The Christmas Jinx - La Sfiga di Natale

This year Christmas was on its way but I just didn't want to get the message. We had an exceptionally warm fall and Christmas was not in my thoughts until the Immacolata Virgin day (8th December), the day when the Italians start putting out their Christmas decorations. The tour of the Enchanted Village was kind of an exception. On the 8th I finally realized that Christmas was coming whether I was prepared for it or not.

However, this year, the Christmas Jinx (la sfiga di Natale), the little monster who likes to come just before December 25th, came back to ruin it all. What could go wrong two weeks before Christmas? Anything could ruin it when I was a child: a bad mark at school, a broken piece of antique (probability of this happening in my parents' house: 90%!) or a snappy comment to my mother. Anything really could turn Christmas into a disaster in my childhood. Because of that, many Christmas arrived in Italy with my parents and I angry, resentful and with a heavy feeling of loss. "Another shitty Christmas!", I would think each time. There were years I just wished Christmas would go away.

Later in life, after I moved to England, the Christmas Jinx kept coming back in different forms: snow near the airport where I was supposed to fly, a new job three days before Christmas and my parents falling down. Every year, the same farse. Same blown up expectations, same telephone calls, same special arrangements with friends, same fantasies about people I was going to see and the things I was going to do. I was already imagining the taste of home (food), the Italian booze (good wine), the old Signora with the three layers of makeup on her face gift wrapping my present, the "Buon Natale" wishes after midnight mass, the smell of panettone, moscato and hot chocolate in the backroom of the San Lorenzo Church, the unwrapping of the presents under my parents' nativity, then, on Santo Stefano's day, the calm after the storm: the Christmas movie at the local cinema after a nice aperitivo. It'll be great! Can't wait.

"NO!" said the Christmas Jinx Monster this year. "This year you will not go to Italy for Christmas. Sorry!".

The bad luck started coming in early December. I was having a problem walking with one foot. The pain kept increasing and the week before Christmas my ability to walk went down to zero. Then three days before our big trip to Italy, the ugly truth came out from the podiatrist's mouth, "See that line on the x-ray? You have a broken bone in your foot". I was told I had to wear this boot and wait six weeks until it heals.

My lovely boot

Those words fell on me like the curse of a spirit. The next day, I was at home, frantically trying to pump air into my giant boot with the feeling as if my left leg was about to explode and fire my wounded toe as a missile. No kidding. I was struggling to carry out my daily duties without experiencing pain - and by duties I don't mean cooking, feeding or potty training Tronk. No, I mean, going to the kitchen to get some water or going to have a wee without toys stuck to the velcro of my boot! Later that afternoon I had something important to do - run a Children Christmas party with around 40 people. No, I could not postpone it (see video)

The day after the party my foot was in agony and there was still nothing packed for our upcoming trip to Italy (this year we had to purchase three tickets at a high cost as Tronk is older than two to have the luxury of spending Christmas in my own country).

"No! I cannot go on this trip!" I said to John after spending a night trying to find a pain-free position. So there I was, sitting on the couch, with ice pack on my toe, first investigating the number of restaurants open on Christmas day - zero! - then, the available take out food options on that day - chinese!

The only thing that seemed to help me feel better in the truly Italian way was to know that there were a few other people in bad shape: my mother suffering of shoulders' pain, friends in bed with flu and even an old school mate unable to walk (just like me). My Facebook status (later deleted): Mal comune, mezzo gaudio! (Misery loves Company) Christmas was about to greet me like the Damocles sword. And I kept thinking:

All I want this Christmas is booze!

It turned out that even with a broken foot I could still join the madness one day before Christmas and buy a few decorations. I was hopping like an old crippled woman all over Target and the Christmas Tree Store. At the end, I managed to take home a few New England cheers: a wreath, a pine garland, a pine ball and a brand new Christmas tree (one of those "profane trees" that my parents disapproved of in favor of the nativity).

Tronk on Christmas Eve

As soon as I put our presents under our new Christmas tree, it all suddenly started to fall into place. I suddenly realized that we were about to have our first Christmas together as a family, with our own customs and traditions. We opened the presents in PJs, without having to go through my parents' fuss. This happened to be the perfect choice for keeping Tronk busy while I was cooking.

Amazing what Santa can do compared to the TV to keep a child entertained! It all turned out great. No Chinese for lunch but delicious Italian ossobuco cooked in tomato sauce with mashed potatoes and green beans, loads of French wine and a yummy chocolate panettone for dessert. A nice Italian movie and Christmas mass later in the day with Tronk announcing to everyone in the church that there was Jesus, the wise men and angels all around us.

He just did it when he saw the person next to him kneeling

 What happened this year reminded me of what my mother often says, "Non tutto il male vien per nuocere". The closest English equivalent would be "Every cloud has a silver lining". I have got to keep a positive attitude.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow! - Lascia, lascia che venga giu' la neve!

I am telling you, Christmas is on its way!

This year, for some reason, I was not able to get into the Christmas spirit. Me, the one who used to be so excited when the kiosk with minced pies and mulled wine would suddenly appear in Covent Garden in London. Me, the one who would always feel emotional when I would hear the first Christmas Carol of the Season in early November. "Time for wearing my red coat!" I would start telling myself, while thinking of all the things that the Christmas Season would soon bring to me. For me, and for almost every Londoner, living in a tiny apartment with a kitchen used as a living room, Christmas was the greatest time of the year. Time to celebrate and to treat myself, without having to worry about my bank account, time to buy gifts for my loved ones and, above all, time to socialize! And how could I possibly complain for having to accept one more drink down at the pub instead of having to work late at the office? It's Christmas lady! You've got to have one more drink!, someone from the office would invariably say.

"I wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!" (see last year's Christmas posting). I only had to hear a few notes of this tune and for me Christmas was on its way, along with all the things that I was really looking forward to about the Christmas Season; not just food and drinks with family and friends but also time to think and to re-evaluate decisions, while looking for a more deeper meaning of Christmas. For me this would usually happen during the midnight service with the chorus at the San Lorenzo Church in Turin, a tradition we had for years in my family. Then on Santo Stefano's day (the day after Christmas), a moment of silence on my part would follow, in front of my father's nativity, which he has been putting together since he was a boy to create every year the spiritual meaning of Christmas in our family. 

Here in New England, since I had William in 2009, I have started dreaming of a really white Christmas, just like in this song:

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas

With every Christmas card I write

May your days be merry and bright

And may all your Christmases be white

Ironically, last year and most probably also this year, snow in New England, the State which gets buried under snow for 4 months per year, did not come I believe until after Christmas. Certainly, after we left Boston for the Christmas holidays, on December 23rd. So this year, once again, I have forgotten that Christmas is on its way. Well, until yesterday, when I said to John in panic: "OMG! Two weeks from now we are going to Italy. What?? Cards? Gifts? We'll better sort all this out today!"

I blame it on the snow that has not come yet and on my two year old, who cannot stand any shopping experience in a non familiar store for more than 20 seconds. If I add the requirements of having to travel by public transport with no stairs and of going to an area with large, clean and accessible restrooms plus a children playarea or a toy store nearby, where Tronk can jump, push and scream to his wish, the number of shopping options I have left are down to probably one or two. As a result, here in New England, I can only acknowledge that Christmas is coming until I see the snow outside the window. The houses topped with Christmas tree decorations and commercialized cartoon characters don't seem to do the trick for me here. I just look at them and smile but when I look at them I just cannot get into the Christmas mood. 

Can't you see that Christmas is coming??

I now do. Wondering how did it happen? Yesterday I finally saw the snow. Yes, snow was falling! And I found something better than CVS to truly get into the spirit of the Season. I discovered... the Enchanted Village.

Neve! Neve! Neve! (Snow! Snow! Snow!)

William at the Enchanted Village

Originally created in 1958 by a Bavarian toy maker, the display is a reconstruction of a little New England village with 28 fully decorated holiday scenes, 250 "automata" figures and real snow falling (and melting) on us.

One of the animated scenes at the Enchanted Village

Judging from the cute (or corny, as my husband would say) exhibit, life was hard back then in New England, yet so much simpler. No big chains, no mass production, only small independent stores selling products that were fresh, handmade and nicer to look at. And the children were playing with snow balls in the street, in their handmade toggle coats, elegant hats and matching scarves. Beautiful! "This is what I needed to see to get into the Christmas mood. We should come to this village every year!", I said to John.

There are two things I completely failed to acknowledge: (1) the Enchanted Village in 1950 was seen at the time probably as tacky as the giant Snoopy standing next to Joseph and Mary in a nativity scene in someone's yard today (2) the Enchanted Village exists because a big ass furniture chain has decided to bring the original display from 1950 back to life thanks to the large chunk of money the chain invests every year in entertainment. 

Thank you Jordan's Furniture for making me feel the magic of a white Christmas (un Natale con i fiocchi).

Mom on the verge of a nervous breakdown - Mamma sull'orlo di una crisi di nervi

There are days when things just don't go your way. I have just had one of these days. The day started with William waking up early in the morning, when all I was longing for was thirty, maybe twenty, ten... even five  more minutes of sleep would have been so damned good. "I am still dreaming, let me sleep please!", I implored. But Tronk was there,  running around the house in his PJs, asking for me and for all the things that come to his widely-awake head in the morning:

"Pullat? (that's how he calls the "pullup diapers") "No, Tronk, you are not ready for those!"  and I am not willing to follow you to monitor how wet is your bottom! Aha! There are no diapers here. We have to go to the basement to pick some. "Here! You'll have your pullat!"

"Aranciata?" "Mi dispiace, non c'e'"

(Orange juice? Sorry, there isn't any)

"Latte? Latte?" "Ok, eccolo".

(Milk? Milk? Ok, here it is)

"Biscottino?" "Eccolo. Uno solo."

 (A small cookie? Ok, here it is, but only one.)

"Cartone Pimpa?" "No, e' troppo presto."

(Can I watch a Pimpa cartoon? No, it's too early)

"Dov'e' macchina viola?" "E che ne so io???"

(Where is my purple car? How would I know???)

Stop! I suddenly realized that I needed the strongest dosage of caffeine that my manual espresso machine could possibly deliver. So I had one and I decided I would get the next one at the local coffee shop later in the day.

Then I was hit by one of those flattering and inquisitive emails that needs a carefully crafted reply. I started typing few letters in reply. Tick, tack, tack, tick, tick.  "Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaammmma! Ahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" Tronk got hurt. His little hand was hanging on one side as if he was no longer able to feel it. Fortunately, the little actor was ok.

Me: "Vuoi andare al potty adesso?" (Do you want to go to the potty now?) Forget about the potty, there is poop here all over the floor. Who is having to clean the floor?

Some of the subsequent thoughts haunting me:

11:00 am. Hopefully, he will sleep.

11:30 am. I'll give him some yogurt. Maybe, that will make him sleep.

12:00 pm.  Forget it, he won't sleep. "Cartone Pimpa?" "Eccolo!." (Can I watch a Pimpa cartoon? Here, watch it!) Now, hopefully, I'll have my shower.

13:00 pm. What? My jewelry box, empty? Tronk? Where did you put my jewelry??? Where?

"Va via Mamma!" (Go away Mom!)

I was almost sure my day would end in tears. The chicken I cooked for him was not up to his standard and he would rather throw it on his nice sweater or on the floor than to try to make a genuine effort to eat it. At some point, he said "Vai vai! Vai in cucina mamma!" (Go! Go! Go to the kitchen mom!) It was becoming clear that our day would continue fighting: food, toys (he wanted to use my permanent markers to color the couch), he wanted to fight about everything.

For some unknown reason, perhaps the fact that you cannot argue against a two year old, I was able to keep it together. I was hoping that the storytime, my favorite moment of the day with Tronk, would have soon put an end to our fights and to our anger and that we would soon be able to make peace. I was imagining that after reading the first book together, we could then magically laugh, forget all the unpleasant things that we did to each other on that day and hug. That's all I was longing for to get over such a daunting day. But I had the sense of foreboding that  no peace would come between us on that day. So I asked John to come to sit next to us during storytime. In order to avoid having to change the book three or four times, I picked a new book, the one that had just arrived from Italy. The new book was keeping Tronk's eyes glued to the pages. Great choice!, I thought. After all, how could he not enjoy a story about a binky, his number one favorite toy? This is how Tronk's face changed throughout the story.

First page. Ecstatic smile

Second page. Still smiling

Fourth page. Worried

Oh shit, this book is about giving away the binky

Fifth page. Very worried

Hopefully, he will not take it badly

Last page - The girl decides to let the binky, attached to a balloon, fly away. He burst into tears. "Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! Il ciuccio e' andato via!" (Noooooooo! The binky is gone!) 

"She is grown up now! She no longer needs a binky!", I said to Tronk with a positive tone of voice.

 "Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! Nooooooooooooooo! Nooooooooooooooo!" he uttered in complete despair.

"There is no way Tronk and I will make peace now. I have fcked everything up ", I said  to John, who was still trying to pay attention to the book I had just finished reading.

I was crushed. Tronk? He couldn't have cared less. While I was soaking, he had jumped off the bed and he was happily pushing his shopping cart around the house as if nothing had happened. He had already moved on.

Pumpkins and Witches for Halloween - Zucche e Streghe per Halloween

Halloween + Italian children + friends + a sweet pumpkin + magic = let's party!

Who said pumpkins have to be scary?

Daddy tried to scare me with this

What is mom doing?

White pages magically turning into colored drawings

No time to look scary, I have to do my job here!

I am the assistant of the magician

Grown-Up Statements And Non-sense - Dichiarazioni Adulte e Frasi Senza Senso

"Prepara pappa mamma?" (Are you not supposed to prepare lunch now?)

In the last two months or so Tronk has taken his language skills to a higher level. He can now ask for things in a meaningful way with a few pronunciation mistakes.

Here are my favorite ones:

La Pizia (instead of la polizia, meaning: the police car)

Pantontole (instead of pantofole, meaning: slippers) 

I also heard him sing three songs, surprisingly almost complete: Fra Martino (Italian version of Frère Jacques), the jingle of the cartoon La Pimpa and recently also the Italian version of the ABC song. In the latter, he ends the song like this: din don bam! din don bam! Too cute to deserve a correction.

What I wanted to say though is that he has also started to produce a few grown-up statements, which often consist of snappy comments.

Here are my favourite ones:

Tronk:  "C'e' uomo taglia erba!" (Here is the man mowing the lawn!)

Mamma: "Dov'e'?" (Where is he?)

Tronk:  "E' andato via!" (He is gone!)

Tronk: "C'e' furgoncino rotto. Ho dato pezzo a daddy! Non aggiusta?" (The little truck is broken. I have given the pieces to daddy. He hasn't fixed it yet?)

Tronk:  "Anche occhiali bimbo daddy?" (Can daddy get  my sunglasses and bring them to me in the street?) [after I got husband to come out of the house and bring me the sunglasses I forgot in the house]

Tronk: "Ho trovato Anna!" (I have found Anna!)  [Anna is a fairly overweight little girl Tronk often meets at the playground]

"Questa e' Anna! E' Anna questa!" (This is Anny! It is Anna!) [with a glorious smile he shows me one of the three little pigs]

At naptime:

Tronk: "Deve fare la nanna William Kruse!" (Willliam Kruse has to nap!)

At the libary:

Tronk: "Tu libro! Bimbo libro! Va bene?" (Mom, you read that book! I read this other one. Let's make this clear)

Dad: "Perche' non mangi quando sei da solo?" (Why don't you eat when you are alone?)

Tronk: "Sono un santo!" (I am a saint!)


During storytime:
A little worm was alone and sad. See how alone and sad he is? Then he found a big apple and decided to live in there. Then came a female worm to knock on his door. She went to live with him.
Tronk: "The worm is not sad! He is not sad!"

Tronk: "Bavo Mina Kruse!" (Well done William Kruse!) [after he accomplishes something]

Zia Pina: "Cosa canta mamma?" (What does mom sing to you?)

Tronk: "Mamma canta Ninna Nanna! Io cresciuto!" (Mamma sings lullabyes! I am grown up!)

Tronk: "Dov'e' ambulanza?" (Where is the ambulance car?)

After few seconds:

Tronk: "L'ha presa mamma!" (Aha, Mom took it!)

Mamma found one of William's favorite cars under the couch. It was covered in dust.

Tronk: "Sporca macchina! Non mettere macchina qui mamma. Pulisci macchina?" (That car is dirty! Do not put that car here mom. Can you please clean the car?)

Zia Pina ate a candy and made it look as if she was eating one of Tronk's colored letters of the alphabet

Tronk: "Non mangia le lettere zia Pina!" (The letters of the alphabet should not be eaten, zia Pina!)

Mamma: "Mi dai un bacino?" (Can you give me a kiss?)

Tronk: "No. Devo lavorare!" (No. I have to work!) [He was building a tower with his lego blocks. Five minutes later, he came to give me a kiss]

He makes comments like these with such a serious expression, we call him "ometto" (little man) constantly and we cannot help laughing (and worrying at the same time). I mean, what is Tronk gonna say next? "Mamma, your period is due tomorrow"? Help!

Today I have started to realize that it might not just be a language thing (see video below).

Zia Pina bought him some cream for his rash on the chin. Today, he managed to grab the tube of cream, unscrew the cap and was applying the cream to his chin. He is a two year old for God's sake! I would expect him to at least put the cream on his favorite stuffed animal but no. He reminded me that he should not put Bambi on his chin after he put cream on it. "Non metti Bambi su mento con crema!" (You should not put Bambi on my chin after I put cream on it!) Frightening.

It then happens that we are sitting in the car and Tronk makes a speech, with his usual serious straight face.

Here is a small chunck of the ten minutes speech in the video below:

"Gioca bimbo paletta sabbia Porta la pappa Fa la cacca pa-stel-la la luna!...  tante macchine!" (Child plays scoop sand Brings food Poops Crayona the moon!... so many cars!) A complete non-sense ending in "so many cars".

At that point, I relax and stop worrying about the future.

Espresso for my two year old, thanks - Caffe' per il mio bimbo, grazie

I had just managed to get out of the house and to survive a crowded bus ride, when I finally saw Starbucks a few yards away. I could already imagine how nice the coffee tasted there and the lifting of my soul after my first sip. Right in that moment, I heard William scream, "Bambi! Bambi! Bambi!"

I need a fix! Give me Bambi!

"I said No!", I replied trying to keep a firm but not angry tone.

There is no way I would walk all the way home (or wait for another crowded bus) to go to pick up Bambi! Bambi is a little fawn stuffed animal Tronk has fallen in love with. He sleeps with it, eats with it, puts it in his toy shopping cart and carries everywhere in the house. The dirty bugger has swept our floor, cleaned our glass windows, mixed with the residues of our coffee after falling in the sink, was dropped by mistake in the toilet, has visited every corner of our house, rubbed his nose first against ragu' and broccoli then against Tronk's face. If I wasn't standing at the door with a firm "No!", I am sure Tronk would take the damned thing outside the house and who knows where else he would throw it.  Though I tried to wash it twice, I am sure it carries layers of dirt and deadly bacteria. We suspect his irritated red chin might have resulted from the constant rubbing of Bambi on his face.

Before leaving the house, I offered him a Ferrari and a Lamborghini car. No, he had to have Bambi!

Me: "Mi dispiace, non ho Bambi. Bambi e' a casa!" (Sorry, I don't have Bambi. Bambi is at home!)

Tronk: "Nooooo! Bambi! Bambi! Bambi!"

Me: "Mi dispiace ,Bambi e' a casa!"  (Sorry, Bambi is at home!), I repeated

Tronk: "Ciuccio! Ciuccio! Ciuccio!" (as soon as he heard that Bambi was not available he started asking for the binky)

Me: "Non ho un ciuccio, mi dispiace William" (I don't have a binky, sorry William) 

Tronk: "No, ciuccio! No Ciuccio! Noooooo! Bambi! Bambi!" [desperate tone] (as soon as he heard I didn't have a binky he switched back to asking for Bambi)

"Basta! You need a coffee! I am going to get you one!" I joked out of frustration while I was trying to tell the barista at Starbucks what type of coffee I wanted. I looked at my change. The amount was less than I expected. "I must have given them a five!" I was then hit by total surprise when my order arrived: instead of one cappuccino there were two cappuccinos with my name on it! "Excuse me, there must be a mistake", I  said puzzled.

Apparently, the barista thought I ordered a second cappuccino for Tronk! I just could not imagine that the joke of a stressed mother could be taken so seriously. It turned out that it wasn't the first time that a mom had ordered a coffee for a toddler. The barista admitted with a slightly embarrassed look on his face that another mom (a coffee addict like me) has recently turned her two year old into one of Starbucks's most faithful customers!

At the end, I had to drink two coffees while Tronk was only allowed to take a sniff.

The barley drink with coffee flavor given to children in Italy

What a shame Starbucks does not sell Orzo Bimbo, the healthy barley drink with coffee flavor I was drinking as a child. If they did, I am 99% sure an entire army of Massachusetts moms would order it. Mothers and toddlers would get their fix together and there would be peace for all.

Five minutes, then leave - Cinque minuti, poi esci

Only Five minutes. Promised? - Solo cinque minuti. Promesso?

Every evening, at around 7-7:30 pm, it is the same story. I am trying to cook the sauce for dinner while making a sincere but pointless effort to avoid using all available spoons in the kitchen. John is feeding Tronk. We hope to get him to finish his dinner before ours is ready so that we can put him to bed. Then we can finally eat a warm dinner together. A nice plan. Unfortunately, things rarely go according to plan.

It happens that I am still cooking and I am so looking forward to the moment when Tronk finally makes his way through his third course. Frutta! Yeah! (Fruit! Yeah!) While Tronk is chewing the last few bites of his juicy melon - great, I have spilled tomato sauce onto the floor! - John has noticed my awkward movements in the kitchen and the yawing in between. So he says with his slightly authoritative and peremptory tone: "Five minutes of storytime, then you switch off the light and leave. Ok?" "I promise", I dare to answer.

Every day I make this promise and this is what happens. Five minutes transform into ten, ten into twenty, twenty into thirty, thirty into fourty-five. "An hour?" I ask John towards the end of our book reading session, with a guilty look on my face. "Yes, you have been in that room for an hour!" I hear him say from the kitchen with a fairly irritated tone of voice.

Yet at the beginning it is so difficult for me to pick up a book and get into the storytelling mode. I still feel the weight of a day spent dealing with a two year old. On an average day,  I have probably heard from Tronk thirty questions or comments that didn't make sense. I have had to put back things scattered all around the floor that were originally in another room of the house two or three times. I have probably failed to get him to do number one (and two). I have probably had to let him watch Pimpa on video so that I could get started preparing lunch. And yes, I have probably taken him to the playground to get him to push the toys there instead of the chairs in our house. It is also likely that I have received an annoying email from someone I hardly know and I have had to play girotondo with Tronk while trying to reply to it. "Sorry, I have to go. My child is crying!".

At the end of an average day, it is hard, sometimes impossible, for me to get into the role of an inspired storyteller. Often all I wanna do instead is collapse in bed, with a glass of Prosecco (Italian light champagne) or vodka and lemonade (wonderful English version) but no.

It happens instead that I pick up a book and start reading. Tronk looks at me with one arm around Bambi and with eyes wide open. He carefully listens to what I am reading. Then, he suddenly shouts out "Pesce Toto', yeah!" (Fish Toto', yeah!)". As often, the characters and things he remembers have little or nothing to do with the stories I am reading but they have a funny name (or sound). "Pic!", the stinging sound from a famous Italian ad: Pic! indolor. The no pain syringe, makes him giggle insanely.  Then, he asks me to sit next to me on the bed. He wants me to read him a second book, Oscar the bear, then a third one, Il bruco mai sazio. See what I mean? The five minutes I was so sure would not stretch, suddenly become a special moment between me and him, a moment not heavy on me, not even when I am sick and sound like a two pack a day old maid. Tronk loves it so do I. All I have to do to please him is continue in the same style and remind myself that reading books to him is one of the greatest gifts I could possibly offer.  Amazing how this makes it all happen!

Plus, the more I read to Tronk, the more he learns Italian (and this by itself is not a small thing). But trust me, there are other reasons why I still have not learned to look at the watch when I read stories to him at bedtime. I have read it is an effective way for parents to get in touch with the daily emotions of their child.  And I personally feel it is true. It helps build the bond that many parents feel don't have these days with their children.

Then there are the scientists who say that telling and inventing stories with children is not only educational but also therapeutic. This might explain why the last time I searched for children's books in Italy I ended up with stories and rhymes on animal violence, death of beloved ones and even rape and incestuous sex!... Yes, I really should write a posting on this.

So, judge me old-fashioned, obsessive-compulsive or crazy, but to me the thought of shortening, recording or even just neglecting your children's storytelling moment at bedtime feels a bit like damping the mother's role, like in a song I used to listen to as a child:

C'era una volta un mondo un po' migliore

piu' cose vere, meno televisione

c'erano le fiabe, quelle che tu

da qualche tempo non mi racconti piu'...

Once upon a time there was a better world

more true things, less TV

there were the fairy tales, the ones that you,

in the last period or so, you don't tell me anymore...

I totally envy John. When he is taking care of Tronk, at 7 pm on the dot, he picks one book (the thinnest one he finds), he reads it without adding a single word that is not written in the book, he says goodnight, he switches off the light and he leaves the room, without the slightest feeling of guilt.

Storia Pimpa, mamma?

Me? Not quite the same. When Tronk says "Altra Pimpa libro?" (Another book of Pimpa?) after I've already read the first book (in great detail), the second one (a bit faster) and the third one (with all the details Tronk needs to know), I become that flaky helpless creature who first promised she would not leave the kitchen for more than five minutes and who then ends up reaching out for the second Pimpa book barely visible on the top shelves.

No wonder...

John: "Dinner is getting cold! I will not heat it again."