That's the last of 'em

Ada came outside and met me at my easel after she woke from her nap. She was chewing something.

I ask, "What's in your mouth?"

"What's in your mouth?" She repeats. (Because answering questions is something that has somehow eclipsed her).

"What is it?" I ask again. Pointing.

Chewing.

I keep probing. "Where did you find it?"

"I found it in my mouth."

Yes. Brilliant. Of course!

"I need you to open the box of candies so I can have eat more candies. I need candies."

And that is how Ada polished off my last five Cadbury Mini Eggs.

Christmas kink

The day after Christmas we packed up and headed to Heber for two nights at a cabin with Mike's family. The cabin was beautiful and spacious. We rented snowmobiles that everyone was anxious to try the next day. We packed sleds and dufflebags full of gloves, scarves, hats, thermals, coats, snow pants and boots. It was to be 3 days of snow play, cozy fires, hot cider, games, and family bonding.

We arrived around 4 and had pizzas for dinner. After, the family all headed downstairs to play air hockey, watch the grandkids wrestle and play. Soon the kids were ready to watch a movie (or a moomie, as Ada calls them, though she's never sat through more than 10 minutes of one so I'm not sure what her fascination is...) I headed upstairs to make popcorn and before the microwave dinged Mike was carrying a crying Ada up the stairs.

She had climbed up to the second rung on the bunk bed ladder (only about the height of a kitchen chair), slipped, and taken the full impact of her fall onto the tile floor with her right arm.

(L) waiting at the Instacare, in the middle of saying, "It huuuurts." (R) Didn't hurt bad enough to keep her from using that arm to color with. She the bend in it? Her other arm looks totally straight by comparison.

It was readily apparent to me that something was more wrong that just a routine bump on the head. I noticed what I initially thought was swelling in her right arm right away as I held her, but had a gut feeling it was worse. I went to the couch, pulled up her sleeve and knew immediately her arm was broken. Her arm was very bowed and after comparing it to her left arm, I knew we needed to suit up, brave the snow and head to the hospital.

On the drive there was sang a few primary songs which calmed her down almost immediately. We drove 10 minutes the wrong way on Highway 40, too flustered to follow a map, before turning around and getting to the hospital.

Too happy to have a broken arm, right? Or just loopy because it was after 10 pm at this point.

The wait was more miserable for us than her. The x-ray confirmed it was a greenstick break in both bones so they paged the orthopedic surgeon to come and set her arm. We opted for sedation so we wouldn't have to listen to our screaming baby as they bent her bones back into place. She fell asleep, with her pants down, ready for her shot just minutes before the anesthesiologist came in.

Still coloring with her broken arm (after pushing the ER doc away with it...my little toughy).

They gave her a dissociative anesthetic that caused a temporary disconnect between what she felt and what she remembered. She tried so hard to talk through the whole thing.

Gradually as the drug too affect her speech became slower, more slurred, her eyes started ticking back and forth like she was in the car watching telephone polls zoom by out the window. Eventually she was catatonic and the orthopedic surgeon came in to set her arm.

I was at her side, watching the whole thing up close. Mike said he was surprised that the guys just grabbed her arm and with his hands straightened it all out. I found that particularly comforting, actually. Sometimes I feel like medicine is too removed from our bodies. Everything is done with machines and not much is left to intuition and personal care and trusting our hands.

As the doctor set her bones she let out the saddest, slowest moan I've ever heard, "Ooooooooooooooouuuuch-eeeee." I felt my heart break a little further every second she sustained her slow-motion-cry. As she came out of the affects of the drug, he began hallucinating. The anesthesiologist said adults who are put under this way often talk about strange hallucinations. Ada hallucinated about bubbles. She raised her arm and began popping the imaginary things. Minutes passed and she recognized me, wanted to talk about mommy and her cousins and daddy.

All was right. Except for her purple fingers. Oh, and her broken arm.

We went back a week later for the hard cast. Hot pink. She began crying the second we stepped foot in the hospital. "Gee-na car!" (Get in the car!") "Bye bye! Gee-na car!"

She basically screamed the whole time we were there. But she got a stale sucker and a teddy bear out of the experience so it couldn't have been THAT bad. Plus, now she examines her cast with pride every time she undresses and says, "Ada's cool cast. It's pink."

I asked her last night if she wanted to take it off on Friday. She immediately cradled her arm and said, "No take it off! No take it off! Ada's cool cast! It's pink!"

(With any luck cast comes of tomorrow!!)

I want to be a Swede

November also played host to DC's Kids Euro Festival. Delegations from each of the 27 European Union Member States hosted free plays, musical performances, workshops, screenings and other events for kids in the area. There were only two that specified ages 1-3 as a good fit for their event, so we were sure to make the most of the few performances we went to.

The first was at House of Sweden, the building that houses the Swedish embassy. It's a beautiful, modern, clean, Scandinavian structure right on the Potomac that made me want to march up and apply for Swedish Citizenship right then and there. The performance and activities they provided for the kids was equally as impressive and cool. Several Swedish families were there (and Ada was mistaken for a Swede—she has enough of it in her ancestry, maybe 'mistaken' is the wrong word).

The performance was really simple but I was amazed at how entranced even the busiest of bodies became when it began. Ada and I had front row seats and it helped to be right up in the action.



I think the performance served as a lesson in sharing to the kids and a lesson in the simplicity of play for the adults. I know it helped me realize how focused simplicity trumps many other kids of play. I came away happy to live in a place so rich with opportunity and creativity. I love that I can share in these experiences with my daughter and help cultivate a spirit of adventure and learning and creativity as we take on new things together.

The second performance was at the Kennedy Center on the Millenium Stage. It was an evening performance so we got to bring Dad along with us. This performance was by a troupe from Bologna, which made us extra excited to check it out. A link of the performance can be found HERE.

Sandy

Ada, gearing up for Sandy

Hurricane (I mean, ahem, Super Storm or what? Tropical Storm) Sandy didn't do much here aside from make us rather stir-crazy. Mike was supposed to take a test Monday that was turned into a take-home exam. Ha. Taking an exam with Ada and I around? Not a chance. Luckily our neighbors upstairs let him crash their kitchen exam-style and take it upstairs on Tuesday.

The same Tuesday where it was raining lightly and cloudy all day and everything was still shut down. I know, I know, better safe than sorry. But it was hard not to feel a bit silly when I flipped on NPR and opened my computer to see the devastation up north of us.

We had prepared well with water and food (in fact, I didn't go grocery shopping again until Saturday, as in, two days ago). I decided that other things that should go in hurricane-prep kits are distractions for toddlers (and mothers alike). Stickers! Fun treats! Silly string! New toys!

By the end of day two my creativity was spent.

Much of our time was spent playing and reading. We played with play-doh and paints and crayons. We took bath (two in one day!) and wore lots of fancy things likes gloves and necklaces and bows.

Ada got in a new habit of wanting to show Mike everything and anything she put on.

One necklace, "Daddy! See me! Daddy! See!" and she charges right up to him, plants herself inches away, sticks out her chin and grins. I get where she's coming from, like a true Anderson, Michael gives really great reactions and always makes you feel like a million bucks.

(Speaking of, Happy Birthday, Love!!)

It's now habitual. We change her diaper, "Daddy see me!" She puts a flower behind her ear (and even though it falls out before she gets to him), "Daddy see me!"

I'm not sure why it took us so long to venture out of the house. I guess it's probably because I hate being wet and cold, but when we finally did we found a few fallen trees and lots of leaves on the ground. It felt so good to breathe air than hadn't been recirculated in our 700 square foot apartment for nearly 48 hours.

Needless to say we spent nearly all our waking hours Wednesday out doors. There were way too many leaves that had yet to be crunched, dogs that had yet to be bothered, and slides that had yet to be slid on.

It felt so good to be back on the bike after nearly a week of not riding.

Wednesday felt like waking up and kicking into gear after a holiday weekend. I feel really fortunate to consider Sandy a holiday when so many others consider it their ruin.

Climbed up the water spout

Lovin' her some mirror time

I was unpinning my crown braid in front of the bathroom mirror, reviewing the day in my mind and letting my eyes unfocus. They startled back into focus as they caught a spider jump out of the braided nest on my head as my hands reached its former home. It crawled onto my shoulder. I frantically brushed it onto the floor and finished unpinning, heart rate a little faster now.

I feel like there's something significant there. Cleaning out the spiders. A fresh start.

I get to this point before every move. Anxious. Just ready to be on the road. Not that I'm ever unhappy where I'm at, it's just that I'm not good with anticipation. I've begun gathering things to pack in (have you seen the 22 gallon size Ziplock Totes?!) and checked things off my list: ready the car, ready the kitchenware, ready my mind. 

Two weeks and counting...

Featured on Design*Sponge

My city guide is featured today on Design*Sponge. Writing it really made me miss our home and life in Bologna—not that I'm not thoroughly enjoying my summer, but it was a reminder of how beautiful and simple our lives were.

I'd go back in a heartbeat.

Also, there are a few new paintings of that city I love up in my Etsy Shop (and I've listed several from my BFA show).

Today is Pioneer Day in Utah, so we're spending it poolside, and hanging with our family. Nothing better. True?

The feminist in me

Yesterday was one of those days where I woke up early, started my day with a run, and immediately jumped into appointments, phone calls, emails, errands, laundry . . . I went to the eye doctors (and was approved for contacts again!) I went to the bank. I played with Ada in the backyard as she walked around with a sputtering hose.

My sister had to pick up her dry cleaning, I had to drop mine off. I drove. In autopilot-mode, I almost made a bad turn. Then passing her bank where we had to stop first I drove to mine, forgetting that you only pay upon picking up your clothes. Realizing my mistake and without stopping (I would have needed the cash a few days later), I steered around and drove back to her bank. The entire outing should have taken less time than it took to get there. When I opened the door to the back seat to get Ada out I realized: I didn't bring the clothes. A wasted trip. We drove home I sent a few more emails, resigned to the fact hat I wouldn't paint that day, and went back to drop off my dry cleaning.

At home I begin reviewing our finances and my sister scratches my back. And I realize I've buzzed all around town without a bra.

I've always been a detailed to-do list maker, including things like "take a shower", but it might not be quite detailed enough any more. I think my planner has handicapped my brain.

Reaching

When I heard her sudden screaming cry I thought it must be the middle of the night. I lit up my phone as I got out of bed to check the time: 11:18. She had only been sleeping for a few hours.

I entered her room and saw her small body, still lying down, with arms extended, reaching. I instinctively pulled her heaving body close to mine, her hummingbird-heartbeat pattering against my chest. She writhed in my arms, still crying. She scratched at my shoulder like she wanted to climb inside my skin.

I laid her on the bed, checked her all over. Mikey came in and helped. Both of us agreed: nothing seemed to be wrong.

She wanted to be close to me, next to me wouldn't do. So we laid together on the bed, her head on my chest, her little arms tucked tightly under her now-still body.

I stayed awake while watching her fall asleep. This girl of mine. I felt so lucky in that quiet, still, midnight hour. So lucky to have her and for her to have need of me. That feeling of being needed drives so much of what I do. In my head I reviewed lines from the talk Mikey and I had listened to just hours before. This line stuck out to me as I felt the cool wind blow in the open window: One of the great discoveries of parenthood is that we learn far more about what really matters from our children than we ever did from our parents.

I tried putting Ada gently back in her crib after she was asleep, but before I closed her bedroom door behind me she was thrashing in her crib, crying out, and soon standing, arms extended, reaching again. I came to her. Tried to calm her. Felt bad for trying to escape back to my bed. And this time her cries elevated quickly, as if she was angry with me for leaving her there alone.


Soon Michael came in again, he lifted Ada from me in his strong, fatherly arms and offered comfort. I freeze-framed that image in my head. She wasn't calm, but he seemed to be calm enough for the three of us just then. He blessed her, and told me to bring her to bed with us.

It was just the thing she needed.

Maybe so many new faces and places each day makes our girl need extra reassurance that her parents are still here, that we love her, and that we'll always meet her outstretched arms with ours.

And another one

I was awake for this one. I thought it was just Mike with his constantly bouncing legs shaking the couch—turns out it was something a bit more tectonic.

The house shook for a while, we heard people leaving the building, maybe we should have evacuated, but Ada was sleeping and I'm not about to throw off any semblance of a sleep schedule right before our flight.

An aftershock hit while we were in the library. It was only a short tremor, I hardly even noticed it, but a few parents swooped upon their babies and ran for the door frame. We looked around, took Ada by the hand and wondered, "Do we really have to leave?" Yes. They evacuated all the buildings. Including the library. But at least we returned our books on time.

Hundreds of business people in their pressed clothes and sun glasses gathered in the piazzas and were almost all on their cell phones saying, "Hai sentito il terramoto?"

By the time we got to the grocery store people were beginning to be let inside the buildings again. Great timing since I had to pick up a few things for our flight early tomorrow morning.

Before the aftershock hit we were sitting in Piazza Galvani sharing and orange and soaking up the last few rays of Italian sun for a little while. I told Mike that on days like this—perfect weather, fresh food, time with my little family—I never want to go. But maybe I shouldn't be so sad to leave after all. This place is getting way too shaky.

Silver bullets and an earthquake

We had just pulled onto our street after biking through the foothills of Bologna when a chocolate pang hit. I knew I needed something sweet to share with Mikey after tucking Ada in, so we rode to the end of Via Solferino and prepared to turn left when hundreds of vintage race cars—Alfa Romeo, Fiat, Lambourgini, Ferrari, Lancia, BMW, Mercedes—started zooming past. Turns out we happened upon the route of the famed Mille Miglia (thousand miles). Called "the most fascinating vintage car race in the world" the route starts in a northern Italian city called Brescia goes to Rome and back, weaving through several cities over the course of the four day race.

image via

We kept watching until there was a large break in the cars (and some regular non-race cars started driving past) and made our way to the market. I picked up some strawberries and Nutella and came out only to see dozens more whizzing by. Many of the drivers we wearing the classic leather goggles and helmets with matching driving gloves, piloting what look like over-sized, painted bullets. After another break, we began making our way home when yet another wave of cars rounded the corner and we found ourselves biking the wrong way up the race course.

It was one of those moments that I don't think I'll ever forget. And yet another thing that Ada can use in those silly getting-to-know-you-games like, "I Have Never."

That night there was an earthquake in Italy.

It was a 6.0 magnitude and the epicenter was about 20 miles north of Bologna. We slept right through it.

The city of Ferrara have have gotten the worst of it. The entire city is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. I had been meaning to visit Ferrara ever since we arrived. Everyone who has made the short trip out of town has raved about how beautiful the city is.

Lots of people were talking about it at church the next morning. They described dishes clanging, the hanging lamps in their kitchens swinging back and forth for a good 15 seconds. I feel a little bit cheated that my tendency to sleep like a rock prevented me from have a tale to tell, even if it would have been an inconsequential one.

Second breakfast

By a quarter after midnight the three of us found ourselves around the kitchen table eating Cheerios (or Ciambelline, as they call them here). Rewind 45 minutes and you would have seen me walk into the bedroom where a sleeping Michael laid a few feet away from a sleeping Ada in her crib. Just 5 minutes past that, and the whole scene would have been thrown into chaos.

I felt heavy and tired from a day of not being my best self. Despite my efforts to start anew with the determination to make the best of a so-far not-so-good day, my positivity lasted as long as Ada's afternoon nap—and it was pitifully brief. By 5:30 that evening, Ada was in the tub sink and I was ready to throw in the towel.

Ada went down a bit early, and so did Mike. Shortly after 9 I was alone in the kitchen with a few hours to think about how crappy my day was and how poorly I handled it. At 11:30, as I crawled into bed and cozied up to Mike I started crying. My tears woke him up, and minutes later my sniffles woke up the baby.

Pull it together, Paige.

I moved the crib out, then swept Ada up in my arms. I closed the bedroom door quietly behind me and softly sat on the couch. I sang to her as sweetly as I could, stroked her cheek and rocked her gently— the actions imbued with regret and apology. Repentance for a day where her mama couldn't hold her face to the stone. So I thought I would indulge her with lullaby upon lullaby and as much time as she needed before falling limp and sleepy into bed.

Every time I tried to lay what I thought was deeply sleeping Ada in her crib, I felt her grip my arm or my neck before writhing in protest. After nearly 40 minutes I laid her down, and this time, she was quiet for a few moments after I closed my bedroom door.

The shock of a cry cutting through the dead night air still surprises me. I don't think I'll ever get used to the change in volume, mood and motion that ensues after it breaks. I let her cry for a few minutes before Mike rumbled something about being hungry and getting up. So I got up, brought Ada to bed with me, but the sound of Cheerios bouncing off a cereal bowl sent her into a hunting-dog like frenzy.

So there we were, 12:15 AM, eating an unreasonably early breakfast, and not all too happy about it. My exhaustion gave way to punchiness and the scene struck me as so funny, though being the culprit of bringing us all to that point, I did my best to hide my smiles and muffle my giggles.

None of it was funny when Ada was up for the day at 5:15. But by 7:30 Mikey was up, and there we were again, having breakfast together, this time with the sun shining. We went for a walk and pushed Ada in the swings. I took a morning nap (and hallelujah so did Ada) and when we left for an afternoon of swings, slides, the carousel and gelato, the memory of the night before landed back in the funny category. I think it's there to stay for a while.

Dead and sluggy

I listened to a podcast a few days ago where a woman recounted some so-called "Faith Narratives" of early Puritans. They wrote extensively, crafted their own "Faith Narrative" that recounted the state of their soul, and professed it to the clerical head of the congregation they wished to join. In describing her heart, one Puritan woman called it, "dead and sluggy."

After being woken up early, finding the contemporary gallery only to find a locked door, and half a dozen tantrums at the library, I feel the same way. I came home to the house full of music, Mike at the sink doing dishes, and a kiss on the cheek to great me, yet responded with shrug and passed off the baby.

Then I sat at a tupperware of cold leftovers and did a bit of stress eating.

And why? Because I have a totally normal toddler? Because I had a totally normal experience with Italian "operating hours"? Who knows.

All I know is I needed to find a way to revitalize my dead and sluggy heart and let it feel how good the day actually was. After all, it's sunny and Mike is taking the day off after finishing his second-to-last exam. As I listened to Mike and Ada play peek-a-boo between the clotheslines draped with a stripped bed sheet, I felt my heart begin to thaw. A few chapters in Romans and power-nap later and I'm ready to start a new. It's Friday anyway, and we've got a whole lot of livin' it up to do before stepping on the airplane.

Megaphone Man

It must be spring because construction projects have sprung up around the neighborhood. A power tool was buzzing loudly when a man across from us flung his shutters open started yelling, "Signore! Signore! Sentimi?" Not getting a response he went inside and found his electric megaphone and began again.

You know, every just has one, right? I keep mind right next to the dustpan.

It made that little electric click and crackle sound before his voice boomed, "SIGNORE! SIGNORE! SENTIMI ADESSO? I wanted so badly to back up from hanging laundry so I could get a good look at Megaphone Man. The episode was just too funny.

Instead I kept on shaking, clipping and hanging clothes until the damp pile turned into two straight rows.

I'm not sure if the construction worker was tuning him out, or if he just  had a really good set of ear plugs, but Megaphone Man eventually straightened his out-leaning body and closed his shutters and I went inside smiling.

Don't go. Stay.

It felt like she was pretending to be my shadow. The woman, probably in her early sixties, followed closely behind as Ada and I played on the statue in one of our favorite piazzas, our friends near the steps at the base. Eventually the woman asked me if I lived in Bologna and I told her I did. She said my accent was good; was my husband Italian? No, but he could probably pass for one with a more European wardrobe. I told her we were just here for a short time while my husband studied at Johns Hopkins. We were going home in two months.

"Don't go!" she raised her voice a bit. I can't describe the change exactly, it was like tempered desperation. But that sounds too severe even. Her long, dyed blonde hair, her neatly pressed suit, her silk scarf, her Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. She was the picture of the quintessential Italian woman to me. Put together. Polished. Carrying a handbag that accented her seemingly brand-new shoes. But the sudden unevenness in her voice seemed American to me—a little less careful about appearances, a little quicker to speak up.

"Don't go." She repeated, level again, "We need more of you here. We need more beautiful mothers and beautiful babies. Stay in Bologna."

Don't go. But we have to. And I'm starting to fear the inevitable jostling and discomfort of uprooting (even if your roots are shallow) and trying to sink them some place new.

Stay in Bologna. Some days, I think I could.

And another circuit

This morning the whole fam (yes, all THREE of us) drug our doughy bodies to Giardina Margharita for "Boot Camp," a group exercise program lead by a multiply-deployed government contractor and his Marine Corps wife. Needless to say, it was intense. Especially for a couple of sacks who haven't done much in the way of exercise in months. While the drill sergeant shouted commands, Ada wandered around comparing water bottles and acting as a self-appointed moral booster.

When we got home and I went to lift Ada out of her stroller, I could feel my triceps shaking in protest. I'm going to be so sore.

But this is exactly what the doctor's ordered.

Propose to me

I wished Mike Happy Leap Year this morning and he turned to me and said, "You can propose to me today!"

I thought, We're already married, but asked, "Will you marry me?"

"Yes." And then he smiled and said, "Weird."

Yes. Weird.

And speaking of weird, remember when Ada looked like this? Neither do I. But I wrote about it a while back. You can read my thoughts on becoming a new mother on my cousin's blog HERE.

Are you my mother?

On our walk to the library we saw loads of babies and strollers and costumes. And babies in strollers wearing costumes. I had forgotten that Carnevale dei Bambini was that afternoon. The piazza was covered in confetti and streamers littered the cobblestones. It looked like a light multicolored snow. I got Ada out, she toddled around, picking up pieces of paper. We threw them in the air. Looked at the balloons. She flapped her arms when she got excited about all of the bright, colorful, and fun things she was seeing.

Of course, I forgot my camera. But maybe it's a good thing. I wasn't distracted by trying to take a good picture. I just enjoyed the time with my girl and talked to a few Italian women who asked if my daughter was twins with a Italian baby toddling nearby. When I said, No. Non lo so questa bimba. Lei e mia figlia.

Then they asked how old I am. And then they asked how old Ada is. Those two questions seem to always follow the discovery that I'm not Ada's nanny.

Planted sloppy kisses

Last night Mikey and I spent some time trying to remember what we did last year for Valentines. Did we have a special meal brought to us? (Remember, I was 3 days postpartum.) Did we eat chocolate? Did we even remember it was a holiday? I think we must have spent the day gazing at our newest sweetheart without realizing it was Valentine's Day at all.

This year, I have grand plans for a fancy dinner at home. We'll see if I can pull everything off.

When she woke up, Ada must have sensed some love in the air for oggi e San Valentino. This morning she went back and forth between Mikey and I giving us "loves" (resting her head and hands on our chests, shoulders, stomachs, legs . . . she basically does a stop-drop-and-love where ever she's at). But the morning was quickly overshadowed by a two-way miscommunication that resulted in both Mike and I walking to and from the school twice and missing each other both ways. (How in the world!?) True to form, I was cold and frustrated, and I cried when I got home.

Ada immediately guessed that something was up with her mama. She touched my face softly and patted my shoulders. Later she planted several sloppy kisses on my lips. I'm not sure when her understanding of emotion became so nuanced, but it was a new experience to be comforted by my child.

 

Tonight when my Valentine gets home, I think I'll pay it forward and plant several sloppy kisses on his lips.

I'm a Utah girl

An announcement came over the intercom of the airplane announcing that the Bologna Airport had just closed. We were mid-flight; supposed to land in 10 minutes.

Great.

They were hoping it would reopen after clearing snow off the runway, so we circled. And circled. As it began to get dark, we headed into the descent for landing. I watched the flaps and ailerons shift and flip up, acting as barriers to the wind, slowing us for landing. A new, loud, roaring noise startled me and as the forces on my body shifted I looked out the window once more to see that we were pulling out of the descent and heading upward in a swift thrust. The winds were too strong. We had to come in from the other runway. Which meant more circling while they cleared that one of snow.

It felt like we landed in a ski lodge. Passengers threw snowballs at each other, and most everyone had their phones out snapping photos of the plane and the snow.

I was so glad to be on the ground.

I've never been scared of flying, but there is something about holding your baby on your lap while pulling out of the landing that makes you get a little jumpy.

The snow here is incredible. I'm a Utah girl and I'm still impressed. Maybe it's because there's no where for it to go in this tight city. It's piled 2 and 3 feet deep on the tops of cars and the sidewalks aren't cleared, just trampled into a nice crust of icy snow. The architecture has never looked better. The white highlights all the details and sets off the burning red color of the buildings. If I get past how cold I am, I realize just how spectacularly beautiful the city is.

Beginning to look a lot like

A few days ago Ada and I set out to find molasses. We settled on some "black treacle" the shop keeper assured us was the same. We took a short cut home that cuts through the Piazza of San Domenico. The leaves were as vibrant as any I've seen in my life (wait, it's December, right? It's beginning to look a lot like . . . Autumn?) We had to stop and play.

Advent Calender: a visit to the Antica Fierra di Santa Lucia (to possibly buy a nativity!)

Christmas Song: Frosty the Snow Man by Harry Connick, Jr.