Four year olds getting married

I was driving Mariano and his friend home from preschool today. As usual, I try to get him in the habit of sharing his day's details with me.

"Did you have fun at school today?"
"Yeah," Mariano says.
"What did you do?"
"I played, ate snacks, and colored."
"Very fun, sweetie," so far this is standard fare. "Who did you play with?"
"Ally."
Hmm, this in new. He usually plays with "the guys" or Isabella, the little Italian goddess who he absolutely adored last year.
"Really? That's so nice. I'm glad Ally is your friend."
"Yeah," he says casually. "I married Ally today."

HUGE pause.

I have never heard him use that word before! I guess it was just a matter of time. The little girls at preschool have been plotting their wedding days since the moment they turned three. I have tried to shield Mariano from the pressures of matrimony for as long as possible.

At this point Luca, the friend pipes in. "Yeah, I married Lola today."

The preschool has turned into a Las Vegas chapel! I'm trying to picture the teachers dressed as Elvis Presley.

Later, Matthew jumps in the car and we're on our way to eat Chinese. Mariano fills him in on the exciting day.

"Matt, I married Ally today."
Matt does my same double take and laughs.
"You did? Who married you?"
"Ally."
I've entered a skit close to "Who's On First?"
"No, I mean who married you and Ally together? Was it a priest or a judge . . ."
Mariano looks at Matt as if he's nuts. The question just doesn't make sense to him.
Matt tries a different angle: "Well, HOW did you and Ally get married?"
"I asked her to sit next to me. And she did."

Now the whole car is laughing.
"You're going to end up with a lot of wives, if that's how it works!" Matt says.
"Yeah," Mariano admits.

So, I missed Mariano's wedding today. But at least I saved a TON of money on the rehearsal dinner! =)

A New Short Story, by Mariano

Since most of our car rides involve my driving and Mariano stuck in isolation (e.g. the car seat), I am unable to read books to Mariano--his favorite activity. Instead, I've started making up stories and tell them to him. His favorites contain characters that include himself, his brother Matthew, his sister Sabrina, and monsters or "bad guys."

On our way to church today, he asked for an old favorite (Matthew is an inventor and tries to make a machine that stops aging. When he tries is out on himself, he ends up turning himself into a baby and then Mariano becomes the big brother). When I finished, Mariano asked for another one but I turned the tables on him.

"How about if YOU tell me one this time?"

"Ok," Mariano said. And thus began his first story from his own imagination. I swear these are his words and even his own adjectives! =)

One day there was a little baby and her name was Mama. She lived in a big, pretty house and she loved it. Then one day a big scary MONSTER came along and moved into her house. The baby mama was soooo sad and she cried 'waaa waaa waaa' and then the monster threw her out of the house and she cried more and made water. The baby mama was on the street and a bad guy came over and moved into the house. The end.

"What?" I said. "Doesn't the baby mama get her house back?"

"No, the bad guy moved in," Mariano said as if I really hadn't been paying attention.

"But then where does the baby mama end up living?"

"I don't know," Mariano admitted.

Well, it's a start. At least it has conflict even if it's without a happy ending. =)

Somewhere between Ireland and France

I find myself sitting on the same bench at the playground. When you enter Mariano's World, you can either turn to the left and sit at small, crafted picnic tables in front of the sand box or veer to the right and claim space on one of four benches that face the large play area. I seem to park myself at the end of the second bench, somewhere between Ireland and France.

What I mean to say is that the group of moms who consistently hover around Bench One are all from Ireland--authentic brogues and all. I see the same five regularly and, while I know many of the children's names and have even shared our goldfish snacks with several, the women have never said hello to me or introduced themselves. They speak loudly and with great animation. If I listen for too long, I start to THINK with an Irish accent. They have fair skin, dress their girls in matching outfits and their boys in soccer duds that sport Irish flags on the chest or sleeve. One mom has older girls and they join up after school while still in their St. Brigid's uniforms before heading off to Irish dance lessons.

On Bench Three, three French mothers gather religiously. I have a harder time with them since they speak exclusively in French and I opted for three years of Spanish in high school. Their children are more reserved or suspicious--I'm not sure which it is--but one day the older Irish girls ventured into the continent to pursue a game that would require more people. Despite pleading and cajoling from the moms, France wouldn't budge and Ireland retreated to the brood. It was probably just as well since the Irish moms always come with enough fruits, crackers, and juice boxes to make it through another famine.

At the far end, Bench Four serves as home to the Russian grandmothers. I'm not sure how they all got suckered into raising another generation for their kids, but I think I've only seen one Russian mom in the weeks we've been there. Interestingly, I was truly surprised at the large Russian population we've encountered here in the Sunset. Our building has 12 apartments and I think 10 of them are Russian homes. I know that the renter before us, Irena Svetlenskya, paid no attention to telling the post office that she was moving and we still get her mail.

Should we wander towards the sand box, Mariano and I represent the lone American coalition as all of the Chinese grandparents congregate there. They are stern, unflinching, and have no qualms about correcting the behavior of strangers--both adult and child versions. I have been yelled at twice now (in Cantonese, I believe) for letting Mariano go down the slide before the child at the bottom was completely out of the way. The Asian delegation talk to each other exclusively and occasionally stand up to do some Tai Chi movements.

In this miniature U.N. we call home, I have learned that, more than anything, when you stick together, there is security and safety. This became so much more clear one day when Mariano was playing with another 4-year-old. His grandmother did not speak any English, and she had exchanged cursory smiles or nods with Massimo. Suddenly, the boy was crying and Mariano had a gentle arm around the boy's shoulder. Massimo approached to find out what had happened and the boy tearfully lamented that his grandmother had left him. Massimo looked for her again and tried to the soothe the young boy. About 20 minutes later, she reappeared, coming back from across the street where she had been to the Asian market. She felt confident enough in the other grandmas there to fill in for her. She had surrogates and they implicitly understood how to fill in for her. When you share a past, a culture, and a language, some things just don't need to be said.

And while we close up the doors on one Melting Pot, I have learned that somewhere between Ireland and France, in the midst of Russia and China, I have found a real melting pot, alive in my neighborhood playground. Except nobody is really melting together there.