Today Tronk has gone back to preschool and that tingling sensation of the coming fall is in the air, together with that sense of loneliness I used to feel a year ago when my little boy started preschool.
Today, as soon after I heard him say "ciao mamma" and close the front door of the house, the notes of this tune started playing in the back of my mind:
Come stai e penso a te
dove andiamo e penso a te
le sorrido abbasso gli occhi
e penso a te
Non so con chi adesso sei
non so che cosa fai
ma so di certo
a cosa stai pensando
Sono al buio e penso a te
chiudo gli occhi e penso a te
io non dormo e penso a te...
How are you, and I think of you
Where are we going, and I think of you
I smile to her with my eyes down,
and think of you
I don't know with who you're nowI don't know what are you doing
but I know for sure
what are you thinking of
I'm in the dark and I think of you
I close my eyes and I think of you
I dont sleep and I think of you...
He is four. Sure. He is no longer a small child. He no longer plays with the potty in our living room and I can no longer call him pulcino (little chick) but since I am Italian I still do. He is no longer a baby, nor a toddler but a confident decision maker, with the face of a little boy, occasionally looking for cuddles and kisses, which often turn into farts. His face, still cute, feels no shame in imitating, in teasing and in telling others what to do, instead of listening to their instructions. Tronk has a constant need to put himself on stage, to look for applause, to stand out from the crowd.
Who is this boy?
My ability of explaining how the world works has either diminished since last year or it is Tronk who has become better at understanding how things work. In more than one occasion, I found myself apologizing to him for missing the obvious and for giving him the wrong answer to a question. Not only he thinks of himself as the Italian teacher and he corrects all of us (preschool teacher included) but he's also become very skilled at defending himself. Ma mamma, ho costruito questa macchina senza le ruote perche' questo e' un pezzo di un'altra macchina che ha le ruote! (Mom, I built this car without the wheels because this is a piece of another car which has the wheels! Of course.)
He decides the songs we listen to, at home and in the car. He recognizes in less than two seconds the Italian musicians and quickly tells us to skip a song that is not up to his standards. The CD's case I brought from England is no longer in my room. It is plugged outside Tronk's room instead and he doesn't want me to use it. It only took Tronk a year to turn Zecchino D'Oro into vintage and to make the switch onto Blur and Kaiser Chiefs. And these are the sort of phrases that come out of Tronk's mouth these days:
"Sono innamorato! Sono innamorato di questo cibo" (I am in love! I am in love with this food)
"Donna, sei mia! Vieni a dormire con me" (Woman, you are mine! Come to sleep with me) Although, when I asked him what that meant, he looked at me clueless.
I blame the songs he listens to.
Then I think about this comment he made recently: "Mamma, l'angolo del tuo occhio e' rosso, solo l'angolo. Niente paura, metti queste gocce, che ti curano." (Mom, the corner of your eye is red, only the corner. No worries, put these drops in there. They will cure you.) I remember when he came to help me claim the stairs when my foot was not working, the hugs and the things he said many times when I was in pain and I remember that after all, that tune that has been playing in the back of my mind, during the time I have been writing this, is the one song Tronk wants to hear, every day, in the car.
So I tell myself: "Don't worry. He's a good boy."
I am finished with this, it's lunchtime. I have to prepare lunch and, of course, I think of you...