Parental advice

Few months ago I read an article about the unwillingness of young Italians (aged between 20 and 35, often already working) to move out of their parents' home. The article concluded that the phenomenon of the adult son (it indeed seemed to be more of a masculin/son phenomenon) had become quite a problem for parents, for instance in terms of costs which an additional adult inhabitant adds to the household of - often already retired - parents. Besides, afflicted parents complained that their sons/children would simply not learn how to live on their own, thus continuing being dependent on their parents. The article, though informative on the problem side, did unfortunately fail to offer a ten step "how to get rid of your adult child" rescue plan for desperate parents.

I and my parents have lived through this battle the other way round during the last four months: the attempt to move together into one house again (or rather, to put it correctly, I to move into their house again). It was a number of coincidences such as my not entirely planned pregnancy and few less enjoyable stuff that happened in 2008 which led me to make the - admittingly not easy - decision to move back home again. Home, where I had moved out (without much hassle) ten years ago. The experminent had its' hickups for both sides; neither was it easy for me to get used to my parents again, nor was it easy for my parents to get used to me again.

What made it all somewhat easier was that we knew from the onset, that this situation would not last forever, and that - despite all the good will shown by both sides - sooner or later, each of us would have their own space again.

So, after a couple of months of re-arranging it, I have finally moved into my own appartment three days ago. My move was not so much promped, but at least joined by a discussion with my mom at the end of which we both agreed that it is really about time to have each our own kitchen and toilet again.

The appartment itself is supercute, just the right size for myself, a baby and occasional guests. There is only one catch to the new appartment: it's in the house of parents. And, it actually belongs to them. Given these two facts, I got - in addition to the appartment - an extrashot of parental advice on how to re-arrange the appartment. And they really didn't leave out any opportunity to place a little advice. Their advice ranged from big stuff ("get a new kitchen!") to little advice such as "it's better if you place the plates in the left cupboard, instead of the right". The advice usually started off (like a little alarm bell) with the words "If I would be you"... . "If I would be you, I would not put the bed on this side of the wall". "If I would be you, I would take the slightly larger table - just in case you get ten or more visitors at a time". "If I would be you, I would take a shelf that is only twenty cm deep instead of twenty two". And so on. One of my favourite advices concerned the toilet brush. Amazing how far parental advice and parental interests can range!

Last but not least, despite all the protest with which I tried to counter the parental advice, I have to admit that some of the advice was actually quite ok - even though I often pretended not to listen to the advice and instead fired off arguments about the fact that I am soon having my own family and that I am thus regarding myself old enough to do without advice. I am now for instance sitting in my cosy new kitchen, and a shiver goes down my back when I just think about the 30 year old kitchen that filled this room once. I didn't take up the advice on the toilet brush, though.

Ultimately, it seems that parental advice is something that doesn't end at a certain age. For parents, we remain children, regardless if we have our own children or not. Just as on the other side, as children we never seem old enough to be taken serious when attempting to criticise our parents' household (my mom would probably be huffy for days if I would criticise her way of arranging plates in the cupboard). Parental advice can bother at times, making us feel like children though we are adults who have lived our own lives (in far more risky places) and taken up responsibility over projects larger than the income which I will likely earn througout my life. And yet, even though it is hard - at least for me - to accept advice, believing that I have to do everything my way, there are some advices which, bluntly put, simply make sense. Somehow I wonder if I will be also full of advices for my own child once it is old enough to understand them?

Finally something against identity crisis

These days, during my (admittedly frequent, but short) stopovers at Facebook, there are two things that catch my attention the most:
first, the new layout which seems to give headache not just to me, but to more or less everybody who is using Facebook;
second, the sheer endless amount of "who are you" quizzes that one can play and, thanks to the genious inventor of these games, find out who he/she really is (20 or more years of life didn't seem sufficient for many of us to find out who we really are, or at least who we really aren't).
These quizzes started off some time ago in a quite conservative manner: the "where should you be living" quiz was the first one which I spottet. Not many hours (it's seconds, minutes and hours that count on facebook - days as a concept of time keeping really seem old fashioned compared to the speed in which this "social networking tool" is sucking us all in) passed, before the available quizzes ranged from utter nonsense to nonsense. The eighties for instance seem to be a popular theme for quizzes: already two of that kind have come accross my eyes: "What eighties band are you" and "what eighties wrestler are you". For my part, I know that during the eighties, I was just a child dressed in - by modern day standards - way to colorful dresses, topped by a ponytail that was "modern" by then. Those where my eighties. Quizzes such as "what painting are you" or "what philosopher are you" seem a little attempt to have the academics among us buy into this "who are you" game, too.
But there is also some more useful things one can find out with the help of a little quiz. For instance "what beer are you". That knowing, there will be no no longer embarrassing moments of silence when the barkeeper asks "what beer do you want" and you (in that case, I) stare undecided at the various drafts and bottles behind the bar.
There are also few quite useless quizzes (that top the eighties quizzes), such as "who would be your celebrity boyfriend". I stopped dreaming of becoming a celebrity girl fourteen years ago, when, during a concert of my by then favourite band, the Kelly Family (remember that long haired Hippy family that toured around Europe in the nineties, making everyone believe that life as a family with the same size of a football team can be fun?), the second youngest (and most adored) family member, by the name of Paddy, didn't even look at me when I hysterically tried to scream my way up to the stage (and into his arms)? Since then I know that I am just not made for celebrity boyfriends.
What defenitely adds to the entertaining level of these quizzes are the discussions that erupt like little explosions of outrage once people know what painting they are or what place they should live in (though, the latter one tends, in some cases, to re-awake long forgotten dreams of a life elsewhere...). Once people know who they really "are", they start arguing why they think they "are not" what facebook tells them they "are". After a first re-assessment of the quiz result (all done, of course, in a way that everybody can see result and own re-assessment), friends start adding their own comments: why they think the result fits or doesn't fit to the person, and why they think the re-assessment is right or wrong. And on it goes, until the discussions are satisfied (with a varying degree of satisfaction by the quiz taker and his/her friends who helpfully commented on the result). The next quiz already waits.
Personally, I haven't taken any quiz yet. Even though I would have the time to take quizzes, now that I am on maternity leave and "only" fixing my new flat and my messed up computer, while learning a bit of italian and simply enjoying the spring. Indeed, there are many things which I wonder about myself. For instance, why I am not able to have a normal, harmonic relationship, but very well able to get pregnant (ok ok, the answers to these two questions probably not lie that far apart..). Or why I just got my own flat in South Tyrol, with a wonderful garden, next to the forest and mountains, and yet wish for nothing more than a life abroad? Or why I get anxious when everything works out just fine, whereas I enjoy situations where it's just chaos around me? Knowing that there are too many questions on my mind, for which neither I nor facebook might know the answers, I decided not to take any of these quizzes. At the end of the day, I am who I am, with or without answers.
Concerning the quizzes on facebook, I am waiting for the day when quizzes such as "what toiletpaper are you" or "what fast food are you" are popping up. I promised myself that that will be the day when I will say good bye to my facebook account.

Lake Garda - again

I apologize for again uploading pictures from Lake Garda. I just can't stop it. By the way, it isn't just me who enjoys trips to Lake Garda. Argo, the dog on the picture below, is usually the first one to jump into the car as soon as he senses that a Lake Garda trip is about to take place.

Spring

Just at the right time, at the verge of developing a snowphobia, spring has unfolded, preventing me from packing my few belongings and moving away from South Tyrol. It's not that I wouldn't enjoy winter; I think it's great to have snow once a year. But this winter was extraordinary: meters of snow, cold tempartures... maybe a last stand off against climate change and global warming? Another contributing (and slightly egoistic) reason why I got sick of snow this winter was that I actually - with respect to my growing child - did not do any skiing and ski alpin. Instead, I waddled like a duck with two pieces of plastic (called "snow shoes") tied to my trekking boots through forests, attempting - and reaching - a summit only few times. Big plans for next year, though...

Anyhow, it's spring, and the long hours huddled against the warm wood stove in my living room, the frostbites on my fingers and toes, the icy roads, the hollow noise of the roof avalanges, all that seem long forgotten. As if it wouldn't have existed. Instead, the bike has been taken out of the basement again, winter jackets removed from the cupboard, and the first encounter of the season between icecream and my tounge has successfully happened few days ago. Life can indeed be beautiful.

How eight months look like

I guess each pregnant belly looks different. Mine looks kind of pregnant, now that I am in my eight' month. Finally.

Swiss sense for order...

No Parking - Dumping ground for snow

No wonder Switzerland is such an orderly place: they even have dumping grounds for snow! Leave alone all the other things that actually work in Switzerland (compared to it's charming neighbours like Italy....)

Neither ill, nor a beer too much, just pregnant...

Hard to believe - at least for me: I am eight months pregnant.
Pregnancies seem to go on forever. The day in September when the pregnancy test showed two alarming red lines instead of a comforting single line seems ages ago. Since then, there have been moments during which I indeed felt pregnant, but more so moments during which I lived in the impression that this pregnancy isn't real. This might have to do with the fact that I started looking pregnant just recently. Over the past few weeks, my belly has been growing rounder, causing some unbalance when trying to tie my shoes. This happens particularly often in the morning, but usually gets better througout the day, relative to how awake/asleep I am. Despite the belly which - to my own interpretation, is quite big - few people continue to react surprised when I tell them that I am pregnant. They usually complement their surprised face with a "but only in your third month, right?" question. I wonder whether these people trust my "no, eight months" answer or take it as yet another indicator that I had a beer too much.
Anyway. Fact is that I am eight months pregnant, that I have today officially started my maternity leave, and that the 40 cm long thing in my belly is actively telling me what she likes/dislikes by kicking against my belly. The kicks don't hurt, but sometimes feel like tickles from the inside which makes me laugh.
Though my belly is growing, I try to stay active and enjoy my long deserved holidays (aehm, maternity leave) as good as I can, with some travels, long walks, etc. Being pregnant, after all, doesn't mean being ill; at the end of the day, it's few extra kg's to carry around, but at least these few kg's are well packed. Who knows, once I have to carry around few extra kg's outside my belly, life (particularly travelling) might become a bit more complicated ... or maybe not :)