The Family that Moves Together...

Should I stay or should I go now?

Yes, we did it, we opted for the second time in a year - and coughed up the money on our own - to move the entirety of our belongings from our Italian townhouse to the U.S. military base here in Naples.
*No, it had nothing to do with coronavirus, although that has been an interesting CNN soundtrack as we tear through boxes. *

This isn't a decision we broadcasted because, outside of asking a couple of opinions from family familiar with our day-to-day, we really didn't want the commentary.
Oddly, we labored a long time over this decision -- and I say 'oddly' because Andrew and I tend to go with our gut, and quickly, on most things.  Over this one we wrote out pros and cons as a family, looked carefully at the timing, and then 'put a pin in it'.  Even once January rolled around, which is when we decided we'd move forward if it's what we wanted, we didn't do so with a gusto or a flourish: we just started poking around, asking questions, putting things on the calendar ... and then they all came true.

This definitely feels like a season during which our decisions need to be more intentional.  We are planning five years out from my Navy retirement.  We are looking at the years during which and location of where the kids might go to high school, and where they will eventually claim they are "from".  We are trying to give Andrew's career a chance to really be something that reflects his capabilities.  But there's a disadvantage to long, deliberate decision-making, and that is the time allotted for doubt.  I'm not comfortable with it, but I suspect there is something to be said for treading water in the uncertainty for a little while.

What it really came down to is, "Things are fine."  But there was no room in our week-to-week for them to be great.

Wiggle Room

Yes, yes, I know, we travel like crazy, and Europe is this amazing opportunity, and the ages of the kids, and the fact my job no longer matters, and our finances being right-side-up all combine to make a slam dunk recipe for adventure!!
... But keep in mind we still have to live here and do life.  Living where we were living was 'adulting' on crack.  Our commute could be anywhere from 28 to 75 minutes, depending on what color the sky was that day.  The boys were commuting too.  Trying to get them together with friends required careful coordination, and going to play outside wasn't much of an option.  One flick at this house of cards and the whole thing came crashing down: case in point, car trouble.  Bottom line, we plan to spend 2 more years here, but without some wiggle room, no one can thrive.

We could have made it work.  We can make anything work.  We do ok just the 4 of us when we have to.  If we had a parent at home, maybe we would have been more invested in learning Italian and getting to know the neighbors.  Maybe we should have exhausted our pleas for the community manager to unlock the soccer field.  But when I start this list of "maybe we should have"'s, I'm exhausted all over again: Screw 'making it work': what is the best we can really do for our family?

Breathing

Even in boxes, we began to exhale as soon as we got on to base.  The kids have been constantly outside since we arrived, coming in with cold, flushed cheeks asking for a snack and a new check-in time before they head back out again.  They have free run of the 1950s-level safety, sprawling lawns, dozen playgrounds, soccer fields, basketball courts and skate park.  They're even allowed to go to the Navy Exchange with their allowance and a buddy.

Four neighbors came by within the first 48 hrs to introduce themselves and bring goodies!  We connected with friends we'd made when we arrived in the country and haven't seen much since.  For 11 months we'd been bummed that none of those relationships stuck -- turns out we had just made ourselves really hard to reach!

We can bike pretty much everywhere, I can run before the sun comes up if I need to, and there's an option to take a bus to work with other service members.

The answer to sports and after-school activities is a resounding, "Yes!", which we want for our 11- and 9-year-olds, especially now that it doesn't require an hour-and-a-half round trip drive if they want to stay late.  People guess, "so you moved for your kids?"  Sure.  Sure we did.  But that's half of our family, and when they are getting what they need, we are all better off.

Bonus round: Our new place came with an old, squeaky American washer and dryer which I am completely in love with.  The sheer capacity!  And drying efficiency!!  As Andrew put so perfectly today: "We're probably the happiest people in base housing." 


No regrets

Is it efficient to move twice in a year?  Obviously not.  And I curse the chore every time it comes around.  But, we had to admit to ourselves last week, we are getting really good at it.  We were completely out of boxes in 72 hours this time and will hang photos next weekend.

I wouldn't trade for anything the experience of living in Quarto.
- First and foremost, my FOMO couldn't handle going straight to base housing and wondering about the option of living out with the Italians.
- We are very comfortable when it is time to go out to the grocery, or to dinner (if we feel like eating at 9 p.m.), or take a chance on public transportation.
- We can get through most exchanges in Italian because we had to learn quickly out of necessity.
- We know what things are supposed to cost in the neighborhood so we can easily sniff a rip-off from the businesses near the Navy base.
... the list goes on.  I can't suggest that every family new to the area try both, because that's crazy, but this happens to be our story and it is written in ink with fewer and fewer backward glances.

I don't feel that we need to justify to the social media universe why we make the decisions we do.  Some of you are sweet enough to care about our movements, and that makes my heart smile. 
More outwardly, maybe our willingness to grit our teeth and choose to watch our stuff fill up another moving truck can make another family ask the questions,
"Have we created enough wiggle room?"
"Are we allowing ourselves to thrive, or just 'making it work'?" 

l'Italia a Piedi

Topping the 'pros and cons' list of living out in Napoli, instead of on base, is our neighborhood.  Geographically it is a suburb of Naples, but the term 'suburb' is so manufactured and American that it doesn't come close to describing Quarto.  Rather, we live in an outlying community of Naples that happens to fall in the basin and up the hillsides of an active volcanic crater.
(I wrote that last part to sound dramatic, but really, this entire country could blow at any time.)

Con: The commute is no joke.
Pro: We live in a safe neighborhood, on a country road, where traffic is slow enough to ride bikes to the gelateria and even go for a run from my front door.  Within a kilometer we can access the train to downtown Naples, several fruit stands, a pescheria (seafood market), Paolo's macelleria (butcher shop), and half a dozen cafes.

Today was a day for a run.  By getting out early I managed to beat the relentless rain that has been drowning our crater for three weeks now*.  My route is only 2.3 miles, but honestly, I can't find a reason lately to run any farther than that unless I am training for something.  It's a good loop with the right amount of gradual hills and only about a third of it feels like a cross-country obstacle course.  In 2.3 miles I feel I can paint a clear picture of where we live.

Gear note:  This year I invested in truly wireless headphones, and a little backpack that fits my mom-sized iPhone plus (in its case) and my house keys.  Nailed it, recommend.

Out the door I always choose the main entrance, rather than the parking lot entrance, because the road leading to the main entrance is one long bit of pavement, a pretty vineyard, and some nice houses.  The road leading to our parking lot is a patchwork of concrete, each piece poured sometime within 40 years of the piece next to it, with a gutter running down the middle and some jagged potholes.  Ain't nobody got time for a sprained ankle.

I head down the good road and suspiciously eye the two dogs trotting up the hill. 
... Let's talk about strays for a minute.  There are so many here.  A lot of them are cute, healthy-looking dogs.  They live on the street and many have adopted families who leave out food and water but never really let the pet inside.  Some travel in packs, others are loners.  They're just part of the Neopolitan way.
Vaglio is the dog who lives on the back road.  I trust him and sometimes he hides under my porch when it thunders.  We tried to feed him once but he doesn't like leftover steak.  Weirdo.
The two dogs trotting my way always travel together.  Sometimes I see them darting through the vineyard; sometimes I catch them sneaking in to a parco (gated community) behind a car, probably to leave a big steamy dump like Vaglio does in our parco.  (Vaglio really gets a pass because he looks like our old dog Garrett.) 
... Today these two rogues are running right at me and I wish I had a stick.  I squeak over to the side of the road, stare at the them, the big one barks one bark, and they continue their mission up the hill.  Like many of the locals, they are harmless, content, and just trying to get by.

At the bottom of the street I hang a right on to a wide country road where there is enough room for me, some teenagers walking to school, and a car going each way (I am describing a very wide Italian road here!).  I'm able to zone out until the roundabout, where I have to switch to defense.

At the roundabout I encounter the commuters and hang a left.  This points me to the heart of Quarto.  It starts raining.  I see a worker picking up bits of sidewalk trash and think to myself, "That's weird.  I've never seen anyone assigned to roadside trash pickup in greater Naples."  I can only assume he's hired by Anfra, the local health club, who seems to sponsor the entire crater.  I like Anfra because they do things like send a guy out for trash pickup.  I'm reminded by this train of thought that I promised Levi I would sign him up for hip-hop dance lessons at Anfra.  Put it on the list.

I look left and am treated to a pink sunrise coming up over the crater's rim.

Eyes back on the sidewalk since it'll soon become an obstacle that I hop on and off until I get through the village.  I pass the pescheria on the left.  They've just hosed down the sidewalk like they do every day, and the trays are out but the fish aren't yet.  Next I pass the fruit stand I don't go to because the one around the corner (not on my route) is way better.  Although I do like how this one sells homemade wine for €2 in bottles they labeled with a label maker.

I think to myself, "I can't wait to take my sister on this loop."  She's bringing her family out for Christmas.  My homesick heart swelled 3 sizes when she bought those plane tickets.

I arrive at the main church which has just put up Christmas lights and a tree in the piazza.  We can hear this church's bells from our house every evening at 6:30.  I wonder if the village will decorate for the holidays like it did for the festival of Santa Maria back in September.

I hang a left and chuckle at "Cafe 54."  I think this is a funny name because to say it in Italian - Cafe Cinquanta Quattro - takes a long time and I wonder if anyone actually calls it that.

The train roars overhead as I approach the underpass.  It's covered in graffiti and has no schedule to stick to.  You just buy your ticket and wait.  I think, "The Germans would never stand for this!"  (We're going to Germany for Thanksgiving.)  It boggles the mind how different two cultures can be in such close proximity.  The Alps obviously formed an effective barrier for all those years before air travel.

As I play chicken with the cars on the one-way portion of the street, I pass Paolo's macelleria and smile.  He speaks exactly two words of English ("steak" and "grill"), is so patient and gracious with my Italian efforts, and always sends me home with two incredible filets for exactly €10.

Next up is the mud obstacle.  I don't know where all this loose dirt came from, but the constant rain has pushed it all in to the middle of the street.  I wonder if Anfra will take care of this too.

Rounding the corner to home I pass the other macelleria that we don't go to, because the one time I went in there I watched the owner remove paper towels covering all the meat and then swat the flies away.  When I asked him for beef filet I walked out with shaved beef that I probably should have dried in to jerky.  Va bene.

Next is the pizza place where Andrew takes the kids when I work late.  We would eat here more often if it were possible to have a meal before 7 p.m.!

I turn and trudge up my hill as 'Gasolina' comes up on my playlist.  It makes me forget I am 38 and is just enough to get me up to my gate before I catch my breath, fish for my keys with swollen fingers, and pop an earbud out so I can listen to the neighborhood sounds while I cool off down our walkway.

Not a suburb.  Quarto.

The Good, the Bad and the Italy: Newcomer's Guide

Just loaded up my *adorbs* Italian washer with three towels and hit "start".  In all honesty, I probably overdid it and will have to go down and re-spin the whole thing in 50 minutes.  "Va bene."  "It's ok."
This is a fact of housekeeping around which we now plan.

After six months I still do not feel equipped to fairly answer the question, "How do you like living in Italy?"  But I am certain in my answer to, "What do you miss most about the U.S.?" : Convenience.

After the past couple of days I thought I'd start my own guide for the newcomer; i.e. the stuff they won't tell you in orientation.  If you're not planning to move here, perhaps it will make laundry seem a little less tedious, auto repair a little less frustrating, or grocery stops joyous occasions.

1. Everything is hard.
The Italians do not value efficiency.  They don't have to!  This is a country that literally survives on its history and proximity.
Fact: The number of tourists that visit Italy each year exceeds the number of residents.
Fact: The Italian 'boot' is prime real estate, over which NATO has a vested interest, in the center of Europe and the Mediterranean.
So what incentive is there to develop, streamline government, improve infrastructure, or find any new or better way to do ... anything?  The American dream isn't a concept here.  The average Italian works 60 hours a week and doesn't have a mortgage because he shares a house with three generations of his family.
Don't come here expecting to sign a lease in 24 hrs, run errands during riposo (nap time 2:00 - 4:30), or require a home repair during the month of August (when the entire population goes on vacation).  Just take your wins when you win, and bitch to your coworkers when you don't.

2. Know when to draw the line at corruption or extortion.
You'll be thrown in to the concept of 'corruption' immediately, because it has its pizza-floured knuckles wrapped in a tight grip around the military housing placement system.  You can't fight this.  But it's not the end of the world.  You will get your house, and some extra money while you live in a hotel for 60 days.  They will get their money however they get their money.  Va bene.

But down the road six months your car's axle may detach from its frame.  When you report it to the "military friendly, USAA-backed" used car enterprise who sold you the car - and a warranty - outside the front gate, grab your pooper scooper because you're about to start shoveling some BS.  They may tell you that, "they don't usually cover this repair, but they'll make an exception," as long as you "arrive with €250 cash for the 'towing service' (which was actually two guys who showed up and drove the broken vehicle 30 km across town to the shop)."  When you ask them for an invoice in writing, they will refuse with every effort of their being.  Here's your sign: if they won't put it in writing, it's shady as hell.  This is why we have access to base legal and a dozen local Facebook networks.

3. Don't think for a minute that because you are on a military base, you are in America.  
First off, lock up your bike.  Theft is pretty much the only crime here, and it's very real.
Second, the commissary is a great thing.  Government-subsidized groceries with a health standard (?).  You will have access to your Lucky Charms and Tapatio sauce (although I don't recommend combining the two).
But you still need a €1 coin to unlock a shopping cart.  If you show up without one, you will have to go to the ATM, which only carries 50's that day. When you try to buy a cafe to get change for the shopping cart, they won't have enough € in the drawer to complete the exchange.  Then you will have to walk around the food court asking each counter if they can break your €50.
You may arrive at the commissary when it opens, but this is efficient, so you will not be rewarded.  Instead, only one register will be open so you will have to go through the self-checkout with your $150 of groceries, including produce.  You will confuse the scale in the bagging area of the self-checkout with your excess amount of items, so you will have to pause after each and every item (even the packet of taco sauce mix) to listen to the warning about 'putting the item in the bagging area.'  At least this warning will be repeated in clear and authoritative English.

4. Know the difference between a Neopolitan vs. an Italian making a living off of NATO services.
This is really important.  Our landord, our neighbors, the girl at the wine-and-fruit stand, the gentleman who runs the vineyard around the corner, and the hard-working guys at the car wash.... they are all lovely people.  And they really try to meet you halfway when you try to speak their language.
But WARNING: If an Italian has a € to make off of the fact that you are an American living in Italy on military orders, you will be taken for a ride.  Either get on board or take a translator with you out in town.

5. Scooters don't care.
It's not worth getting mad at them.  But you'd never forgive yourself if you hit one.  Just keep your head on a swivel and stay out of the way.

6. Get out, go, eat, drink!
People wait and save their entire lives to visit the place where you live.  It may accelerate your aging process and make your eye twitch, but to not take advantage... what a waste.  Get on the train to Rome (56 minutes), get on a plane to Venice (1 hr / $27), drive to the Amalfi coast (1 hr), and have your fill of vino rosso, pizza margherita, and gelato limone that will forever ruin dessert for you.

Moral of the story, you can take the American out of America, but you can't take America out of the American.  It's tough to embrace the Italian way when you're still working American hours at an American job, driving an American-sized commute.  There's an intentional numbing to a lot of the chaos, and I predict that I will always feel a bit like we're swimming upstream here.  But, va bene.  Perhaps when we do go home we will truly appreciate the land of opportunity.

The Good, the Bad and the Italy

The pictures are pretty, aren't they?

Bella Italia.  It's still surreal.  It promises to be the experience of a lifetime.  But if you'd like to know what it's really like on Day 21 of a family move to a foreign country, read on.

(Or just skip to point 5 for a good laugh.)

1. What language do you want from me?
Typical initial interaction:
Waiter: "Lots of fast Italian."
Us:  Stunned looked, polite smile, then very slowly: "Mi scusi, parlo molto poco Italiano."
Waiter: "English?"
Everyone smiles in agreement that we are indeed native English speakers and clearly NOT FROM HERE.
In our travels to the Umbria region this past weekend (picture Tuscany but less famous) we just couldn't get it right.  In one restaurant we sit down, do this routine, the waitress starts speaking in English, so we speak in English, and then she gets visibly frustrated and scolds us as she produces a tattered English menu.
The next day, following the routine, the waiter keeps speaking Italian to us.  Then he says, "If you speak Italian to me, I think you speak Italian."  Our smiles wilt a little and I politely point out, "I'm trying."
I suspect this may be a small price to pay for veering off the heavily-tread tourist path in to the region that we did, and I'm willing to pay it.  But the bigger lesson is: we need professional language training.  Yesterday.

2.  What is going on with my body?
Week 1: Adjusted the sleep, stoked about the food and wine.
Week 2: Get in to a workout groove immediately.
Week 3:  Why am I weak, covered in a light rash from head to toe, and my lymph nodes are popping out the back of my neck?  Rash disappears and now my fingers and knees are swollen for three days?  See the doc and he tells me I'm "stressed" and "adjusting."  Trying to stay off Web MD.

3.  Will I ever see my bed again?  Or be the proud custodian of a dishwashing machine?
They weren't kidding about 60 days in a hotel.  It could be much worse - we're in a two-bedroom suite with bunk beds and a teeny tiny kitchen.  (So tiny that sometimes you trip over the trash pile when you back up to see what's in the cupboard.)  The kids ride their scooters to school and we have the sweetest maids.
But my predecessors alluded to the agonizing pace of the machine that is the housing office: designed to protect the service members, but yielding a lease-signing process that takes a month or more after deciding on a house.
If you know me, you will know that this is the opposite of everything I value ... thus, probably one of the most important lessons I will learn here.

4.  Fellow travelers with kids, regardless their nationalities, are easy allies.
Cases in point:
- The British family who ended up joining us at our table an hour in to dinner a few nights ago, after their daughter approached Drew and asked if he wanted to play Harry Potter Top Trumps.  We stuck around another hour and a half getting to know them and taking travel notes.
- The sweet Italian girl who joined us for a few rounds of Uno and said all of her numbers and colors in English.  It was the only English she knew, and she put a few European spins on the rules of the game.  The boys politely went with her flow and we all thought it was cute when she proudly announced "One" when her hand was almost empty.

5.  Cars are machines with limits... especially cars that are 13 years old and have no traceable maintenance record.
Even a Mini can face a space too small, and even a BMW-made vehicle can fail to climb a hill.
We did it.  We took a wrong turn in hillside town of Assisi and found ourselves navigating a bend between two brick walls that I sincerely regret not capturing on camera. 
We swapped drivers early on in the turn (Andrew is way better on a hillside, under pressure, in the lower gears).
After 13 or 17 angles, he even threw it in park, got out, and we attempted to LIFT THE REAR BUMPER and manually pivot the car.
Ultimately I watched (since I was out front "helping" with my hand motions) the car we've owned for nine days literally get smaller as she accepted a couple of new Italian smooches on the bumper and driver's side door handle. 
It is what it is, and we bought her with scratches for a reason.

But wait - there's more.  We never did park in Assisi.  (The basilica was packed due to Easter weekend; we kind of expected that.)  Our next stop was halfway up a mountainside at a recommended farm-to-table restaurant.  There we were, switch-backing up dirt roads, 200 meters from the establishment ... and that's all she had.  The mini just.... stopped responding.  Andrew masterfully threw her in reverse and used gravity to back off the road.  I found an olive tree to pee behind (long morning up to this point) and the kids and I decided to hike the rest of the way and let the man of the house do what he does best:  wait patiently, curse under his breath, and try again.
I'm proud to report that the car came back to life and delivered us safely back to Napoli on schedule.

6.  Until it's home, we will be homesick.
Easter was hard.  We woke up to church bells in a castle, but a few hours later we sat on the couch and watched our church in Rhode Island stream Easter service live on Facebook.  The family pictures came rolling in when Easter morning reached east-coast time.  *sigh*.
We know this drill.  It's "island" time for us again.  I don't mean Jimmy Buffet island time, I mean the time where we figure out who our next village is and, in the meantime, we drive each other crazy and ultimately emerge a stronger family of four.
So here we are in our awkwardness and our loneliness, but it won't stand in the way of adventure nor our usual determination to make this place home.  God put us here, and here we grow.  As always.

Not an Ash Tray

It was late at night on a Saturday.  We were parents of a 1-year-old, so of course we were a few bourbons in to it on the couch, binge-watching Entourage.  The doorbell rang.

No one remained on the porch by the time we answered, but a large box had arrived.  Typical time for a FedEx delivery, I guess.  The furniture I'd ordered online was here!  I'd searched high and low for a kid-sized armchair that matched our couches.  I found one, it was reasonably priced, and it was also a recliner - paying for shipping was an easy decision. 

So we brought it in, opened it up, and naturally, took turns sitting in it (if you've been to my house in the past five years, chances are you've tried out the Thinking Chair just to see if your butt fits).  Andrew went to put his drink in the cup holder and started laughing to the point of tears.  "Babe.  Take a look at this."

Engraved in the bottom of the spill-proof plastic cup holder were the words, "NOT AN ASH TRAY."

To this day we're not sure whether that statement was permanently etched there to remind toddlers not to smoke, or to discourage smoking parents from using their child's furniture as a receptacle for cigarette butts.  Either way, the chair finally gave way under years of agony due to the roles it played in the baby parkour obstacle course, preschool living room jungle gym and pseudo-trampoline.  It was with a heavy heart that we left it by the dumpster for the homeless man who lives 100 yds away.  I just hope he can read the warning.  

"Cheeeeese!"

We're flying back from Cincinnati the other day and I said to my nurse (a mom), "You know what I love?  School pictures."
My medic (a grown man) chimes in, "Why of all things did that pop in to your head?"

"Well, we flew over a baseball field, which reminded me that we have T-ball team pictures on Saturday, which reminded me how good the kids school pictures came out, which blows my mind."

You give a mouse a cookie.

See, most of my photos of the kids are A) blurry or B) self-initiated "Mom, take my picture" poses in Walmart.  I give up.  The reel from my iPhone will be an accurate account of your childhood, boys.

 

... And then they come home with this.

 I'm speechless on so many levels.  I want to post it at the next family reunion and challenge everyone to a caption contest. 
"Was this before or after Levi attempted to choke out his brother?"
"Did someone just say 'fart'?"
("Did someone actually fart?")
HOW MANY DUM-DUM's WAS THE PHOTOGRAPHER HOLDING???!!!???
Or was he actually a Ninja Turtle?

This one is equally unbelievable but less cheesy.  I purchased it at $12.50 per sheet of photo paper. 

Then we've got the dead teddy bear and the 3-year old that murdered it:

Just kidding, he's actually and angel.

HA HA HA.

In case any of your 5-year-old daughters have started an eHarmony profile, watch out for this lady-killer.  His pickup line is, "Free Candy."

He also strangles teddy bears and takes post-hunting photos with the carcass.  Perhaps our next stop should be taxidermy.

Love these boys.  One day I will thank them for their amusement ... and pray to God they turn out to be contributing members of society.

Walkabout

It started innocently enough.  The boys playing ‘well’ together, Levi helping Drew put on his shoes, pointing out the grayish clouds and telling me about the BIG STORM COMING!  (They just looked like normal dusk clouds to me.)  “Hey boys, why don’t we take the dogs on a walk?”  Yaaaayyyyy….

It’s pertinent to point out that I have walked the dogs ONE TIME since we moved everyone up here mid-July.  It was hot and I ended up wrangling two leashes, carrying a screaming two-year-old and his bike, and begging Levi to put his pants back on as he streaked 100 yards ahead of me through the new neighborhood.  ‘Of course,’ I thought, ‘It will be different this time!’

Two big dogs, two leashes, two boys on bikes.  Out the driveway, turn left.  Levi starts crying because a man is mowing the lawn two doors down, so we cross the street.  Levi starts crying again because the sprinkler is making the sidewalk wet, so we cross again.  Except this time his front tire hits the curb and the rest of his body keeps moving, belly-flopping him on to the sidewalk.  We all hold our breath, check for injuries, agree that his tummy hurts, give it a kiss, and continue on our way.

Another left turn leads to a looong gradual downhill.  Sidewalks are great, since Levi likes to speed off ahead and I’m 90% sure he’s been broken of his Milton street-riding habit.  (Though that 10% doubt still gives me nightmares.)  Dogs are terrible on the leash; I’m doing some stunt work keeping the leashes from between my legs or in a tight spiral around them.  I imagine that I look like those chicks who wave the ribbon on the stick at the high school football games, who couldn’t make the cheer squad.  I’ve got moves! 

Garrett (my big dog) decides it’s time to go #2 so I wait on that.  Now I can’t see either kid but I’m still banking on that 90%.  Of course this isn’t a tidy little pile I have to clean up but a bunch of huge pellets that I have to pinch with my fingers through a deteriorating Kroger bag.  Eh.  Good enough.

Assertively urging the dogs down the street, I finally see the boys:  Levi pulling up his pants and putting his T-ball helmet back on (because it looks cooler than I bike helmet?) and Drew with his pants around his ankles in someone’s yard, trying to aim his little stream over his bunched up shorts.  He proudly announces, “I’m peeing in the grass!” to which Levi replies, “Yeah, I already peed in the grass!”  Thankfully this particular neighbor is not outside, but the guy across the street is.  He politely avoids eye contact with me.

I announce that “It’s time to turn around and go home,” to which Levi happily obliges at about 35 mph.  Out if my sight again.  To Dr.Ew this news is THE END OF THE WORLD.  So he starts wailing hysterically and throws his bike down in the middle of the sidewalk.

Now, normally my course of action in this circumstance would be to throw the screaming toddler under one arm, his bike under the other, hoof it home and let the tantrum subside there.  But I have a leash in each hand, a bag of shit looped on one pinky, and a Diego water bottle hooked on to another finger.  There’s no room here for a bike or a two-year-old.  I try the old, “See you later” trick and start walking the dogs home.  The tantrum only picks up in intensity and now there’s a small crowd of preteen girls watching from a few doors up.  I make it about eight or nine house away, tie the dogs to a light pole, and turn around to find a mom with the preteens staring at me and helping Drew back on to his bike.  I dismiss this year’s attempt at any parenting awards, quickly thank them, scoop up the emotional wreck and the bike, and attempt a renegotiation once we reach the dogs.

Thankfully Dr.Ew strikes a deal that he will walk if I haul the bike.  Great.  I wonder where Levi is?

We make it about 3 ½ steps when it starts raining big, fat pellets, which according to Drew, are made of ACID.  Despite the screams he does manage to trudge behind me the 200-300 yards home while I try to distract him by catching the drops on my tongue.

Levi greets us naked in the garage and I immediately release any hopes of making friends who know which house we live in.

“If all of the raindrops were lemons drops and gum drops, oh what a rain that would be …”