Images from the wildly popular Ciao Italia...

 ​At Ali’s first playdate with her classmate AnnaLee, I discover that AnnaLee is the seventh of seven children.  Who knew?  There’s her mom Jocelyn, calmly sitting with me in her family room, the aroma of sour dough bread baking in her kitchen.  (I’m thrilled when all three of my kids get a decent breakfast, like when I manage to toast store bought sour dough.)  “Mormon or Catholic?” I blurt out (because what are the odds?). 
 
Turns out, being Utah-adjacent, there are tons of Mormons in our community.  This has shifted our LA perception from: “You have THREE kids?!  WOW!” to “Only three, huh?” (To which I shrug and say, “We have to keep it small. Our dog is special needs.”). 
 
I lament to Jocelyn that until Jory gets more clients in Albuquerque, we don’t have the funds to participate in pricey summer camps (Not pricey by LA standards. Pricey by “we need clients” standards).  I try to rally my depleted energy for a summer of Camp Mom.  
 
As we slowly get to know each other, Jocelyn gives us a hot loaf of her famous sour dough bread, and eggs from her chickens. In return, I help her navigate the threat her daughter also receives on the playground (see May blog). 
 
While I have had my fill of religion for this lifetime (and the next) and we have an amazing tiki bar next to our pool, we somehow pass in the community as “Mormon-acceptable.”  Through Jocelyn, we are approved to participate in the invite-only BCA (Bear Canyon Academy).  
 
The BCA is pure genius. (Ever so much better than Camp Mom).
 
All BCA families live within a mile radius. Every family must provide five hours of free instruction/fun. Parents choose their class’s topic, age range, and must open it up to at least five other kids (counting our three, we end up with ten).  With my semester in Siena and Jory’s cooking abilities, we create “Ciao Italia”, two classes of 2.5 hours on Saturdays. I teach the kids basics about Italy (the flag, Roman history, cities, Italian culture, food) then Jory and the kids (first week) make a lasagna and garlic bread, (second week) individual pizzas and group gelato.  While the food is cooking, the kids play (Marco Polo, natch) in our heated pool.  We then feast on our Italian food, Dean Martin crooning in the BG and it’s pick up time.  We had our first session this past weekend and it was a BLAST. The kids were surprisingly well behaved.
 
In return, our kids get 25 HOURS of FREE camp time.  Lillie attended “Table Top Battles”, in which she learns all about medieval castles (murder holes included) then constructs a realistic castle out of cardboard and legos, complete with catapults (that fire mini marshmallows).  She also signs up for a robotics class and a portrait class. Ali registers for five hours of water Olympics, sew instruction, and completes five hours of yarn crafts, with four girls her age. Ty has baking, science fun, Prince Warrior manner (etiquette) classes (please may they stick), and art crafts.  The girls monthly have “Night Games”, three two-hour sessions at dusk in which 20 kids and two parents organize rounds of Ghost in the Graveyard, Kick the Can, Red Rover…..
 
It’s like a rebooted version of the 1950s. Everybody knows everybody (we’re the new kids on the block). Everyone is clean cut, devoted to family values, and eager for their kids to learn and have fun away from electronics.  There’s no waivers, fees, commute.  Everyone gives their best, so their kids get your best. The program is only as strong as the participants, and it’s strong, because the community expects it and holds each other accountable.  (What am I going to do in July?? LOL)
 
Granted, I’m the only mom not in a mini-van, the only one over 43, the only one who knows a foreign country from not being on a mission, the only one without family in Utah, the only one who can’t sew or bake bread, doesn’t go to church, and drinks. 
 
Viva la differenza!
We’re not in LA anymore…

Last month: Dad and I stopping off for lunch after leaving Mom and heading back for more packing. I look as exhausted as I felt.

​Change.
Sometimes it tiptoes in the background of our lives….a favorite restaurant closes, a dear friend moves away, a cherished musician dies.   Other times, it stampedes into our lives, tearing us in pieces: we move or change careers, one of our treasured people dies, a relationship implodes. 
 
I am Day Three packing up my parents’ two-bedroom apartment.  My dad sits there, debating whether to bring every item I hold up….this glass, this picture, this shirt. It is exhausting for both of us, but he doesn’t want to leave behind anything with meaning.  
 
My parents have finally decided to move to an assisted living place in Tucson near my sister and her family. Jory and I had wanted them in Albuquerque, but since its altitude is 100 feet higher than Denver, there’s no way they could breathe well (I still struggle every time I go up my stairs, twenty times a day).
 
The elephant in the room is my mother’s absence.  She is in rehab. Would she want this vase? This pitcher? This table? Would she even notice if they were missing? Maybe she would (she still talks about things they didn’t take from their two-story home). Probably not. Regardless, we act as if she would not only notice, but would care.  This is for our sanity more than her opinion.
 
While there’s no question Mom is struggling, my heart breaks even more for Dad, who is aware of the struggle.  He carries on, alone.  He visits mom every day, dreading the way she will beg him to take her out of the rehab center, telling him he cannot leave without her.
 
He is also bracing himself to leave Boston. His home... Beantown, BoSox, St. John’s Prep, Amherst College, Hingham, Quincy, Hull even Marshfield. It will break him, which is why he has procrastinated the move, until he can no longer ignore the fact that he cannot manage mom anymore by himself, and cannot afford Massachusetts assisted care rates. 
 
My sister calls with the news that there is no room in the Tuscon one-bedroom apartment for his beloved five-foot long roll-top desk. “Another blow,” he sighs, utterly discouraged.
 
I take a deep breath. 
 
“Dad,” I finally say, “You and Mom resisted every move we ever made: from Boston to Texas, from Boston to Brazil, from Brazil to France. But you knew if you wanted to advance in the company, you had to go. So we moved and battled homesickness to the point of practically resenting the things that were foreign to us until they finally became familiar. Then we felt comfortable and didn’t want to leave any “foreign” place we moved.  Our foreign assignments are the best thing to happen to us as a family.”
 
He considers this. “You’re right,” he admits. 
 
“We’ve always ended up loving our moves. So this time, cut out the struggle. Let’s save time and embrace the new,” I suggest.  
 
I continue, “Accept this last foreign assignment, and you’ll be going back home soon enough, Dad. You’ll see your Mom and Dad again, your sisters, your aunts Grace, Henny & Carmel, your good friends.  I believe the soul travels, and your soul will come home again to Boston. You just have one more foreign assignment. So choose to enjoy it.”
 
Choosing to embrace the new is how I have come to love New Mexico so quickly. It’s a decision, not a feeling. Dad shows little interest in following my advice, and as I am finally posting this a month later, it’s safe to say, old patterns die hard. It explains a lot about how I was raised, and who I finally chose to become. Whether you see it as loyalty or stubbornness, Dad resists change at every turn. The only exception I can find is that although a proud Republican, impressively he refused to vote for Trump either time. 
 
He is cleaning out that gorgeous desk he cannot bring. “This” he says, “is for you.” It is a one-franc piece from our years in Paris: Marianne sowing seeds on one side, an olive branch on the flip side. It is the money we stubbornly compared to the dollar for our first two years in France, refusing to adapt to the legal tender as it was.  He has kept it, but the French franc is now obsolete: A currency no longer current. 
​
I pocket the change.