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.

Made in Italy, (Part 3)

To recap Part 1 and 2 of my birth story I will hit on the points that differ the most from having a baby in America. First, you are not given a gown at prenatal check-ups. Second, epidurals are not standard procedure. Third, hospitals are austere structures made to make you better, not comfortable. Forth, my husband would be called into the delivery room only at the actual moment of delivery. Also, of importance, this was my third pregnancy and a complete surprise. I arrived at the hospital in the middle of the night, only to find that everyone in the birthing ward had been asleep and due to my, and my spouse's, continuous knocking, we finally roused the floor 45 min. after our arrival. Read previous posts. ( Also, thanks, Mom, Deborah Vivona, for the wonderful unedited photos you left on my computer.)

2:40
To find oneself in the total care of a stranger is, to say the least, unnerving. To lack the language of your hospital is much like being a dog in a veterinary clinic, and is, to say the least, a daunting experience. So far, my adventure in Lecce's hospital of southern Italy had made me feel very much like an animal being poked and prodded, led from one room to another, not knowing what would happen next. There is already something a bit feral about having a baby, forces beyond your control taking hold of your body, so to have a gentle guide to tame your fears and hold your hand is paramount. I would have liked the partner I had chosen in marriage to have been the one to share my burden, but my leader for the night, Giuseppe, a male nurse, embodied all the characteristics you might want by your side during childbirth.

While the Italians are domesticated, some of their bookkeeping is defiantly archaic in nature. When I arrived at the hospital, my husband was sent back down to the emergency room entrance to obtain some sort of admittance paper. All paperwork done in Italy has the feeling of ancient documents, yellowed paper stamped with serious red circles and official black squares. Also, files are made in giant bound books, sometimes as much as 4 inches deep, maybe even more. Offices are usually lined far and wide in the colossal manuscripts. Appointments and records are kept like this, and I assume, hopefully, later transcribed to computer. So, I wasn’t too surprised when Giuseppe guided Pier Carlo, my husband, out the door to follow the procedure of paper passing, while he ushered me in. I bided a quick farewell and the instruction to please try and find me as soon as he was finished. We left the bags at the door because the ward was empty and we knew they would not be disturbed.

2:45

Now, I was in the hands of the staff and I would be at the mercy of nature and the very sleepy delivery ward. Led down an incredibly long, empty, fluorescent lit, and mint green corridor we entered a darkened examining room. The ostetrica arrived for the first examination. Behind an old-fashioned metal and fabric-sheeted screen, like something out of M.A.S.H, I was checked, ultrasounded, and it was concluded that I was indeed having a baby, but I was only at 2 cm and the baby hadn’t dropped. Great, I thought, it would after all be a long night, and I clutched the hope that the anesthesiologist would arrive soon and that my husband would be allowed to stay with me, although against protocol, through labor and delivery.

2:50

Next, fetal heart monitoring. Again, another darkened room, a lone machine sitting in the corner, paper-covered table. Seemingly far from delivering, I spent the next hour griped in pain every minute or so, listening to the baby’s heart. Like all the rooms in Italian hospitals, there was nothing to look at but a cracked ceiling, peeling plaster, a lone crucifix. Knowing I had nothing to fear, I tried to keep at bay all the apprehension that comes with the unknown. When would the guy with the needles come? Where was my husband? Every so often Giuseppe would pop in to check on me. Where did he keep running off to? Back to sleep perhaps, catnapping in the coffee break room on a well worn sofa, watching a black-and-white TV running fuzzy reruns of Bewitched dubbed in Italian? He would ask if I was alright, but what could I say? I continued to ask if my husband had returned, and since there must have been some sort of bureaucratic hold-up, I soon realized that if I needed to hold a hand it would have to be Giuseppe’s. At the beginning of a contraction I took to grabbing hold and squeezing down through the pain. Trying not to think about, or care, if this was in his job description. Nevertheless, he did have a calm way about him and he didn’t seem to mind. I was trying hard to keep a stoic face, a good attitude and be a team player. But, for who? Still there was only a staff of two.  

3:45
When I had done my hour on the fetal heart monitor, it must have been time for another checkup because I was led to yet another room. I recognized it as the sala parto, or delivery room. This room was much brighter lit. It was large and in the middle of the floor was the ominous delivery table, all stainless steel and robotic-looking with levers and arms and appendages poking out in every direction. We passed through a large doorway to an adjoining room and along the far wall were three tall gurneys standing at attention alongside their own machines and sentry-like carts of tools. I was guided to the first bed and helped aboard. Giuseppe brought me the nightgown from my bag that Pier must have passed him and (as I stuffed issues of modesty into my mental American suitcase) helped me dress. After checking with me for about the 100th time that I had, in fact, completed the course to have an epidural, I was assured that the anesthesiologist was on his way.

I then suggested it would be nice if my husband came back with me now, but Giuseppe politely answered that because it was likely that other women could be in the labor beds and “little dressed” it was customary to have husbands wait outside. There went that hope flying out the slightly opened window into the cold February darkness. I said I understood, but secretly wondered where these “other women” were on this particular night. Perhaps it wasn’t a matter of modesty, but an issue of Italian men wanting to sip small espressos and puff congratulatory cigars amidst their masculine equivalents, versus staying in the confines of the sterile hospice. Maybe meeting other expecting fathers and finding similarities in fishing, military careers, and other shared stories is more appealing than the outcries of a woman in labor. For that matter, as all Italians carry a chatterbox gene, I guess I have seen women in labor carry on full conversations of my-cousin-said-this and babies-must-do-that banter. So, like all of life’s milestones, having a baby, for Italians is just another occasion to get together and mingle, have a coffee, and chat.

Later, I found out that Pier had returned with the admittance papers after some emergency room, middle-of-the-night drama, but upon the hospital accepting me, and because I was, without a doubt, in labor, he had to return again to the front desk to pass another document saying that I would be staying, at long last, finally admitted to Ostetrico.

3:50
All was calm and quiet. With the check-up they must have found that I was now at 4 cm., with the baby still sitting high. Pier and I compared notes later because, again like a patient in a veterinary clinic, I was talked about, not to. My husband was greeted down the hall with the update when he returned for the last time, and he settled in for a round of Super Mario Bros. on my kids’ Nintendo DS. There was a slight smell of new cigarette smoke carried in on the crisp winter night air. Someone on-call near-by must have been roused from their nap. I imagined their Moka espresso bubbling to its termination on a white enamel hot plate, and I wondered if you were allowed coffee while in labor. I really had no idea how far along I was. The stout obstetrician, her elegantly dyed and styled hair disheveled from her earlier snooze, glasses perched delicately on the tip of her nose, then broke my water.  It was, then, as if the gates of a great horse race were opened. There was shouting. There was a stampede to rush me over to the delivery table on my wheeled bed.

4:00
There was more yelling. I tried to ask amid contractions for a little information but the Italian language was all mixed up in the word soup that was rushing around me. “Well, this is it,” Giuseppe answered. Hmm? It like maybe I will be pushing until sunrise, but with the epidural to still soon arrive, or it like maybe my husband would come in now and we would have Hollywood’s classic screaming and pushing version of childbirth. With the gurney now pulled alongside the delivery table, I next found another person or two in the jumbled dash for delivery. All eyes staring at me, they implored me to scooch over to the delivery table. “No,” I answered. Their eyes all beseeched me, “No?” Blank stares wondered why I would suddenly resist. “I have to push,” I stated. Uh-oh, I did. This really sent them in a frenzy, screaming for the others, whomever they might be, to run. “Come on,” they pleaded again. Once more I answered, “No.” They scrambled towards me, two people grabbing each a leg. Assuming position, they must have given up on the quest to move me.

A few choice words. A push. Baby crying.

4:02

I gazed upon the fat naked baby lying in a puddle of goo and first thought about how my 3 year-old would have found this hysterical. With little graphic discussion, he had intuitively figured out that babies must come out “yucky”. Like most little boys he is fascinated with ick. The staff, however, was not as impressed, and I issued a small “I’m sorry”. Still, though, I couldn’t help but find a little humor in the situation, so when my husband finally arrived, I was beaming like the Cheshire Cat.  "Whoops. It just happened." Only having completed one level of the video game, he was grinning too.  Maddalena was a surprise from the beginning, so it wasn't a shock that she would enter the world in her own unique way. 

Babies made in Italy, are, I'm sure, like babies made in other parts of the world, with squished little faces, flailing little limbs on bare elfin bodies, and prestine little souls. Their desire to be held and fed and cared for, bellowed out to the new world in their first breaths.  The package might not be as pretty, but Italian hospitals and doctors are competent and kind.  Maybe Italian bambini arrive in a world a little simpler-- no whistles and bells-- but for an event that has been going on since, literally, the beginning of mankind, what more does one need than a loving mama and papa, a waiting big sister and brother.

Made in Italy, (Part 2)

Having a baby in Italy is like going back in time to when our grandmothers had babies, or at least what I imagined it was like. Not that there are nurses in white caps running around with stacks of towels and boiling water, but hospitals are very institutional. You won't find your own private hospital room with nicely framed art work and big cozy chairs for waiting family members. You won't find your birth team made up of your spouse, parents, in-laws and cousins allowed in the delivery room to cheer you on. You will, though, get to share your hospital room, after delivery, with other women and get to experience a feeling like you're staying in a pajama-clad summer camp. You will leave all modesty at the door and more than likely also your husband.