I knew I couldn't get much out of my mom, but if I were sly, I'd get more information from my dad. So, I asked him, what was our first house like? Five bedrooms, four bathrooms, and an apartment we rented out. My lip began to tremble. He said our other two rental houses were nothing spectacular until I was about the age of 4, when we moved into a house so grand that it was almost a part of the family: five bathrooms, four bedrooms, a sunk-ink living room, a huge greenhouse with a hot-tub in the center, all of it sitting on just over an acre of land.
As my mom got back on the phone, I cried quietly. I live in an apartment. I have no garden for my baby to play in, and how in the world am I going to pay for toys? My mother said that I was crying because I was pregnant and tired ... I told her that moving to this country is one thing, but raising a child here is quite another.
The next morning, the boyfriend woke up up at 9.15, obviously having forgotten that my first doctor's appointment was that day at 9. In tears again, I called the doctor, whose receptionist told me the woman is booked solid for 2 weeks, yawning at my "but I'm here in a foreign country without my family" appeal.
Cried for a good part of the morning. Felt fragile most of the day. Smells are so strong that they make me want to vomit, and that makes me want to cry again. Was briefly calmed when I walked into an Indian shop because that thick smell of heavy curry was so comforting. Mom sent a text saying crying when you're pregnant is perfectly normal. Best friend here, S, who had her baby last year, confirmed it.
The boyfriend was so sweet. He made dinner last night -- just a small steak and some bread and cheese -- and after we had chestnuts. He'd found me a doctor that will see me Thursday. In the middle of such a calming moment, a thought popped into my head:
"How did you know where to find a good fremale obgyn?" I ask, picking up a blackened chestnut.
"Well," he hesitates, seems to shrug a little, then does what he always does best: he tells the truth, even when a white lie would be welcome. "I asked Rosaria."
I hear a crack as the chestnut in my hand is suddenly crushed. Tears come again. He knows I can't stand Rosaria ... how could he do this?
I fume for another ten minutes. What a hellish day. I cry a little in the bathroom, and then, enough. I'm so emotional that I'm annoying myself. This can't go on.
Besides, I have too much to do today: I have to work, to figure out how I'm going to buy a house with a garden for my little baby ... I have a doctor's appointment to cancel.
No, that's not me in my profile pic, it's France Gall, a ye-ye girl, that is , a super-skinny girl who sang bad French pop in the 60's and wore the hippest clothes, and who just happens to be one of my girly heroes. One of my favorite songs on my Ipod is called "I Was a Ye-Ye Girl," and I used to sing it to myself, creatively changing the lyrics to "I AM a ye-ye girl."
I'm 28 years old and moved here to Italy when I was 25. I studeid in nowhere small-town Italy when I was 16 and fell in love with the country, the food, the people, and all the other cliches that Americans find charming about this place. When I saw Verona, though, I knew I had to live here. I went from Wall Street after college to Verona, a decision I've never regretted.
I loved my hip little Euro life, living day to day, racing from one English-teaching job to another, drinking too much wine in villas with friends, taking trips to Paris for work, buying clothes with money I didn't have, wearing knee-high boots and short skirts and enjoying a freedom and independence I just never felt in America. I never really imagined family life, getting married, and certainly not children. I just wanted to be a ye-ye girl forever.
I took a pregnancy test last Saturday just so I'd know that I wasn't pregnant (ha!) and that my period was simply late. I fiddled with my Ipod while the test did it's job. The little pink line that appeared was so faint that it caused a moment of panic, but I was sure I was fine. It was oobviously an evaporation line, no? I showed the test to the pharmacist, who smiled and told me congratulations. I glared at her and asked for another test. The pink line in test number two was indisputable.
Everything has changed so much in the last week. The boyfriend is ecstatic. Money now seems like something to be saved. I'm suddenly grateful I gave up alcohol 3 months ago. I'm worried which clothes will fit and for how much longer. I ask myself if I can really be in this situation and if I can really do this without my family around. In short, I wonder what in the hell I've gotten myself into. But I know that apart from the panic, fright, and worry, that I'm happy. I want to meet the little person in there .... I wasn't expecting him/her in the least, but I'm content. Me and my little zygote. :)
But, I promise. I was a ye-ye girl. :)
