement of the free fish and chips with - this thing by itself deserves a whole posting, the girl I went to rebuild a Roman wall with in a isolated area of France where all you could see were infinite rows of vineyards and drunken builders, the girl I used to swap my clothes with, the girl who first told me how "the day after pill" works, the girl who told me (in her own language) and did more with me that I could possibly say here in public in one sentence. Ettore, her four years old son finally met my 15 months old son William. Surreal, like many other things that happen when I go back to the city where I grew up, but in such a good way! :-)

In our house the wheels on the bus go round and round! - A casa nostra le ruote delle macchine girano, girano!

Three months after I fell pregnant, when I finally knew that, with or without my PhD, I was going to become a mother, I knew my life was going to change. I could no longer be the girl who was drinking mojitos until it was time to get on a cab home or crash at someone's house, nor the girl who was spending two hours per day at home (without doing any cleaning), nor the girl who was eating salt and vinegar crisps for dinner in the Bioengineering lab instead of a nicely cooked meal.

In the last three months of my pregnancy, when the baby was moving in my big tummy like a two-week load of clothes spins in the washing machine I finally knew that I was no longer worried about how to explain the posterior probability in my complex computer program for the PhD thesis. I was no longer worried about getting a job in the US either. No, my worries were different.

I was worried about how I would be able to remember to change diapers, about how I would learn to feed the baby, to use creams for dealing with baby rashes and how I could possibly give up a cocktail party or late night drinks at a private Club in the city to go home to put the baby in bed. In these explosions of worry, there was one that stood out: how would my days change as a mom?

I was trying to imagine what it would be like to have a girl as opposed to having a boy. Having had a screwed up relationship with my mom from my childhood up until now, I was thinking that there was no way that I could build a good relationship with a girl that would be competing with me for the love of the only man in our family. I could more easily imagine myself falling in love with a boy in an Oedipal kind of relationship. Then the thoughts of a future filled with trucks, monsters, dirt and with all the gradations of pink banned - depressing. I was asking myself: "Gee, is this what I am buying into if I opt for having a boy? (as if the preference of having a boy as opposed to a girl could suddenly turn into a life choice!)" Even if I don't get the "maschiaccio" type - the one who destroys your house, the one who bites you to ask for a cookie, the one who gets into trouble 5 times a day - the average boy plays with a monster who looks like a turnip and beats the shit out of your furniture like a wrecking ball. Is this what I am going for? After all, the average boy uses furniture as a playground, jumps on everything, and you end up with your living room wall looking like a bad imitation of a Pollock. I kept thinking, the average boy does not ask you to put the baby doll to sleep, a topic for which I was prepared. Instead, he asks you to play with cars and dinosaurs. Help! What do I know about cars and dinosaurs?"

I remember that once a boy asked me to play "Skatapu'm" with him. "What does this mean?" I asked. "You fall down and then I jump on you so that I can step on you and you die". "Great" He then kicked me so hard in the leg it took me a week to recover. Perhaps I never recovered from that. The boy games are called "Joe the killer" or "Dead Vampires". Then you walk in a house guarded by Playstation soldiers shooting bullets into the walls of your house. Nice.

I was thinking, honestly, isn't it more appealing to play with a Barbie getting ready for a date with Ken? If I have a boy, how would I teach and pass my knowledge to him without turning him into a girl? How could I put his hair into plates? How could I sing the song "The beautiful laundress" or "This is the qua qua dance" without causing my poor guy to display a super embarrassed face in front of his friends? How could I teach him to draw princesses' tiaras? Not that I am against boys playing with princesses if they choose to do so themselves but I would prefer not to push that kind of girlie stuff on him.

Then my beautiful boy arrived and the package of toys that came with him: play mats, animals, blocks, puzzles, puppets, musical instruments, grocery in all colors, sizes, shapes and materials, kitchen tools, cleaning products, DIY tools and a baskets full of books. But also all the doors and the cabinets in our house, our cell phones, empty bags, empty boxes, the pages of magazines left on the couch, even screws and nails left in the floor during the construction of our kitchen, all became irresistible in William's eyes.

William started experimenting with different types of "brum brum" sounds early on to the surprise of the moms of his baby girl friends. However, he didn't have toy preferences until his first birthday, when the puppy truck made its appearance. That truck soon turned into an obsession, William's first obsession. From the day he discovered it, more and more trucks, commercial vans (so American!) and vacation cars (so Italian!), small cars, big cars, gigantic cars (for William to drive), talking cars, cars made of blocks, etc, etc, filled our rooms. And this is what you would very likely see these days in our house: William scooting on the floor from room to room with a little hand squeezing a red car and with the other one making the wheels of another car spin round and round. And me singing the song "the wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round. The wheels on the bus go round and round, all day long." And I love it.


William with his two favourite cars


William hunting for cars

I love to see him play, I love to imitate the brum brum sounds he makes, I love to buy him a new car (sometimes I wonder whether I am buying it for myself or whether I am really buying it for him), I love to see his reaction when he sees a new car, I love to sing car songs to him (and to translate them into Italian). I love to insert car sounds in the stories I read to him and see him smile. I love to play as a boy with him. I can no longer imagine myself raising a girl. I have realized that it is probably more fun to raise a boy than it would be to try to recreate my life as a girl.

Italian vs American kids comparison - Bimbi italiani e bimbi americani a confronto

American kid eating cheerios	Italian kid eating pasta con il sugo

After spending a couple of weeks at playgrounds in Italy, I am back to Boston wondering what group of kids William will belong to when he gets older. See Italian versus American kid comparison below:

American kid: as a baby/toddler, you are swaddled, put to sleep in thin sleeping bags in fleece material and put to sleep on your back without blankets, to reduce the slightest chance of suffocation
Italian kid: from the day you leave the hospital you are put to bed on your stomach in your warm 100% cotton pigiamino (PJs) with a cotton sheet and a 100% virgin wool blanket keeping you warm. And mom will make sure that your blanket is tucked in!

American kid: they bounce you on all sorts of balls, swings, rocking chairs and put you in specific positions to help you fall asleep
Italian kid: they give you chamomile (grandma's secret tip) to help you fall asleep.

American kid: as a baby you spend most of your time with the other kids at the nursery and doing planned activities with your parents
Italian kid: as a baby you spend most of your time with your grandparents, wondering when your mother will come to pick you up!

American kid: you nap in the morning at 8 am, in the afternoon at 12 pm and you go to bed at 7 pm.
Italian kid: you nap in the morning until you wake up exhausted from the previous late night, doze off a little during the day, then stay up until you fall asleep, completed exhausted, at 11 pm-midnight!

American kid: you proudly feed yourself cheerios and exotic (better if organic) snacks all day long
Italian kid: you get started on food with hand made creams of mashed up veggies sprinkled with parmesan cheese followed by fresh grated fruits you mom spoon feeds you every day, at lunch and at dinner
American kid: you are gently asked with sign language if you want more or if you are done
Italian kid: firstly, you are told that you must eat the last boccone of pappa, otherwise you won't be given the fruit that comes after. Then, you are told that if you don't eat it, you'll jump out of the window!

American kid: you don't get to see a single person smoking next to you
Italian kid: you happily smoke alongside your caregivers

American kid: as a toddler, you continue to eat cheerios all day long. Later on, you will get peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on soft mushy white bread for lunch alternated with the usual turkey sandwich. In special occasions (at restaurant), you will be able to choose between mac and cheese, fried chicken, hotdogs and hamburgers, all rigorously served with fried chips. The only fish you'll ever taste will be in the fried fish sticks (who knows what fish is in it, says my friend David). And the American pediatrician, instead of pointing out that some fish out there has too much mercury will tell you "don't give fish to your kids. It has too much mercury!"
Italian kid: as a toddler, you rarely eat sandwiches but if you do, you get speck, bresaola and provolone cheese on crusty Italian bread and complain that your mom has not made porcini risotto for you on that specific day! Here is your weekly menu (I thank my Italian friend Elena for passing it to me): fish 2-3 times per week (common sense will make you choose small orate and sogliole instead of swordfish), minestrone twice a week, veggies at every meal (one cooked, one raw) and pasta for lunch! Meat (unfortunately), every other time.

American kid: you drink colorful juices in colorful huge (half a liter) high-tech BPA free thermo insulated and ecological bottles
Italian kid: you drink water from a small glass

American kid: you are told that Cappuccetto Rosso (Little Red Riding Hood) was not eaten by the wolf and that everything is safe and cool
Italian kid: you are told that if you don't behave, the babau (the bogeyman) will come to eat you and that nothing is safe outside your parents' house!American kid: you move out when you are 18 with the full support of your parents.

Italian kid: you move out when you are 3 to stay with grandma, then back with your mom (and dad, if there is one) when you can go to full-time pre-school. You move out temporarily to stay with friends then back with your mom and dad. You move out for good when you are 38, having saved enough money for a house, and are two weeks away from getting married....unless there's room in the basement for the newlyweds.

American kid: when your mom visits you, she brings a cake, and you sip coffee and chat.
Italian kid: when your mom visits you, she brings 3 days worth of food, begins to tidy up, dust, do the laundry, and rearrange the furniture! Nota bene: this only applies to my mother's generation of moms

American kid: your dad always calls before he comes over to visit you, and it's usually on special occasions.
Italian kid: your dad can show up at any time, unannounced, on a Saturday morning at 8:00 and it's usually to do some cool last-minute activity with you, totally unexpected.

American kid: when you need to get something done, you either look for help on the internet and pay someone or, in most cases, you do it yourself
Italian kid: when you need to get something done, you call your dad and uncle, and ask for another dad's or uncle's phone number to get it done for free. Hey, know what I mean? ;)

American kid: you will come over for cake, and you will get A LOT of cake. But nothing else.
Italian kid: you will come over for cake, and will get antipasto with a choice of two cured meats, a pasta dish, a secondo con contorno, a choice of three types of cheese, salad, bread, a tiny bit of wine, a piece of crostata, fruit, espresso, and a few after dinner special treats.

American kid: you have not heard your parents cry
Italian kid: you cry along with your parents while trying to be even louder than them

American kid: you borrow stuff from your parents for a few days and then return it
Italian kid: you keep anything that you borrow from your parents. If you try to give anything back, they will insist that you keep it for a little longer!

American kid: you eat at the dinner table and leave
Italian kid: you will spend hours there, talking, laughing, and just being there, getting bored but showing excitement to be with the grown ups

American kid: you will stay in the queue to get on the bus
Italian kid: you will push and push and push, as much as you can, to get the best seats on the bus!

American kid: you are a kid for a while
Italian kid: you are a kid for life

American kid: you like to wear cool trainers
Italian kid: for you, even builders' uniforms are to be worshiped, as long as they carry an original (or pseudo-original - e.g Lumberjack) American brand!

American kid: you think that being Italian is cool
Italian kid: you are not cool if you don't speak English and know a few things about what is not Italian

American kid: you don't care about differences, you have been trained to not even see them to avoid being labeled racist. So you don't question them, nor write about them
Italian kid: you worry, hear and talk a lot about differences and try to be open to them, often concerned about coming across as a citizen of the worldNot all kids of course will go to these extremes. I was thinking about these stereotypical differences in Le Cinque Terre, while I was looking at some kids diving from high rocks and then swimming into high waves. Then again, in the Turinese playgrounds, while I was looking at a bunch of 3 year old daredevils jumping up and down on a seesaw, occasionally diving onto the ground to scare the babies on the seats. Were those the unsafe kids of irresponsible Italian parents or just simply kids with their need for fun and freedom, as a modern Italian parent might put it? Here is my current dilemma: (1) would William turn into a different kid if he was raised in Italy? (2) would I have to turn into a different mother if I was raising William in Italy? Given my hyper conservative upbringing (sono una mamma all'antica), I can only think that the super safe American parenting style fits me perfectly, with one condition though. That I can change the rules, whenever the Italian kid inside me says so. As my husband often says "take the best out of both worlds and have a lot of fun as a parent!"

The birth of the Kruse family house - La nascita della casa dei Kruse

You might wonder why there is a blank space below. Well, this is because our life has been and it still is pretty much on hold. Being involved in packing, unpacking, living in construction zones, being a full-time mom and reshaping a brand new house (from deciding where to put the bathroom towels to finding a solution for storing all pasta and rice containers in one place, the list does not end). This means that you have no time for anything else. Having said that, please go past the blank space below (which, to be honest, I have not been able to delete despite my 5 years experience in web development!) and enjoy the historical pictures below, featuring the birth of the Kruse family house.
There will soon be more pictures here showing the birth of our new house. We first need to make this happen. Enrica, John and William

The kitchen:
	da cosi'- from this
	a cosi' - to this
	a cosi'! - to this! (I will post the latest picture of the kitchen when available)
The master bedroom:
	da cosi' - from this
	a cosi' - to this (I will post the latest picture of our master bedroom when available)
We saw a similar transformation in the second bedroom and in the living room. Latest pictures will be posted soon.
William's bedroom:
	da cosi'- from this
	a cosi'- to this
Meanwhile...
	William was having fun in the yard with his water table
	he was also going to the beach with his Italian friends
	he was having fun opening
	and closing the wooden doors of his new house
	he was starring at dad working, at mamma taking photos
	and at the new features of the house (in this case, he was looking at the secret passage leading to the attic)
	he was happy!
	On August 13th John and I celebrated with a bottle of Passito wine that my father bottled on the day I was born with my name printed on the label!

August 2010: Moving to Arlington - Agosto 2010: Il traslocco per il trasferimento ad Arlington