A Tourist at Home by Krista Puttler

Photo Source: Unsplash

I lift my face to the Italian sun. I’m sitting on a stone step next to my two younger daughters who are happily reading their new books, one in English and one in Italian, in the Renaissance-era town of Lucca. My husband is in the US Navy, and we moved to southern Italy almost one year ago. We are learning the language, enjoying the food and friendship, and my daughters have been able to continue their ballet training at an Italian studio. This weekend, we drove the five hours north so that my oldest daughter could learn two corps dances from the classical ballet, Giselle. My husband is working, so my two younger daughters and I get to tag along with my eldest, exploring a town we otherwise would never—

            “…it’s an excuse for the mother…”

            A group of tourists obscure the person speaking English in an accent I don’t recognize. Where the speaker has chosen to rush through some of the syllables, my preference would have been to hold on to them a little longer.

            “…sleeping in the bed together until four years old…”

            The crowd parts and I see two gentlemen separated by thirty years standing across from each other. Wine glasses sweat on the narrow table between them. The glasses are filled with a clear, orange liquid, most likely an Aperol spritz. I check my watch. Not yet eleven. I close my eyes. Stop judging. At one time, alcoholic beverages were the only safe thing to drink. Water could kill you. Since moving here, I find myself doing this a lot. Closing my eyes. And what’s funny is that I’m not judging the people who make their homes here, I am constantly judging myself. My rush to opinions.

“…sets up for a lifetime of dependence.”

            I open my eyes.

            “The…,” the older man takes a sip of his drink, “What did you call it?”

            “Co-sleeping.”

            The older man leans closer, “But the child is only four?”

            Own-law-ee four? His expanded pronunciation opens memory. All three of my children slept in my bed longer than any pediatrician would be comfortable with knowing. So I didn’t tell them. I didn’t tell them about the hours I spent rocking my oldest daughter, her cheek on my chest, standing in our closet so I would not wake my husband. I didn’t tell them that my middle daughter took years to fall asleep on her own. I don’t even want to even write how long it was before she could go to sleep without her head on my arm. That is something that will remain between her and me. And then my youngest daughter, only content in her bedside bassinet if I had a hand on her chest or belly or leg, something of hers touching mine.

A child of only four years old…my children, now a teenager, a pre-teen, and an almost seven-year-old (going on seventeen) seem pretty ok. Now, my oldest only wants a hug and kiss goodnight. And my middle daughter is content for me to tuck her into her blanket cocoon. My youngest would prefer I read Harry Potter all night but will also settle for one chapter and an inescapable bear hug.

            “Like I said…”

I close my eyes again. It’s the same argument – sleep-training vs co-sleeping – all the way on this side of the world. Which is better. Which makes you a better parent. I shake my head and open my eyes.

The younger gentleman taps ash from his cigarette onto the street, “Raising a child, badly.” 

            A mother pushes a stroller between me and my eavesdropping. The child kicks her legs up to the Tuscan sun. I hear you; I hate being pushed around too.

            “Mom, how much longer?”

            I look over at my middle child, ever conscientious, “A few more minutes, sweetie.”

            She nods, then goes back to reading, “Rapunzel,” from, Grimm Tales for Young and Old. We had been looking for the “original” stories for some time now, and remarkably, in this little Italian town surrounded by an almost forty-foot-high centuries-old stone wall, we found a copy written in English.

            My youngest daughter climbs onto my lap, “Can you read this to me?”

            She points to a page in her book. It is a children’s graphic novel written in Italian. The cover has a cartoon drawing of a kid with Xs for eyes and a knife sticking out of his head. I shake my head and suppress a smile, “Who bought you this book?”

She wrinkles her eyebrows; I see the frustration blooming in her mind. Then she finds the hidden smile in my face. She laughs and points to me. Yep. I bought, Who Killed Kenny?, in Italian for my almost seven-year-old.

            “Perhaps, that is alright?”

            I look up from the Italian phrase I am trying to decipher. The younger gentleman shakes his head, stubs out his cigarette. They pick up their drinks and walk inside the bistro.

            “Mom, what time is it?”

            I look at my watch again, “It’s time.” I lift my youngest off my lap. We walk around the corner. A moment later, my oldest walks out of the building, a huge smile on her face.

            “Good class?”

            She nods. “We learned a harder version of the dance today.”

We walk past the steps where we had sat in the sun. We walk past the bistro and the empty table.

“What did you do while I was in class?”

“We went to a bookstore!” My youngest holds up her book.

“That’s a very graphic novel!”

We all laugh.

“To be fair, I didn’t know what it was about…”

“Mom. The eyes are X-ed out!”

“I guess you’re right, that is a pretty universal sign regardless of language.”

“But mom,” my middle daughter states, “It was in the children’s section…”

We all laugh again and continue down the street.

My eldest daughter asks about the Grimm book, and I let the three of them go ahead, arguing that the huntsman should not have returned with the boar’s lungs and liver. Even though it would have meant that he would have to leave his home forever, never being able to return, my daughters argue that he should have just kept going into the forest with Snow White.

Echoing down these narrow cobblestone streets, I hear Italian, German, Spanish, and French, but I do not hear that distinctive accented English from the bistro.

I wish I would have said something to the younger gentleman. All I had to do was walk the two steps across that narrow street, put up a finger, and say, I understand you.

Because I remember how afraid I was when it was dark outside, and I was the last kid to get picked up from daycare. Because I remember how sad I felt when I realized I shouldn’t ask to be rocked to sleep anymore. Because I remember telling myself that when I became a parent, I would be better.

But if I look at my childhood, really look at it, like a tourist looks at a foreign country, I know my parents were doing the best they could.

We arrived back at our hotel. We packed up the car. I was able to maneuver our over large Volvo SUV out of the tiny Renaissance-era streets with only a few scrapes. We drove the five hours home. It is funny that we call it home in a country that is not our own.

“Mom?”

My oldest daughter, the person who made me a parent stands in the kitchen doorway.

I turn off the sink, dry my hands, and turn around. “Yes, sweetie?”

“Thank you for taking me to those classes,” she fiddles with the door jamb, “I know it took you a lot of time to plan it, and dad wasn’t able to come, and it was far away from home.”

“You are welcome.”

“Ok, goodnight.”

She walks down the dark hallway to her bedroom. Both of her sisters are already fast asleep. I face the kitchen sink again and turn on the faucet.

Krista Puttler has called many places home including the Philippines, Guam, Hawaii, Japan, and a stateroom on an aircraft carrier. Her writing has appeared in Literary Mama, Under the Gum Tree, and Cleaver Magazine, among others. A medium-roast coffee gal at heart, she is pleasantly surprised by how much she loves Italian espresso. She lives outside Naples, Italy with her husband and three daughters. To read more please visit kristaputtler.com.