Claiming My Blue Italian Lake

It would be an exaggeration to say that when my children were babies, I would sleep with the nibs of a stethoscope plugged in my ears, and wake at odd hours throughout the night to check for a heartbeat.  It would be an exaggeration, but not by much.  I brought a certain joie de vivre to having babies that some might call undiluted panic.  They were so little and helpless, and were depending on me--the girl who once subscribed to Modern Equestrian magazine, not because she rode a horse but because the guy selling subscriptions was cute!  It didn't seem likely that I was qualified to care for a tiny human.

Having seven children over the course of two decades, you could say my confidence increased, and I got the hang of caring for little ones.  But worrying remained one of my hobbies, so I didn’t like to venture too far from them.  I wanted to venture far, longed to venture far, but I had pulses to check, and how was I supposed to do that from an all-inclusive in Barbados?

I would tell myself that motherhood requires sacrifice, and remember the words of the poet Ann Campbell about her children:

You are the trip I did not take

You are the pearls I could not buy

You are my blue Italian lake, you

Are my piece of foreign sky

And then I would punch in the face the person closest to me.  Okay, not really, but I’d huff, and looking heavenward cry, "I want my blue Italian lake!  Give me my lake!" About this time, a silky strand of honesty would twist its way into my mind.  You, more than your children, have kept you from claiming your lake.  Your subtle fear of flying, your unwillingness to buckle down and plan a trip.  Yes, you've wanted to keep an eye on your kids, but enough with hand wringing.  Go.

And so, we're going.  

It’s been twenty-nine years since I walked the cobblestone paths of Italy.  During that time, I've changed a lot of diapers.  How many, I’m not sure, but it was a finite number.  The piles of poop have come to an end, and that is a bitter sweet thought.  Bitter, because I won't have another baby, and there is nothing finer than the milky breath of a newborn, and sweet because I am, at last, ready to grab my piece of foreign sky.

Yes, my Italian is so rusty it might give me Tetanus, and my blue Italian lake just might be brimming with New Yorkers arguing about where's the best place to buy a cannoli, but I don’t care.  I'm getting my lake.