It takes a village to raise a child

Italians consider cooking (and eating) good food at every meal an absolute given, a necessity, meaning that the work of many a home cook is taken quite for granted.  Rain or shine my aunty every day of the year sets the table and cooks for her husband, and at least one grown son and his wife and children.   Not dissimilar to an Autogrill she has them in and out in under an hour with a 3 course meal under their belts so that they can all return to school/work.  The tide goes out then in and there she is suddenly sweeping up and clearing plates and getting on with the rest of her day as if it were all some delicious dream.  I’m not saying this level of taking for granted is right, it just is.  It is the way of things in some households.  Roles are clear and logical.  You are not lauded, but neither are you judged as a vacant housewife either.  The role of the home-maker is truly appreciated.  Mums rule the roost.  They are obeyed, they are loved and they are valued and it is how so many of my peers manage to bring up their kids without losing their minds.

Here in the UK I feel almost as if there is disapproval or dismay at the time I choose to spend on cooking, childcare and domestic arrangements – as if in some way I am letting the “sisterhood” down.  Isn’t it ridiculous?  It’s horses for courses!  It comes down to choices and it comes down to your family culture.  I believe in the importance of nutrition, I am quite controlling and I am a competent, if not professional cook.  I also like being a hands-on parent.  Therefore it makes sense that I do the lion’s share of the cooking and childcare.  I also know, especially now that my youngest is growing up and is almost two and no longer a baby, how truly fleeting and bittersweet babyhood is.  I want to be present for it.  There is nothing wrong with shortcuts and outsourcing, but speaking purely for myself, I have to say I am way more comfortable knowing I can rely on myself, not others and I want to be able to influence my kids’ tastes and leanings now, while they are still pliable and their little minds still wide open.  My experience of home cooking in Italy stems from this same mindset:  You want things to taste or be a certain way, then you put in the man hours.  You want your kids to be answerable to you, you wade in.  You don’t outsource if you can help it, and you are often suspicious of it.  I have friends and family who live far from their first choice support network, and there is nothing you can do about that if circumstances dictate.  It is the precise situation I find myself in, unfortunately.  What I find quite different to the UK mindset in Italy, is that the Italians know that what goes around comes around.  Grandparents step in when you need them to – even full time – and everyone knows that there will come a time that the roles will be reversed and they will lean on you in their turn.

When I was at university I remember feeling distinctly like an alien listening to most of my peers bragging that there parents would be coming up to visit at the weekend, and that therefore they would be snagging a “FREE lunch” and perhaps scoring some extra cash, counting down the minutes in their parents’ company at Cafe Rouge or Henry’s Cafe or Browns.  Maybe they were hamming things up and really the visit was special to them, but I remember jokes being made about how their parents were delighted they were finally out of the house, free agents at long last.  I had none of that growing up.  My parents dreaded the empty nest.  They would visit us across the globe when expatriated for work, drive us to the airport in the early morning darkness, well into adulthood, to make sure we were safe and sound.  They put money aside for our futures (as much as they could muster), it was their ultimate goal: our success, our advancement.  Their whole raison d’etre was to ensure their posterity was safe and set up for life.   It is a question of emotional programming, I think.  A question of culture, and I think it is why, in the UK as mothers and fathers we sometimes suffer.  We are in such a hurry to cut loose and make it on our own, to be self-sufficient, to shake off the interfering and the control, that later, when that input is welcome once more, we can’t always find it.  Like the labyrinth and the minotaur, we need to follow that tie that rope hand over fist, all the way back to the mouth of the cave.  It is not surprising that in Italy you can eat at a restaurant with your kids without guilt and shame.  The staff will forgive any misdemeanours and toddler transgressions, and perhaps, if you are lucky, even bounce your baby in their arms while you try and wolf down a few bites of supper as they’ve been there themselves.  They get it.  They realise that no man or woman is an island. They cut you slack and you appreciate it.  It is a two way street.  You know that someone is most likely there, looking after their brood while they serve you your food.  It is an acknowledgement of the great circle of life.

I am not trying to airbrush it.  Family issues obviously abound, politics, jealousies, conflicts, these are universal.   I am dealing with this myself right now with a sibling conflict.  What is non-negotiable is the paramount importance of children and the clubbing together to help raise them, situation-permitting.  For instance in my family, on the Italian side, my aunties are essentially full time nannies to their grandchildren, undertaking all or most of the school runs, mealtimes, nap times, poopy nappies, colds, doctor appointments and other odds and ends of childcare.  I am racked with envy as devastatingly I lost my own mother, my super-hands-on, generous, selfless, non-judgemental, beauty of a mum, when my first child was just 10 months old.  I blithely assumed she would be there to see my children grow up, get married and maybe even have their own kids.  She was in good health, young and beautiful for her years and popular with all my best friends who adopted her as their own surrogate mum in various ways.  I have, with extreme bitterness, been forced to recreate the village atmosphere in which to raise my own children through a mix of patchy grandpa parenting (he’s almost 80!) and paid help – which we have been very fortunate to be able to afford.  Most of my girlfriends are in a similar boat, with infirm – or in some other way absent – parents and it is a constant scramble to get all bases covered, the fundamental practical and emotional needs of everyone pulling you in every direction.  In the best dynamics, there is virtually no overtly voiced delegation needed.  That person can just step in and do what you would be doing yourself if you were not otherwise occupied.   Then there is Mumsnet and the rest of that ilk. I love bloggers – “mom-bloggers” and all types of bloggers putting themselves out there.  I love the fact that however sad, overwhelmed and alone I might feel there is someone out there I can turn to, ask advice, and support in return.

Another unsung hero in the dragging up of your children is the humble neighbour.  I was lucky enough to get up the duff at the same time as my immediate next door neighbour, so it turned out that our daughters are besties and talk over the fence and look out for each other.  These are the people you can ask to watch over your kids if you have to make a scary dash to paediatric A&E in the middle of the night or if you have to pop out to collect someone from Paddington station without having to slam dunk 3 uncooperative children into their car seats.  It takes some of the friction out of life.  It means you can trade suppers when one of you is tired and compare misery notes standing in your front garden.  These connections are as much about maintaining your mental health as they are about practical help.  I insist that our kids greet neighbours and friends we pass on our walk to school, just like you would in our town of a few thousand inhabitants in Italy where everyone knows your face as I want them to know, appreciate and feel anchored in their community.  The more we rely on the cyberverse and social media, the more imperative it is that we reach out physically to those around us or I fear our networks and out societies will erode.

Yesterday I found out that the lady who has helped me out since my middle child was a baby, is planning to leave for personal reasons and I felt quite desolate.  It is the end of an era, the end of my being able to lean on her, the person who whether out of choice or necessity has shared our family life and inadvertently been sucked into it.  Change is inevitable.  Let’s defy the destabilizing side of it by looking after each other, looking out for one another.