John and I are leaving for Italy. I still feels like I am telling a fib, because such adventures are way outside my wheelhouse. I am not like my daughter who once went to Cuba for seventy two hours, or my son who came to visit for a three day weekend and found time to go to New York City, Kempton, and the beach while he
was here.
I do not know for sure if there will be any stories going out on the internet while we are gone. Maybe I will be eager to describe the details of ordering gelato, or then again maybe I will be too immersed in tasting the flavor to hunt for words. Both are valid ways to participate in life, it turns out.
Being with my twins, the ones who have crafted homes for themselves on another continent, is the primary objective. They chose the itinerary, booked the rooms and buses, and will order our entrees. That is the part I am giddy about. Hearing their fluency in Italian, French, and Spanish feels like the sweetest gift I could conjure up. I thought that the quintessential Mother's Day gift was flowers and chocolate, and indeed I
enjoyed them. But seeing these young women travel with poise, meeting their friends, and walking the streets of Turin and Grenoble feels like grace.
Part of what makes it all magical is that I never expected it. Early in my stint as a mother I did have quiet predictions about breakfast in bed, and children offering to do the dishes. Those gestures are sweet, if not
surprising. But never did it occur to me that a boon of motherhood would be being shepherded around three European countries.
My father tried to explain this to me. He said that if you ask God for something, and it does not happen as you expect, it is because God has an even more flamboyant plan for you.