tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59359522024-03-14T05:36:13.727+01:00Favoloso Mondo<big><em>Lint-free Belly Button Gazing</em></big><br>An American girl in Rome muses on her adopted hometown, her libido and her vibrator.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger343125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-45130681701405618852015-10-28T20:52:00.001+01:002015-10-28T20:52:20.935+01:00I love you triangledTwo years ago we made it all official and tied the knot. And more or less two years ago is when I last posted here.<div><br></div><div>Shit's been busy, yo.</div><div><br></div><div>We didn't move into that other flat because the landlords turned out to be douchecanoes. Which turned out for the best since a year ago we found a much larger flat with a garden all to ourselves. Brand spanking new renovations andnot the cheap ass kind either. The landlord is awesome. It even has a lemon tree. Woot.</div><div><br></div><div>Peanut hit the toddler years with a vengeance. She was accepted at the municipal Asilo nido last year (state run nursery school) and all her teachers were like, "Woah, does she ever stand still?" Answer: No. This year she's at the state run pre-school. </div><div><br></div><div>This summer she got four stitches to her head after tripping against the stairs to our vacation flat. It took just as many people to hold her down to get them. She started vomiting later that night and we rushed back to the ER. Long story short, she had also gotten the gastro bug going around that area, and Daddy and Mommy got it too. 2 days of travel, 3 in the hospital, 1 at the beach. We're the only ones to return from a beach holiday paler than before we left. Oy vey.</div><div><br></div><div>Mon Amour's family never cease to amaze with their level of batshitsanity. And the less said about them, the better.</div><div><br></div><div>We also added another Peanut to the Nuthouse. Gwendolyn Grace joined us last February. She took much less time arriving than her big sister. Like they barely got the epidural in before I was SPROING!! FULLY DIALATED!! and ready to push. Mon Amour almost didn't make it up to the birthing room. It was a totally different experience than with Peanut the First. </div><div><br></div><div>I think my favorite part was when one of the nurses assisting the obstetrician glanced at my spread eagled crotch in between contractions and chirpily informed us Peanut the Second was a blondie.</div><div><br></div><div>That pregnancy was not as much fun as the first; since Peanut the First was getting every cold that went around her preschool, I spent the last two months of my pregnancy practically attached to a nebulizer to stop the never-ending bronchitis from turning into pneumonia. I will take swollen cankles over being unable to breathe properly any day.</div><div><br></div><div>Peanut the Second had a mild teeny tiny heart murmur at birth, which they discovered right as we were supposed to be sent home. 3 days of nicu fucking sucked and I don't know how those with more serious problems handle it. She's fine now and has the cutest fattest thighs you will ever want to gnam on. She is showing signs of skipping the while crawling thing and going straight to walking. Oy vey.</div><div><br></div><div>I will also cop to having a mild case of Postpartum depression this time around. That too sucked but my hormones finally straightened themselves out after a few months. Just when I was about to go back to the doc and say "yeah it's not getting better", it got a teensy bit better. And Mon Amour checking with me constantly helped. He's had some depressive episodes and while he couldn't understand the hormonal aspect, he was definitely my empathetic rock to lean on when I was feeling pretty shitty. Again, those who have had more extensive difficulties with PPD, I salute you brave biznitches who have made it out the other side. </div><div><br></div><div>Peanut the First is in love with her little sister and in fact it's been 9 months of telling her to stop kissing and hugging the baby so much. The love is reciprocal and I will find the two of them laughing it up in the crib or the play yard.</div><div><br></div><div>And though there are days when I want to strangle him (usually when one or both of our progeny have kept me up all night - 3 years of sleep deprivation will do that to a person ), I am still madly in love with Mon Amour. We are both greyer and lacking a bit in the sleep and sex departments (because getting both of the progeny to sleep at the same time is a feat of Herculean strength and Athenian cunning and even then the moon has to be in the right position.) but my life is infinitely richer with him next to me. I am so damn lucky.</div><div><br></div><div><i>Mwah. Love you triangled, zozz. Sei mio e io sono tua. Per sempre. Evviva!</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-11628570461086707492013-12-16T09:21:00.001+01:002013-12-16T09:21:13.787+01:00Fuck you Poste ItalianeToday I got a package from my mother with dresses for Peanut.<div><br></div><div>She sent it in June.</div><div><br></div><div>Obviously none of the summer jumpsuits will fit her for this summer nor do they even fit her now.</div><div><br></div><div>I hate the Italian postal system with a white hot seething rage. When I sent my wedding invitations, my elderly aunt's and my grandmother's invites never showed up, amongst others. I also discovered at that same time that a bunch of the baby gift thank you cards I had sent months before also never made it.</div><div><br></div><div>*rage face*</div><div><br></div><div>Gonna resend them when we go stateside in January; USPS is far more reliable.</div><div><br></div><div>In other news, we have recovered from the wedding madness only to plunge into moving madness. Having initially hate the area we live in, it's grown on me and we found a larger apartment on the street behind where we are currently. Unfurnished though, so I've been vintage hunting the classifieds. We start moving stuff in today, and move officially at the start of January. Then onto the aforementioned and much needed visit/honeymoon stateside.</div><div><br></div><div>Toodles...</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-75201981811050362802013-11-14T17:33:00.001+01:002013-11-14T17:33:31.892+01:00Tiffany Ginestra & Claudio Luca got marriedDuring the walk through of the marriage rites with Padre Affably Cranky SpaceCake, he had us practice by reading the vows from an old program he had. Mon Amour never missing a chance to faff around, read in all seriousness<div><br></div><div>"I, Mon Amour, take you Ginestra..."</div><div>"No you have to say her name instead of Ginestra"</div><div>"Well you just said to read this."</div><div><br></div><div>Here I am already getting giggly. Then it was my turn</div><div><br></div><div>"You have to say Mon Amour instead of Luca"</div><div>*snicker snicker giggle* "Got it."</div><div>"Ahem. I, Resident Dictator, take you..."</div><div><br></div><div>And as I read the word "Luca", Reader, I lost it. A five minute hysterical semi-nervous stress-induced tears running down my face giggle fest ensued, with a bewildered Padre, my amused but equally bewildered mother, and a bemused Mon Amour looking on.</div><div><br></div><div>Fast forward to the wedding. One of the many things that fell to the wayside due to lack of time was printing our own programs. I had briefed my two sisters as to their roles in the mass as my <i>testimone. </i>But Padre <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Affably Cranky SpaceCake threw a couple of surprises in there. For the "Lord Hear Our Prayers" call and response, he had Middle Sis read out a line from his program.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"May The Lord bless Tiffany and Claudio in...excuse me? Oh. OH. May The Lord bless Resident Dictator and Mon Amour..."</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I confess I didn't hear the rest. I already fucked up my eye makeup getting teary eyed during the homily and pronouncing my vows earlier (and let's me tell you trying to surruptiously wipe my accompanying runny nose sans hanky while the photographer is making me feel like there's 40 Papparazzi around is just not possible) Now the last of it was about to smear as well because I fucking lost it again, this time in a church full of people behind me watching my shoulders shake and Padre CrankyPanta glaring at me balefully. Trying to count cherubs on the cieling was of no use; I snorted and sputtered and deep breathed my way through the next 5 minutes until I got it under control.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It was the perfect wedding.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We are almost recovered from the planning and organizing and visits and whatnot.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Now I just have to figure out who has the video of my bitch mother in law throwing rice directly into my eyes with obvious saccharin malice not once but twice... but that's a story for another day :)</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-1816334950177655182013-09-27T19:05:00.001+02:002013-09-27T19:05:05.768+02:00(Wedding) Culture ClashHaving decided to make my own dress, I'm discovering that, upon prompting for dress details, revealing my sartorial decision is garnering horrified reactions from my Italian female friends. It's apparently bad luck for the bride to be involved in the making of her dress.<div><br></div><div>I'm having to bite my tongue to stop from saying something inappropriate like "Fuck that noise"</div><div><br></div><div>Mon Amour is not exempt from these superstitions. When discussing who's arriving when and sleeping arrangements:</div><div><br></div><div>"Your mom and sister can sleep at our place."</div><div>"That's going to be a little crowded don't you think?"</div><div>"No it won't. I'll be at my parents' house for three days before the wedding."</div><div>"Um. What?"</div><div>"It's bad luck for us to see each other for three days before the wedding."</div><div>"Um. What?!"</div><div>"Yeah."</div><div>"Are you serious?"</div><div>"Yeah."</div><div>"Let me rephrase that. Do you seriously think that we aren't going to see each other for three days before the wedding considering there's our daughters first birthday and everything to organize in our very very DIY wedding on a shoestring in those days?"</div><div>"Um.."</div><div>"Fuck that noise."</div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-44283901124408257912013-09-15T21:00:00.001+02:002013-09-15T21:00:10.419+02:00Flower Girl WTFSo am really hating this wedding planning stuff. It takes my champagne tastes on a beer budget, melds with my OCD tendencies and pits them directly against my proclivities towards penny pinching. All of which begets (begats? begatten? whatever) a persistent throb in my temples, not aided by Peanut teething and running us ragged with the walking every second she is awake (and then some - I find her in the crib sometimes squalling with her eyes still shut standing without the help of the rails. Already a sleep walker, I see...)<br />
<br />
Anywho, seeing as Peanut has this walking thing down cold, she'll be bringing our rings down the aisle *snerk* I think that's going to be like herding cats, to be honest. As such she needs a dress and I have been online shopping since Grammy is insisting on buying it. I would delegate, but if I leave it up to my mom, Peanut ends up wearing a lot more ruffles than Mommy's tastes can handle.<br />
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But duuuuuuude. Here is another racket. $200 for an infant/toddler flowergirl dress? Are you fucking kidding? And I'd say about 85% are just monster puffs of tulle, which despite my past in the world of pointe shoes and tutus...[sticks finger down throat, makes retching noise] Um, no. Why would I want my daughter to look like a shower puff with legs?<br />
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I have yet to go look on Regretsy, but I leave you with this:<br />
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<a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/90013314/flower-girl-tutu-dress-by-atutudes-as"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://img1.etsystatic.com/000/0/6029660/il_570xN.275507359.jpg" width="187" /><br />
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THE ORIGINAL Mini Audrey Hepburn Tutu Dress by Atutudes!</a><br />
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You too can dress your toddler like a shower puff of a fictional high class escort. * facepalm*<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-80486913495751652332013-09-11T16:39:00.001+02:002013-09-11T16:39:56.085+02:00ClimbingSo Peanut can now stand up on her own steam without pulling herself up on the nearest object. With arms above her head she baby hulk stomps around the house for <i>hours</i>. And we follow behind teaching the meaning of NO.<div><br></div><div>NO you cannot toddle out to the balcony by yourself.</div><div>NO you cannot play with the power cord.</div><div>NO you cannot use your toys to climb up on the entertainment unit</div><div><br></div><div>Wait, WHAT?</div><div><br></div><div>Homegirl is too smart for her own good. She's starting to say "ciao" and thismorning spontaneously played PeekABoo with Daddy for 10 minutes straight. We're also back to refusing food from a spoon because her first tooth has broken through, with the second seemingly on its way as well.</div><div><br></div><div>Daddy's car keys are next, methinks...</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-77201559090691846772013-09-03T12:13:00.000+02:002013-09-03T12:13:01.034+02:00Hell is Other MothersSubtitle: I am a bitch.<br />
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The other day I was in the neighborhood grocery store with Peanut in her stroller, getting some necessary supplies before the evening cranky set in. It's not a very big store and the dinky produce section at the entrance has juuuuuust enough space for the stroller to pass. As I am picking out some carrots, in come a woman and her friend, the latter who is also pushing a stroller. There hover over the tomatoes, blocking my forward progress, so I wait for them to go about their business. The non-Mom sees me and moves on to the next item on her list. The Other Mom with a Stroller <i>moves her stroller directly into my path. </i><br />
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My eye roll was epic as I back both the stroller and the shopping cart to exit out the other end to make room for her and so I can get to the scales and weigh my carrots. Seriously, just how dumb are some people?<br />
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Carrots weighed, I peruse the apples near the scales where there is slightly more room. Up comes Other Mom with a Stroller. She leans down next to her baby, who seems a bit older than Peanut, and says "See the baby. Can you say Hi to the baby?"<br />
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Oof. So you were just trying to have your baby say hi to mine. Whoops. Don't I feel like a heel now.<br />
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No, wait. You blocked my path so your precious offspring could practice waving at my kid? Like maybe I have all the time in the world and have nothing better to do than make fwiendsy-wendsies over the Gala apples?<br />
<br />
*eyeroll*<br />
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Seriously, just how dumb are some people?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-79661614329778220202013-08-31T14:15:00.001+02:002013-08-31T14:17:16.482+02:00RunningMiss Peanut Polpetta Monkey Butt the First took 5 steps in a row and decided she was ready to run. She launches her chubby little body into thin air, pistoning her wee little proscuitto legs and pushing off the tips of her toes so she can get to Daddy, to Mom's boob, to the stale piece of yesterday's pizetta that I missed just under the couch.<br />
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Woe if you are not there to catch her mid launch. Ditto if you don't make it in time to catch her as she attempts to plow through whatever obstacle lies in her path.<br />
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She will hold on to one of our fingers and run in half circles for hours. I have a vauge sensation of being a combo human Maypole & doggy run.<br />
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Mon Amour and I are doing our fair share of running as well. Two months till the wedding, so it's time to get our ducks in a row. Found our recption spot the other day, now we have to organize the actual party and logistics of.<br />
<br />
Ack.<br />
<br />
We looked at each other the other day and I replied to what was clearly written on his face.<br />
<br />
"I told you we should have eloped."<br />
"I know. And in a sense you were right, but I want to give you this day in front of everybody."<br />
"You mean give <i>us</i>. This is our day to celebrate; we've had the discussion where I told you I am not down with this whole Bridzilla GRAR THIS IS MY DAY bullshit."<br />
"Ja ja I know. I just want to see you walking down to aisle to me in a white dress."<br />
<br />
<i>Awwww</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Fuck the wedding. This marriage is awesome.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-84538307674176224012013-08-13T18:34:00.001+02:002013-08-13T18:34:11.936+02:00HowlingRemember how I howled at Peanut taking her first step unassisted while I was at work? Yesterday Mon Amour sent me a video via WhatsApp of Peanut officially walking.<div><br></div><div>*howls some more*</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-71478155630146126002013-08-11T15:22:00.001+02:002013-08-11T15:22:53.765+02:00Peanut SproutsPeanut continues to evolve from tiny immobile lump of cute into a tiny little cute person. She took her first unassisted step with Daddy while I was at work and I wanted to howl at missing it. She wants to walk all the time, dragging us by the fingers to her desired end point. About half the times she'll let go of one finger, which has potential for hilarity as there's a good chance she'll wind up going in circles around herself.<div><br></div><div>If she deems mom and dad aren't going fast enough for her tastes, she'll drop to her butt and scarper along on all fours. We're pretty sure she'll be being our rings down the aisle come October. Knowing Peanut though, I'm guessing there's a 50% chance that she'll decide that she wants to go see Interesting Thing Over There instead of tottering towards mom and dad.</div><div><br></div><div>The precocious walking is offset by her stubbornness of not wanting more than a bite or two of solid foods. Homegirl prefers Boob Juice, which has been causing Mon Amour to despair that he's not a good enough Daddy while he's been taking on the child care when I'm at work. Though I kept telling him not to worry, she'll eat when she's hungry, it took our pediatrician telling him the same before he even halfway believed it. I have the batshit in laws to thank for that, since they were spelling doom and gloom and stoking his fears. </div><div><br></div><div>But after a bout of possible scarlet fever, (which had Mon Amour almost in tears at the pediatrician's office as a culmination of all of the aforementioned food avoidance and where I found out about the meddling of the in-laws) she seems to have rounded a corner and will now gum various foodstuffs and wants tastes of what mom and dad are eating.</div><div><br></div><div>Woot.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-12362066535393945152013-07-17T10:25:00.001+02:002013-07-17T10:25:47.800+02:00QuickiesMon Amour: "She's such a great mom that I want to have 11 more babies with her."<div>Friend: " Woah you're serious."</div><div>Me: "Yeah I told him if that's what he wants then he better start impregnating me with two at a time."</div><div>—</div><div>Wedding time nears and I have not managed to convince Mon Amour to elope. Which means we gots to plan this fucker. The invites are ordered at least. Models for our rings are being made. They will have my fingerprint on his and vice versa. I though about putting Peanut's on there as well, but if we have more kids, then we'd have to remake the rings every time.</div><div><br></div><div>Also I've found a dress that in theory I live (Internet shopping!) but I can't bring myself to spend a couple thou on a dress I'll wear once. I'm thus toying with going the DIY route, which will be much in line with the rest of this lil' shindig.</div><div>—</div><div>Started doing some part time work back in the tourism sector. Should be good for some yucks here on the blog. Peanut and Mon Amor are adjusting - the former has a bit of separation anxiety and well, so does the latter. He's so concerned that he's not doing it right or that he's not up to par. It heart wrenchingly cute. As I keep telling him, he's a fantastic daddy and well above the average dude when it comes to performing his daddy duties.</div><div><br></div><div>Ditto for the husbandly duties as well ;)</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-16615141299476513242013-06-15T15:42:00.000+02:002013-06-15T15:42:18.518+02:00Everyday I'm Shufflin'Peanut is officially mobile. She's been hauling herself up to standing while in her crib for a while now, necessitating that we always pull up the side of the crib lest she go ass over tits over the side of it. That's bigger deal than it sounds because Mamma is a midget and the crib side requires two hands and some maneuvering to lower it. When she's fallen asleep on the boob, if I've forgotten to lower the side previously, I can't put her in the crib without waking her up.<br />
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Homegirl is fixated with standing. Holding on to our fingers, she loves to make Baby Hulk steps on those chubby legs of hers. Whenever she does this, Mon Amour and I are both struck by just how tiny she still is; she's almost 8 months now and wants to be 18 years old like, <i>now guys</i>.<br />
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She got the hang of crawling forward last week, at 10pm. And was wired crawling around our bed until midnight.<i> Whee, new skill power up!</i> A few nights later I laughed my ass off because she started squalling and I found her crawling around her crib with her eyes still closed.She got even a few days after that by making Mon Amour and I both dive for her as she tried to crawl off the edge of the couch to get the keys she dropped.<br />
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Now that's she figured out getting from point A to point B, she tries to pull herself up on everything. This gives Mamma heart palpitations because we have the marble/terracotta tile floors that are so ubiquitous in Italy. She pulls herself up and then lets go. <i>Aieeeeeee!!!</i><br />
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My daughter is an 8 moth old Evel Knievel, people.<br />
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We got her a baby walker; it's a space ship and, like 90% of children's toys today, makes various noises and songs when you push the buttons. I keep wishing it would play <i>Englishman in New York </i>or <i>Starman</i> or <i>Intergalactic</i> instead of <i>Twinkle Twinkle Little Star</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-50988216470793601302013-06-05T13:42:00.001+02:002013-06-05T15:41:37.814+02:00BaptismAs a lapsed catholic cum atheist, I didn't really have objections to baptizing Lil' Peanut and since it was important to Mon Amour, we has her baptism this past Sunday.<div><br></div><div>It was an abject lesson in how there are still some cultural differences that I have absolutely no clue about.</div><div><br></div><div>First and foremost are the bomboniere, little gifts given to the invitees as a memento. Attached are usually a small sack of sugar covered almonds (5 or 7 for good luck) and a small tag with the child's name and birthdate. </div><div><br></div><div>Usually these things are obnoxious bric-a-brac; I have more than a few of these gathering dust and barely remember for who's birth/baptism/communion/wedding/etc they are attached. </div><div><br></div><div>As Mon Amour and I were in full agreement on this point of view vis-a-vis impersonal dust catchers, we decided to DIY. I got my Martha Stewart on and made bows and sacks of the sugared almond confetti. For the memento we made imprints of Lil' Peanut's hand with her name stamped alongside. And for the tag we went double sided business card size with a photo of her in her baptismal gown on one side and Mommy's graphic designer skills denoting the occasion on the reverse.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-OJFyUW9K22c/Ua9AD1V4SGI/AAAAAAAAAHA/CfXjy7MmzPU/s640/blogger-image-177577383.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-OJFyUW9K22c/Ua9AD1V4SGI/AAAAAAAAAHA/CfXjy7MmzPU/s640/blogger-image-177577383.jpg"></a></div> </div><div>Her baptismal gown was worn by myself and her two aunties. Go go retro polyester chic.</div><div><br></div><div>For the after party I switched gears and got my Julia Childs on, making cold pasta salad, hummus and tabbouleh and babba ganoush and mini meatballs. A friend of ours made a gorgeous two layer chocolate cake with delicate sugar and fondant flowers.</div><div><br></div><div>We were expecting about 40 people plus attendant kids; needless to say not everyone showed up and, since I already cook to excess for army sized hordes, we have a lot of leftovers (except the cake)</div><div><br></div><div>I was already sort of in culture shock just from the size of the guest list; I remember my youngest siblings' baptism as being immediate family and the godparents. Said group would give some religiously inspired gifts to the child, everyone might grab something to eat after and that was it.</div><div><br></div><div>Here you invite *everyone*, or at least you do when your husband is from Naples. I took the guest list size in stride; after all we have the whole baby shower thing stateside, n'est pas?</div><div><br></div><div>I was not prepared for the gifts.</div><div><br></div><div>Holy fuck y'all.</div><div><br></div><div>My kid has more expensive jewelry before her first birthday than her mother did by her 16th birthday. And not just given by very close friends and family; more than one acquaintance of Mon Amour contributed to my jaw dropping.</div><div><br></div><div>Some of our friends wanted to get us a baby food maker. I tried aforehand to deviate them towards what I thought might be a more economical bracket of gift options; seeing as I have limited counter space in my kitchen I told them a baby food maker was a one trick pony i didnt want to ride and never fear, we would be buying a food processor in the near future.</div><div><br></div><div>I got a mms from them a few days before the baptism asking if this was the model of baby food maker I wanted.</div><div><br></div><div>Gah. </div><div><br></div><div>I quickly googled up an inexpensive food processor and sent them the pic of that, resigned to the fact that my previous suggestion of "maybe some summer dresses and children's books" was going to be ignored.</div><div><br></div><div>You see where this is going, right?</div><div><br></div><div>Come present opening time, our friends proudly announced as we began unwrapping that they hadn't gotten us the one I had sent the picture of "because that was an old model"</div><div><br></div><div>So we now have a food processor sitting in our kitchen that does everything short of eating your food for you.</div><div><br></div><div>Peanut I promise to take good care of it, and when you leave home (sniff sniff - at the rate you're going, you'll be asking for daddy's car keys,like, tomorrow) you will have a really bitching food processor to eat ramen and Nutella out of...</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-17207618017447753252013-05-16T16:55:00.001+02:002013-05-16T16:55:15.458+02:00PalpitationsIt's official - we can no longer turn our backs for a second with Peanut cooing at her toes in the middle of our bed because in the blink of an eye she'll roll off the edge.<br />
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She's been sitting up on her own for abut 6 weeks now and had figured out rolling over about the same time. But until now she's eschewed rolling; homegirl mastered sitting and wants to skip crawling and go straight to walking, wanting to constantly hold our fingers as she wobbles on her chubby legs.<br />
<br />
The night after she got over the random fever, during a night time boob session Peanut and I both fell asleep; nothing out of the ordinary as that's a habit we've gotten into since she was born, especially the last 4 or 5am feeding where Mamma is a zombie with tits.<br />
<br />
Sleep came to an abrupt end as I felt her begin to roll out of my arms. Nothing like a minor heart attack to bring you fully awake. She smacked her head against the nightstand and gained her first bump. Mon Amour groggily inquired as to the cause of her wailing, and when I told him she bumped her head, he grunted and rolled back over. Later he told me that he barely remembered waking up. Peanut settled herself down by snarfling against my boobs, latched on for a bit and then promptly fell back asleep.<br />
<br />
I, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck and couldn't fall back asleep. Not that I tried. I was too busy Googling infant concussion symptoms and peering at her bump between putting cold washcloths on it. I don't think my heart stopped pounding for 24 hours straight.<br />
<br />
I got a day of what passes for normalcy nowadays and then she pulled the aforementioned rolling off the bed trick in the time it took me to step out on the balcony intending to pull in the dry laundry. No bump this time and luckily our bed is fairly low to the ground, but man, in the space of 3 days she added a few more to my collection of greys.<br />
<br />
Lil' Miss Evil Knievel then proceeded on Mother's Day to pull herself up to her knees in her crib. Happy Mother's Day to me, it's time to babyproof the house already...</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-44934029799894651292013-05-04T14:25:00.000+02:002013-05-04T14:25:04.386+02:00Stir CrazyWe are on day 4 of Peanut having a yo-yoing fever with some mild gastrointestinal issues and the lack of sleep on my part is starting to make me climb the walls a bit. I'm also fantasizing about cloning myself, seeing as I'm behind on work, the house is a mess, and the aforementioned lack of sleep (her appetite is down, so I keep waking up soaked to the waist with exploding boobage.) And all I really want to do is mindlessly wander around the center with my brain turned off and soak up the spring sun.<br />
<br />
I'm hoping she'll be better in time for a planned picnic on Tuesday...I just Mommy Jinxed myself, didn't I?<br />
<br />
Poor Peanut is a bit traumatized at this point; the paracetamol drops made her puke so we've had to resort to the suppositories. Between taking her temperature rectally and then shoving the suppository up her butt, she now gets upset when I merely begin change her diaper because she thinks Daddy or I are going to stick something up her butt again. My baby has buns of steel, let me tell you.She'll clench like her life depends on it and ain't nuthin' getting up in those parts until I pick her up and calm her down some.<br />
<br />
I am going to tease her when she's older though, about the time she fell asleep with my finger up her butt...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-74654157205960149642013-04-25T22:51:00.001+02:002013-04-25T22:51:53.033+02:00SOS ModaWe're having Peanut's baptism at the beginning of June so walking around the center today I decided to duck into a few stores to take advantage of the air-conditioning (Peanut was looking sweaty while napping in her stroller) and do some preliminary dress shopping for the baptism.<br />
<br />
I realized that I have no freaking idea what goes on my body anymore. With the remnants of baby weight still hanging around and an enormous rack from continuing to breastfeed, I haven't the foggiest vis-a-vis what size I am or what silhouettes I should be looking at.<br />
<br />
Even if I find something that looks like it might be forgivingly flattering, most of the time it's a no go because the neckline is not forgiving enough for hauling out a tit and nursing.<br />
<br />
I ended up getting a plain v-neck t-shirt for me and an adorable outfit for Peanut from Gap. God bless their large dressing rooms that can accommodate a stroller; I totally gave Peanut a boob session while I was in there.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-40947147317745489712013-04-17T17:58:00.001+02:002013-04-17T17:58:43.892+02:00When Boobs AttackSlept fitfully last night due to some mild boob discomfort. I figured I got my first plugged duct. Ouch but no big deal - after 72 hours in labor, I'm like "Plugged duct? Feh. We'll take care of it no prob."<br />
<br />
Fast forward to this afternoon and I start to feel feverish and achy and chills. So I'm pretty sure I've come down with a rapid case of mastitis but will have to wait until my GP is in tomorrow morning.<br />
<br />
Yippee fuckin' kiy-yay...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-89515817158982753452013-04-12T14:40:00.000+02:002013-04-12T14:40:02.422+02:00Ways to ensure I won't buy your product #75Photograph your white product against a white background. How the fuck am I supposed to see details, especially when you overexpose?<br />
<br />
*click* Tab closed<br />
<br />
<i>This post brought to you by wedding dress shopping.</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-32020895891415364772013-04-11T19:44:00.001+02:002013-04-11T19:44:52.406+02:00FML: tots commandeering my tvPeanut's two cousins (18 months and 10 months boys) came for a brief visit just now. Less than 30 seconds after arriving the tv was on and tuned to RAI YoYo. Now they are gone and I can't find the fucking remote control.<br />
<br />
There will be hell to pay if I am stuck watching bloody Peppa Pig and Bob the Builder all night long...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-28550017440319978602013-04-06T15:56:00.000+02:002013-04-06T15:56:16.812+02:00Par Condicio<blockquote><br />
<dl><dt><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/par_condicio">Par condicio</a></dt>
<dd>1. An Italian broadcast law guaranteeing equal treatment to all political parties during elections</dd> <dd>2. equal treatment; equal opportunity</dd></dl><em>- from Wiktionary</em></blockquote><i>Par condicio</i> reigns in our house, or at least I try aim for said state when it concerns Peanut.<br />
<br />
I'm a Juventus fan and Dad is a Napoli fan? <i>Par condicio. </i>Peanut will be fairly exposed to both teams; Mon Amour and I are in full agreement that she can choose her own team as long as it's not AS Roma. Ha.<br />
<br />
I speak Romanaccio, Dad speaks Napolitano. Peanut excels at the Roman exclamatory "Aò"; the Neapolitan "Uè" is a little more challenging for her. P<i>ar condicio.</i><br />
<br />
I have gotten in the habit of saying things twice to Peanut; once in Italian and once in English. <i>Par condicio. </i><br />
<br />
We've started some baby sign language as well, to help her eventually make the connection between both languages as well as be able to do some rudimentary communication with us before she actually starts speaking. The signs for Mama and Papà have yet to be more than something for her to gaze at us in amusement as we make silly hand gestures, but she's imitating the sign for Milk even if she hasn't fully made the connection between making the gesture and then latching onto the Boob Factory.<br />
<br />
She seems to have made a connection pretty quickly with "Up", blowing raspberries in an effort to make a P sound and holding her arms out in the vague direction of Mama. Imitating us saying "Papà" is more of the same, double raspberries and a whole lotta drool.<br />
<br />
But here is where I feel like I have failed in my attempts at p<i>ar condicio</i>: "Mama" is getting to be a pretty regular occurrence in her baby babble, usually when she's upset. I thought it was my imagination until Mon Amour and another couple of our friends confirmed it as well.<i> </i><br />
<br />
On one hand it's one of those silly contests between parents "Ha, she said my name first." But he's already fretting over not being able to spend as much time as he wants with her due to his working hours and as such I was pushing more on "Papà," hoping that it would be her first intentionally pronounced word.*<br />
<br />
So though I know the M sound is easier for babies to pronounce, I feel irrationally guilty whenever I see Mon Amour's face fall a little when she calls for me.<br />
<br />
So much for <i>par condicio...</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<small>* Her first word (Unintentional Category) was "Boob," heard by both Mon Amour and myself one fussy night when she was just over 3 months old. "Did you just hear...?" "Yeah, she said 'Boob'..."</small>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-51269759382079582432013-03-27T12:39:00.001+01:002013-04-06T15:56:39.425+02:00DecisiveMon Amour just called me from work for the third time this morning<br />
<br />
"I'm fed up, love."<br />
"What's wrong, babe?"<br />
"What do you say to getting married October 25th 2013?"<br />
"Ok, but maybe not that exact date."<br />
"Awww why not?"<br />
"Because Peanut's birthday should be a special day just for her, and not have to share it with Mom and Dad's anniversary"<br />
"You're right. October 26th it is then."<br />
<br />
Heh. :)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-78725639706729554962013-03-22T13:42:00.001+01:002013-04-06T15:56:39.427+02:00All I remember is the chorusWhen changing her diaper I have a habit of singing Digital Underground's Humpty Dance, 'cept around these parts we call it "Doin' the Monkey Butt"<br />
<br />
Wait until I start mangling the verses of Pearl Jam..Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-64329928867658615222013-03-13T13:08:00.000+01:002013-03-13T23:17:04.491+01:004 month sleep regression......or beginning stages of teething or whatever the fuck this plague is<br />
<h2>SUUUUUUCKS.</h2><div>Of course she's been a pretty easy baby in this regard up until now, so Mon Amour and I haven't really had a sustained bout of sleepless nights since she was born. The occasional one off yes, but we are discovering the true meaning of sleep deprivation now.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Also she refuses to sleep until she's had a proper poo. If she's overtired yet won't go down for a nap, I can count on a poo explosion to happen within the (extremely fussy) hour. And with a full diaper she's happy to roll off to dreamland...</div><div><br />
</div><div>Go figure.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-69064165393741961342013-03-11T17:56:00.001+01:002013-03-13T12:55:45.121+01:00You bet your ass I'm IdoneaSubtitled: Observations upon taking the written theoretical test for my Italian driving license, some 20 years after getting my US license<br />
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<br />
• once I have my license, as a neopatentate (new driver - ha) I can't drive Mon Amour's car for a year (horsepower limits for new drivers) nor go over 100 km an hour for 3 years. <br />
<br />
• Studying the road rules book Mon Amour insisted on getting me ("But there's an app for that!" said I), I woke Peanut from her nap one afternoon because I was laughing so hard at the phrase "motorcycles and scooters should not slalom between cars stopped at a traffic light" I asked Mon Amour if he was sure this book was printed in Italy.<br />
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• I'm pretty sure at least 50% of said road rules are almost completely ignored in real life. Because otherwise Italy should have some damn orderly traffic instead of the masterfully chaotic vehicular cluster fuck seen on a daily basis.<br />
<br />
• I take issue with a single solid white line dividing opposing traffic lanes on a contiguous stretch of asphalt, instead of the yellow lines like the US. Considering a solid white line can also divide two lanes going in the same direction, that seems like a really unintuitive choice asking for accidents.<br />
<br />
• when I was knocked up, everyone was all "Oh you don't have to wear your seatbelt since you're preggo" and I would just boogle at the idea that possibly being thrown from a car was in the best interests of both myself and my unborn child. Turns out said exception is only for preggo a with certain medically documented issues.<br />
<br />
• it might be false memory and/or my grandma ninja driving style, but I also boggle at<br />
- passing in intersections: Ok<br />
- passing on the right: Ok in certain scenarios<br />
- passing on a curve in a one way road: also Ok<br />
<br />
• Mon Amour has ALL THE LICENSES. Which means he can chauffeur, drive a bus, a semi, a row truck, whatever. He can DRIVE ALL THE THINGS. So he broke my balls this week because I wasn't doing the quizzes from the book he insisted on getting me, but doing the ones on the free iPhone app.<br />
<br />
"These are the 2013 quizzes. Who knows where that app got its quizzes from."<br />
"It says 2012 Ministry of Transport quizzes. It's easier to do them on my iPhone while nursing Peanut than trying to hold her and a great bloody book."<br />
"And who knows if that's true. You need to do 300 quizzes and memorize them all so you'll be guaranteed to pass."<br />
"Well these books were printed in 2010, saying to use the 2011 answer key tool. And I know how best to study for me, so stop breaking my balls."<br />
<br />
He thinks I passed by <i>culo</i> (sheer luck) I won't know how many I missed until tomorrow, but seeing as we got 3 hours of sleep due to a teething Peanut, he might not be that far off mark... <br />
<br />
EDIT: HAHAHAHAHA I only got one answer wrong out of forty (4 wrong you pass, 5 wrong you fail) and I knew I was probably second guessing myself to death, due to aforementioned baby teething grogginess. Mon Anour still winds me up by saying it was sheer <i>culo</i>, but in the phone with one of his best friends I heard him being impressed considering my (according to him) lack of preparation and the fact that I took it in Italian(the exam uses some turns of phrase not very common in everyday parlance...)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5935952.post-56620320785597919292013-03-08T19:57:00.001+01:002013-03-13T12:56:40.421+01:00GigglesShe falls asleep on the boob and giggles in her sleep.<br />
<br />
So cute it's like someone punched through your chest wall and very lightly yet firmly wrapped a hand around your heart and gave the briefest of threatening squeezes.<br />
<br />
I giggle at her infant hair loss. She's losing it in a reverse monk's tonsure, leaving a little baby toupee on top. I remain firmly convinced that all babies go through a a phase where if you painted some black under their nose, it's like Anne Gedes meets Baby Hitler...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0