Just What the Doctor Ordered

Once, when I was in college, just when the trees in the student forum where budding, a friend noted, as we watched some flip-flop and short clad students pass by, that she hated seeing people "push summer" by pulling out their summer clothes early. The first sign of a warm day, and it is hard to not want to increase your wardrobe by unpacking your summer attire and adding it to the mix of still needed jackets and jeans. My daughter is about to turn 5, and since she started dressing herself at 2, has always preferred shorts and tees to sweaters, and flip-flops and sandals to sneakers or anything else that confines her toes. She would gladly wear a leotard and tu-tu or swimming suit out and about town, no matter the weather.

Well, as my previous post would tell it, the Italians stay bundled with jackets and scarves into the 80s, or until the page on the calender is flipped to something showing a beach scene. Needless to say, we stand out when we have a walk around the town. I give in to letting Rachel wear a tu-tu... it does compliment her pink cowboy boots from Oklahoma. As Italian little boys wear speedo-styled swimming suits, my son has been wearing his swimming suit like underwear under his clothes for a few weeks now.  Even my Italian husband now breaks out the shorts and "pushes summer" when the temperature hits the mid-70s.  And I, being American and accustomed to everything and everywhere being air-conditioned, am sensitive to getting  uncomfortably overheated; I break out the summer clothes the first day I deem necessary.
 Last year at this time we were just coming off of a long, hard winter battling ear-infection after ear-infection. We had the doctors baffled as Rachel just couldn't knock the infections. The doctor's final advice: Take the kids to the beach every day in the summer. And we did just that. It sure beats fighting the kids to take antibiotics or the Italians favorite cure-all, saline nose spray. We followed the advice and the final verdict for this past winter: not an infection at all, not one!

I swear it was the snorkeling that their spear-fisherman father encouraged that cleared their sinuses permanently.  They spent almost as much time under the water as they did building sandcastles. Throwing his head down underwater, my son was only 2 and unaware that he was swimming, his feet lifted off the seafloor with each gentle wave. Passersby would panic and tell me to hurry and catch him before he sunk, and I would have to explain, in my Italian, that he was breathing just fine through the snorkel. I'm sure I looked like a negligent mother.

Being from landlocked Oklahoma, I am slowly learning the beach culture of Italy. My kids and husband, on the other hand, are hooked, born for this salty, sea life. My husband has been out catching octopus for weeks now. This spring we have "pushed summer" at the beach already a few times. With chilling water, I wouldn't get in, but kids are immune to cold when it comes to surf and sand, and they've been swimming. So, while some Italians are still clothed head to toe, all I can say is that we are just starting in a little early, just doing what the doctor prescribed.

How to Dress an Italian Baby

Once I was given some hand-me-down clothes from an Italian friend.  My favorite sets of little linen pants and tiny tees, frilly dresses, and fancy frocks, were by a brand called Il Gufo. They were beautifully made with definite European flair, but it didn't dawn on me until I was looking through Cookie Magaizine that what I had been given out-cost most of what was hanging in my own closet. Who would have known? These items had been handed over the same way all cast off clothes are passed around... in old shopping bags.  It made me think of the new shopping bags that I saw hanging on stroller handles, paraded through town by high-heeled, high-fashion mamas.  Were there ensembles by D&G Junior? Gucci? Diesel Kids? Missoni?  Perhaps, but my time in Italy has taught me, that while what the kid is wearing might make a bella figura, or first impression, it isn't what you wear that counts, but how much of it.

Layers. From the day my kids arrived in this world, I have been told to layer them, bundle them, and cover them up. Italians fear the smallest of drafts or the slightest drop in temperature, especially for kids and babies. Before I had Rachel, my first-born, I was given a list from the hospital of items that she would require. Among the articles of clothing were things that even my Italian husband was unsure of.  When we asked in a baby store we learned what some of the items were. I learned that there are two types of cotton onesies, one heavier for winter, and a lighter weighted cotton for summer. I have found that the terry cloth diaper covers come in handy to stop diaper leaks, but I have not found the use for the camicine della fortuna, or little "lucky" shirts.  They are dainty as a handkerchief, sleeveless, and open backed.  The fabric of choice for sleepers is chenille, and everything has a handmade or embroidered feel to it.  Many pieces of the babies' layettes are hand crafted by the babies' little old grannies or aunties.

     Before I went to the hospital this past February, I carefully planned and divided Maddalena's outfits into neat stacks and put them into ziplock bags (something I always have my mom bring me from America since it is very difficult to find them here in Italy). I had made sure that each set contained at least  a one piece body, as the Italians call it, the terry cloth diaper cover, and warm socks, plus an outfit. I left out the camicine della fortuna, but included baby hats knitted by my mother-in-law. On each day of my hospital stay, each bag would be sent to the nursery with the baby for the nurses to change and care for the newborns while the moms would get an hour or two to rest a few times a day and then for about 5 or 6 hours during the night. After the baby was born, when the nurses were ready to take her to the nursery to clean her, warm her and dress her, I instructed my husband to take the baggie on top. We had already planned that her first outfit, after her birthday suit, should be the Carter's baby gowns that my mom had brought be from the States. The baby nurses in the hospital in the Veneto where I had had my first two kids had loved how the soft cotton gowns had blanketed the baby and how the little sleeves flipped over to cover the newborns tiny hands and prevent the baby from scratching her face. There was nothing like this here in Italy, they told me. Plus, like little girls dressing dolls, the cute patterns and matching hats had not gone unnoticed by the nurses. However, the novelty of the gowns was overlooked by the nurses of southern Italy.

Babies at the Lecce hospital were taken from nido, or nursery, to their mama's room on a padded cart, completely covered by a sheet and heavy blanket. Completely covered, head to toe, lined up in a row with their first peers. Bundled and layered together. All for fear of catching cold. When the nurse brought Maddalena to my room for the first time, that cold February morning, she also brought stern words that my cotton ensemble was too light, not heavy enough for winter. The hat was unnecessary, and did I have an extra pair of socks? All I could do, as I always do, was to reply with a complacent "OK", meanwhile thinking, "mama knows best," hoping I had something heavier packed in my bag.

It wasn't the first time I had been scolded for not dressing my kids appropriately, and it won't be the last. Italians love to give advice and as an independent-thinking American, life here in the beginning was difficult enough without being told what to do by a common passerby.  It was hard to not get defensive and realize that when strangers give advice they are reliving their own experiences. The lady at the fruit stand wants to know if the other siblings are jealous, and concludes if they are, that it is normal. Old grandpa-type men stop and ask me if I am breastfeeding, and counsel me that that is what is best for the baby. The flock of ladies drinking their coffee at the bar on the corner suggest a trip to the sea to clear up that cold. The mountain air will do wonders. Don't swim after eating. He needs a scarf. She must cover her head from the sun. Eat your pasta. --Everyone has their two cents' worth to pass on, and when they do they are repeating words they gave to their own kids or grandkids, or what their family told them. Lives here are entwined; nobody's business blanketed in good intentions. And I don't blame them. As Maddalena turns 3 months old and outgrows the hand-me-down clothes from her big sister Rachel, I will pack them away for the last time and I know that unless for nostalgia, I won't have a reason to pull the tiny clothes out again. As time goes on, I will probably find myself stopping to ooh and aah over a baby and pass on my own words of experience.  Displaced and not having family nearby, I reflect and realize that I will always be younger than someone who will know more than me. I think I will let them adopt me as a daughter or granddaughter for a moment. I will share my children with my Italian countrymen and I will consider their counsel, but I will continue to dress my kids in an American fashion, a little laid back and less worried about the weather than my Italian compatriots. As Italian kids are layered in wool and cotton, my life here in Italy is layered in love, showered in words of advice.