The first time it occurred to me that raising a child in Italy might be a little different from doing it in the United States was when my wife and I were having drinks with friends at a seaside bar near Rome. One friend casually bared her breast and, pausing for a full five seconds to finish a particularly lively anecdote, thrust it into the mouth of her wailing newborn.
I, of course, being the uptight and repressed American that I was, immediately dropped my eyes to the floor. The next thing I knew, my Italian-born wife had taken my hand and was saying “It’s okay, she wants you to watch.” The mother smiled at my obvious discomfort, while her boyfriend did his best to make me feel at home by directing my attention to his suckling offspring. “Mangia, mangia,” he said. Eat, eat.
I turned to my wife, at a loss for words. "In Italy, babies are little treasures," she said. A few years later, when I had my own son, I saw how true that was.
We were already running an hour late as we drove through the narrow streets of Rome one warm summer evening, our first night out since the birth of our son five months earlier. It was our anniversary and we were determined to enjoy ourselves. Besides, my wife had nothing to do with our tardiness, or at least not directly. The real cause was the time it took her to pack and prepare the ingredients of my son's meal, which could have filled a small catering truck. Oh, didn't I mention? Our son would be accompanying us on our date.
Preparing his meal began earlier that morning when my wife boiled the local, organic vegetables that our pediatrician had told us were appropriate for our son's age (five months)—potatoes, carrots and zucchini. (Now at fifteen months, he gets more than eleven different vegetables.)
The broth simmered for two hours and was strained. The vegetables were then mashed and added back to the broth along with cereal (or for an older child, pasta); freshly grated parmesan; extra virgin olive oil enriched with vitamins A, D and E, especially for babies, and meat (horse and rabbit, among others, are on the menu), or substitutes such as fish, eggs or more cheese.
This is the same baby food, or pappa, that my wife got when she was growing up in Rome, and her mother before her. Almost every Italian baby eats this dish for the first year or two. Disappointed by my relative indifference to baby food—my wife herself will sometimes scoop a little into her mouth—she never tires of giving me tastes of my son's pappa. (My favorite is the kind with chopped prosciutto.)
My nephews and nieces in the United States eat mostly "kid-adjusted" food—fish fingers, fruit roll-ups, bright purple grape drinks—but Italian children are taught to appreciate adult food from a very young age. I remember going out to breakfast with my wife's cousins, five and nine years old, and watching them get a latte macchiato, which in Italy is essentially warm milk "stained" with espresso. Wine is another staple of life that Italian kids get to taste, watered down when they're around ten years old.
Walking through the cobblestone streets of Rome on the way to the restaurant, we passed many other families out for an evening stroll, even though it was after nine o'clock. Most of my friends back in California put their kids down for the night around the time that my son would be waking up from his afternoon nap. When we visit the United States, our son eats his dinner when we do at eight, two hours after his cousins. We want to teach our son that eating dinner is a family event, when we sit around the table together and enjoy each other's company. Most Italians seem to feel the same; for example, my brother-in-law works late into the evenings, so his family waits until after nine to eat dinner with him.
Leaving our little one with a babysitter that night wasn't a real possibility. In Italy, babysitters aren't that common. Most Italians live within driving distance of their parents (or even in the same house), which means Grandma and Grandpa will usually be around to watch the kids. The same holds true for child-rearing advice. When my wife has a question, she doesn't thumb through Dr. Spock for the answer; she walks next door and asks her parents. Mama knows best!
On the street, I noticed a few parents checking out our son's clothes as they strolled by. Like most children in Italy, he was dressed like a little man: a navy polo shirt, camouflage cargo pants and brown boots. Fashion is huge in Italy, and many parents are eager to show off their kids in designer brands such as Armani Junior, Cavalli Angels and Diesel Kid. For the baptism of his son, my wife's cousin in Tuscany sent his relatives a studio portrait of his three kids—all dressed head to toe in Burberry.
When we finally arrived at our favorite restaurant in Rome, Osteria Romana, the outdoor patio was already packed, but customers were only too happy to stand and make room for us to pass.
Our friend Roberto, the owner, hurried over with a huge smile on his face, and soon the rest of the staff was joining him, delighted that we had brought our son along. In Italy, the best show in town is a baby, and having a child makes you a sort of celebrity. That night, a few diners reached out to stroke my son's cheeks, even though he was asleep. Strangers don't just smile and wave, but will kiss and touch your baby if you don't stop them. People are very happy to see a nice young couple pushing a stroller—even better if your toddler is tearing through the supermarket!
"I'm so glad you brought him," Roberto's wife said, as she took a seat at our table. She gazed at our son, lovingly. "He's beautiful."
My wife and I shared a smile. This time I was in on the joke. In Italy, babies are little treasures.
