Moving to Italy: Children Welcome Here

The story of our move to Italy starts with "Arrival" on the June 26, 2017 blog post.

In spite of their pragmatic attitude about family size, most of the Italians we met genuinely cherished children. Instead of being frowned at because we had so many, we seemed to be welcomed with smiles and caramelle (candies) wherever we went. In early July, we took all of the children on a shopping trip to the city of Casale. The shopkeepers’ faces lit up as we walked in the door. This contrasted with similar trips in California where the smiles of the American clerks had faded as they saw our brood, and their eyes darted back and forth to make sure our children didn’t touch anything. I can’t say that I really blamed them. I had seen out-of-control children destroy store displays, bump into people, and often break things. Even though we had played a game with the boys so they walked through the stores with their hands behind their backs, and we had kept the twins in their stroller, the clerks in American stores had still tracked us suspiciously.

That is why it struck us so forcefully when our children were welcomed in the Italian stores. Of course we thought our children beautiful, but not enough to stop commerce. But the Italian clerks came out from behind the counter, no matter how many people were waiting to be served, and stooped to talk to our babies. The customers, far from looking annoyed, joined them in clamoring around us. The children delighted in the attention, and the candies. As we walked along the street, strangers stopped us to comment on the fact that we had four children, how beautiful they were, how lucky we were, and how young we looked to have so many. I realized later that they also thought we must be very rich to afford four children. We were far from it, but to the Italians we met, like the immigration officer in the airport, a large number of children was a reason for joy. My assumptions about the Italian culture were being smashed anew almost every day! I had been guilty of stereotyping an entire country based on what I had seen and read in the media. Slowly, slowly, I began to reserve judgement, to wait, to watch, and to see before assuming anything! Through my experiences in Italy I learned to have enormous compassion for immigrants who arrive floundering in our own country.

All of this attention centered on the children was very welcome, but it also served to set us apart from the locals, which was the opposite of what we wanted. We were different, and it showed. Not only did we wear foreign-looking clothes, struggle with the language, and request things that were not available, but we had secured for ourselves a privilege that our neighbors could not afford, a large family. This didn’t help us in our quest to assimilate into the local culture. But we were determined to keep trying.

Moving to Italy: "Quattro Bambini!"

When we arrived in Italy we realized we were different. More than just our language and our expectations, it was our sheer numbers that set us apart. It started at the airport. The immigration officer collected our passports then looked down at the young faces staring up at him and exclaimed, "Quattro bambini? Ah, Madonna!  Bene, bene." Loosely translated, that means, "Four children? Oh my God!  Good for you." This wasn’t what I expected. I thought we’d fit right in.

In California we were definitely not the norm, and when the population-control bandwagon rolled into town, we didn’t fit. I had often received cold stares in stores, in parks, and even once in church, as strangers' eyes flicked down the row of my children and then back up to my face to register their disapproval. I stared right back at them. I was proud of my children, and I loved them with a fierceness that surprised me.

I had internalized the stereotype of the typical Italian family as portrayed in American movies and television—a loud boisterous household with dozens of bambini. Italy was a Catholic country, and since the pope lived in Rome, I thought that the Italian people would be especially careful about obeying the church rules. We knew that after a long fight, the Italian secular government had managed to legalize birth control only four months before we arrived, so we expected lots of babies. Finally, I had thought, we’d fit in. Our family might even seem small. 

But my expectations couldn’t have been more wrong. I was amazed to discover that the population in Italy was potentially on the decline. Most of the families we met had just one child. We were in the heart of the industrial north, where the economics of raising a child had trumped church law. For the people of that region, it was an accepted part of their life that you created only the number of children you felt you could afford. In my innocence I had not considered that my husband was an only child, and that I had many more cousins than he did. But the members of my family are dreamy, idealistic Irish-Catholics, the opposite of the pragmatic Northern Italians. Rather than feeling at home at last, I realized we were still out of place.

Paul, the oldest, turned five just after our arrival at Gabi. He looked like George, with the same long face and wavy hair, which, like his father’s, had been blonde until the age of four. He would get George’s thick, curly, brown hair when he grew older.  He was a typical oldest child: conscientious, kind, and anxious to please us. From a young age he focused on what he was doing and worked hard. He was very outgoing and had been well liked by all of the new relatives he met in England, as well as the ones in Italy.

James, at three and a half when we arrived in Italy, was a little more happy-go-lucky than Paul. He too, looked a lot like his father, but his round face reflected my Irish ancestry, and his hair was a light brown, as mine had been. He was much shyer with strangers than Paul, and he often shrunk back when he was approached by anyone he didn’t know. A typical middle child, he was adept at amusing himself with his Lego blocks or by looking at books. He could also stay focused on a task and was generally a cooperative, if talkative, child.

Matthew also looked just like George and shared George’s long face. His hair was straight like mine, and dark brown like George’s, and he had brown eyes like George. Even at nineteen months, his energy level surpassed that of anyone in the family. It was hard to manage him peacefully for a full day. He challenged decisions he didn’t like with loud yells and a defiant red face. He longed to keep up with his older brothers and bellowed when he had to stay behind.  In compensation for his volatile nature, he was a very loving child who hugged as often as he howled.  

Margaret Ann was very different in coloring from the boys, or George and me. She had silky blonde hair and deep blue eyes. Her face combined features of both of us, but she looked like neither of us. She had a sunny nature, and she mothered Matthew. I often found her hugging him when he was upset about something—at least twice a day. She also told him off if he misbehaved, which he didn’t take very well. She was more content to play with her toys than Matthew. Whereas he would yell in frustration and give up when a puzzle piece didn’t fit, she played around with it until it did. She was easy-going, like George, and loved to sit and listen to me read books to her. I was lucky in that all of my children were bright. I worked hard to stimulate their minds, as I had read in my childcare books that the first five years were the most important. I knew that the rhythm of their young lives stayed with them forever. I hoped that the farm would add an interesting back-beat to that rhythm. 

My focus on educating them was important when September came and with it the need to enroll Paul in school.

Paul, Matthew, Simona (an only child), Margaret Ann. James off exploring, probably.