“I’m not a regular mom, I’m a cool mom.”
We all know that magical movie moment when Amy Poehler informs Mean Girl Regina George and friends that she’s way cooler than the average mom. A mom of three myself, I am in awe of all moms everywhere and feel there is no such thing as a “regular mom” because we are all superhuman. I mean, one human birthing another is pretty super unto itself is it not? Then there’s everything that follows. So to all you mammas out there, on this Sunday following our big day, you’re all cool moms in my estimation. But this is about something else entirely.
I think as far as moms go, I can safely say I’m not un-cool. By nature, I’m easygoing and always down for a good time. I’m always up for a dance party, a singalong, spontaneous songwriting, snuggle puddles, experiments in baking, rides at a fair, middle of the night mischief, zip lining and escapades of the sort, Vespa rides to school, adventures around the world and so on. My affection for my little loves is endless and my empathy extends pretty far. And yet somehow, all of this pales in comparison to my husband’s very existence.
Maybe this is the plight of all moms. I’ve read that kids behave something like 800% worse in the presence of their moms. I’ve also read the rationale behind it which explains that we serve as the safest space to act out and test boundaries. So maybe we’re all just destined to give all of ourselves, mind, body and soul, to these little beings and in return, tantrums and deflated boobies? Va bene. So be it.
There are plenty of accounts of kids being so excited to spend time with the father they rarely see that it seems they’re more excited about him than mom. But in our case, Gabri is SUPER present. He is a self-employed entrepreneur and so he is in command of his schedule. And while his impressive work ethic isn’t up for debate (the man never stops whether it’s working or working out or somehow expelling his surplus of energy), he still makes a lot of time for our kids. They are, without question, his priority.
He is among the few dads that accompanies both me and them to school every single morning (we alternate scooting with each). He taught Dani to ride a bike before any of his friends knew how. He also taught him how to drive the Vespa by the time he was four. (If this is triggering for you, feel free to comment and I’ll clarify). He spends his Saturday mornings involved in what’s become a tradition of tennis lessons followed by cornetti.
Perhaps the most illustrative of examples is just a few months ago, Gabri took the boys on a ski trip to Italy with their beloved uncle Manu and cousin Kai. I don’t know many other moms who are down for International travel with littles, let alone willing dads. We’re talking long connecting flights, layovers, diaper changes, taxis, car rides, meal consideration, bedtime routines (or a complete lack thereof because…guys), morning preparation and just general presence as a loving, supportive parent wanting your offspring to learn and grow and have fun along the way. I stayed begrudgingly behind with Nala so as not to drag her across time zones to sit with a nanny she doesn’t know in high altitude all day while everyone else was out enjoying the mountain.
So, off they went without me as I nervously awaited my twice daily calls. After AirTagging them, fearing Gabri would lose Rafa even as early as Miami International, I dropped them off at the airport. Sensitive, sweet Dani shed a tear in anticipation of missing me while Rafa the Rascal pushed me away chanting “boy’s trip.” (Raise your hand if your first and second born are complete opposites like mine.)
The trip was a huge success. Gabri got them into the lounge, into upgraded seats and up to Brunico with a smile and with a fraction of the meltdowns I’ve experienced on such a trip. Dani not only learned how to ski but on the last day of ski school, he won the race against kids ranging from his age to age 12! They went on runs together at Dani’s urging. They ate pizza, pasta and copious amounts of gelato. So Rafa, needless to say, was in his happy place. And if all of this wasn’t enough, Gabri then found tickets to the Juventus game in Torino. He’d taken Dani the year before and promised Rafa he’d take him too in the coming year. And Gabri takes the promises he makes to his boys seriously.
Back at home, Gabri is the dad that makes all other dads, even the great ones, feel lazy. While they’re on the slidelines, maybe enjoying a beer under the splashpad umbrellas, Gabri’s throwing our boys and all their friends full throttle down the water slide or into the air, over and over until his back threatens to break. He’s like a one man amusem*nt park and has been since they were teeny, launching them like baby bowling balls onto our bed and into a heap of cushions, much to their delight. He’s the party starter, the bedtime procrastinator and all around jokester, somewhere around 14 years old on the inside of his 46 year old facade.
And as I write this, I’m struck with a revelation: Gabri is always the center of attention. He finds his way there in nearly every situation. And so, it’s really no wonder he’s the center of our kid’s attention.
Gabri lost his father in 2007. By all accounts, he was an amazing man and unparalleled father; not devoid of flaws but with unwavering love for and commitment to his children of which there are four. I never had the chance to meet him but feel his example in the man and father that Gabri has become. So while this is, in a sense, a pre-Father’s Day love and appreciation letter to Gabri for being an incredible parent to our three children, it’s time I got back to the point. And the point is: playing second fiddle parent is some bulls*it!
As I mentioned earlier, we BOTH provide Vespa rides to school. And they pretty much fight every morning over who gets to go with Papa. We BOTH lie with them as they fall asleep each night. And Rafa usually throws a fit when he doesn’t get to sleep with Papi (although all of the middle of the night mayhem, sickness and scaries, is directed at me). At a recent parent teacher conference, I saw a drawing for which Dani was supposed to write what he wanted to be when he grows up. His response? A Papà … like Papà. Dani my love, I hope you’re a Papa like Papa when you become a Papà but for now, how about an astronaut?
I make dinner pretty much every night of the week. But when Papà makes pasta, there’s a celebration. (Ok, this one I get. I’d worry if any child faced with a salmon quinoa bowl or Italian-made pasta chose the former). I make the pizza dough and prep all the ingredients but Papà gets the credit because he throws it together and onto the BBQ. You get the point. And I, another revelation: Gabri really has it all figured out - how to find the shortcuts, the way to their hearts and miraculously, how to consistently get a full night’s sleep.
When I think about the overt and somewhat upsetting preference for Papà, it’s really only apparent with our middle munchkin, Rafa. Nala is still little enough that she clings to me like a little monkey with an absurdly strong grip in any unfamiliar situation. And Dani is so emotionally intelligent and sensitive that he panics at the idea of me being even slightly sad.
I’ve recently emerged from the dark place I entered into when Faffi went full-throttle anti-Mamma a couple of weeks ago. By dark place, I mean tearful breakdowns in front of teachers and friends. Rafa, my giant three year old, as I’ve written before, is primitive in nature, amazing and hilarious but mostly illogical at this point in time. And he was rejecting me with all of his might, something he has in spades.
In the past, we joked there was only space in his heart for one person a day and he would make a random selection as to who the winning parent would be on an almost daily basis, sometimes by the hour. Usually, whoever he’d spent more time with during the day would be the victor at night. Then there was the phase where he only wanted to sleep with me but come morning, he only wanted to go on the Vespa with Papà to school. I get it. I’m soft and cuddly. And Gabri lets him drive the Vespa. (Gasp).
Something in the tiny man shifted recently into horror at the thought of sleepy snuggles with Mommy. It wasn’t all mopey sadness without any humor. There was the moment where he hugged me oh so tightly while crying hysterically about how he doesn’t want to sleep with me. The word-action disconnect had both Gabri and I holding back laughter. In another such moment, Rafa commanded us to play a round of rock, paper, scissors, declaring that the victor would win his love. “Voglio bene a chi vince!” (I love whoever wins!). Then, he whispered to Gabri to throw paper. And the little f*cker whispered to me to throw rock. Part of me wanted to throw him out the window. Lucky for him, he’s too heavy.
Just to, for a moment, give a shout out to Dani for his diplomacy, allow me to share his reaction to the above rock, paper, scissor incident: He watched silently and no doubt saw the combination laughter/heartbreak stirring inside me and swiftly interjected asking us to play again. My little angel whispered to both of us to throw rock. Then he exclaimed “voglio bene a tutti e due!” (I love you both!). He also cried the other night when it was his turn in the rotation to sleep with Papa and then Rafa, instead of embracing me, banished me. Dani’s tears were the manifestation of his not wanting me to be alone. Bless that little mensch.
Then the morning came when it was my turn to scoot Rafa to school and his melodramatic flailing in the name of desperation for Papa almost threw us off scooter balance. So naturally, my eyes welled up with tears when his teacher asked what was wrong with happy boss baby Rafa and I had to explain he simply didn’t want me. Moments after, I ran into a dear friend on my way out of school and ugly cried in her face. As I rode away pretending to have pulled it together (while choking back some involuntary noises of the stifled cry variety), I realized that maybe I’m not as well equipped for motherhood as I once thought. If a three and a half year old going through an irrational phase because the synapses in his brain are still forming can make me lose my cool, what’s going to happen in the teenage years? Perhaps it comes down to the fact that I’m going to need to be medicated rather than, as one friend put it, raw dogging this motherhood thing.
Now Mother’s Day has come and gone and things have mostly normalized. Rafa’s started incorporating me into his declarations of love for Papà. “Ti voglio bene Papà … e Mamma.” He’s willingly hopping on the Vespa with me and holding my hand on the way into school. Last night he asked to sleep with me. And even when he doesn’t consciously want me, his subconscious does. He comes for me at night and takes my arm, wrapping it around him as he cradles my face in his mini man hands. As our noses touch on the pillow, I feel the depths of the love we share. And as much as I wish Papà got woken up sometimes instead of me, it’s in these moments I’m reminded that I, and I alone, am the safest space. And how beautiful is that?
