Three Tortured Tourists

How do you say in Italian,  "I am so sorry- but my son just pooped in the pool"?  

Yep, that happened.

It was not on our Euro-bucket list, but that memory was made anyhow.  For a few people.

Which leads me to my warning: I am about to go somewhere fabulous.

Correction: It will sound fabulous. The pictures might even look fabulous.

But, I guarantee that it won't be.

(Unless, of course, I stumble upon Christian Bale on holiday and he demands dinner with me. In which case, that will be fabulous.)

Otherwise, you'll have to read between the bribed smiles and filtered photos and keep this in mind:

Playing tourist in Italia is like the DaVinci Code meets National Lampoon: European Vacation.  Touring Venice or Verona with two children and a feral toddler is as relaxing as a colonoscopy. 

Which I might prefer since the kids can't come for that.

These "adventures" are really euphemisms for sweaty, stressful disasters. Most of the magical moments occur during the mundane, anyway.  Like when they smother my chicken picatta in ketchup and then hail me as the  "best cooker ever."  Magical.

And kids are no respecter of setting. Shakespeare and Palladio may have trolled these hallowed cobblestone trails- but my kids just want to go indoor bowling on base. Indoor bowling. In Italy.

Sigh.  

Recently, we ventured to the venerable Verona -of Romeo and Juliet fame.  As we cruised along the Italian raceway, I blathered on and on about the literary brilliance of Shakespeare, even drawing out analogous gospel themes. What excellence in parenting- History, Brit-Lit and the gospel in one car ride!   (That's the kind of fun girl I was in highschool.)

But my kids were all like, "Right, so, when do we get gelato?"

Because, friends, they just do not care.  For them, the party is where the pizza was (once) hot and the juice boxes are cold and their VBS jams are on the radio.

So, back to Verona.

The imposing grandeur of the Piazza Dei Signori, which boasts 700 year old architecture was the scene- as I attempted to wrangle my wrestling, whiny, bickering children. The stench of stale vomit wafted through ancient sewer grates. And I was one-tattle tale away from publically caning all three.

Then, it happened. I snagged a photo of a singular, salvaged moment. Naturally, I quickly posted it on Facebook, proving my life is perfect. And now, I will savor that fakish photo forever. 

Okay, or at least while my kids go bowling. 

They are always dancing merrily through Italian life. Always.

So comfortable carrying Colson all day. So effortless. Like carrying a small, angry bear. 

Obviously, we are all his slaves. 

If he demands dinner, I suppose I could suffer through. 

Eowyn and her BFF

Ask my kids where this was taken.  They will have no idea. Just San Marco Square. No big thing.