I'm Sorry If My Sons Grab Your Butt
Raising half Italian sons in a #metoo culture.
The other afternoon, as I rode my Vespa past the preschool pick up line (there are advantages to scooter life), one of the many wonderful teachers at the school stopped me. She wanted to let me know that Rafa, my three year old, grabbed her arse earlier that morning. She told me this laughing and clearly, it was in the spirit of sharing a cute yet surprising little moment she shared with Faffi (as we lovingly call him). This teacher happens to have a daughter at the school who is both in Rafa’s class and in his fan club. You see, Rafa is a vibe. He’s basically a three foot tall version of Il Padrino.
Preschool arrival goes something like this: Rafa leaps off of the vespa, throws off his helmet, yells “ciao, vado solo” (bye, I’m going alone), takes off at turbo speed for his classroom and enters to a line of littles ready to kiss the ring. Or in his case, give him a tight squeeze in only the way littles can as he stands unflinching. On some days, he’s entirely stoic. On others, he bestows a loving embrace that envelops his sweet classmates, a fraction of his size. He oozes confidence and in keeping with the ooze, gives zero f*cks what anyone thinks. And this brings me back to his arse-grabbing behavior.
When this teacher told me about the mini incident, I reacted with a mix of “aww, how adorable” and also “OMG, I’m so sorry he felt entitled to do that!”. She kindly laughed some more but as I drove the little delinquent home, I started spiraling.
Rafa and his big bro, Dani, are pretty opposite in terms of character. From what I’ve heard and read, this is the norm and at the same time, some what of a phenomenon. The remarkable display of nature winning against nurture is so clear amongst siblings in my household. Rafa is impulsive and sometimes brutish but truly a gentle giant. Dani is thoughtful, sensitive and sweet. And yet, he too is a tushy-grabber.
It’s not just this teacher’s posterior that’s fallen victim to their little claws. Our beloved nanny experiences loving and mischievous pinches on the regular. And I have, on countless occasions, been chased up the stairs with two mini men yelling “Mommy mozzarella” as they squeeze what they can grab of my fleeing bum. (Those of you familiar with our household and my husband probably know who to attribute that little tradition to.)
I know there will come a time when this handsy behavior becomes inappropriate. In reality, it’s likely come and gone. So, feel free to mom-shame me for not having nipped it in the bum (pun-intended) earlier. There’s simply a degree of unending playfulness in our little world that I haven’t wanted to interfere with. And for now, it feels innocent and forgivable. But now that the grabbiness has exited our home to find its way into the world, I find myself contemplating some more serious questions.
I’m raising two half Italian sons in the country that brought forth the #metoo movement, the land of consent. I certainly don’t want any mini Trumps in the making, going around grabbing things other than tushies beyond the age of five. (I’m 40 and still can’t comfortably say or write the word.) So, do I need to talk to them about consent? At ages three and five? What’s the precedent?
I get that it’s relatively simple at this stage. “People’s private parts are off limits. You don’t touch theirs and they don’t touch yours.” Ok? Great, moving on. But what about later? What about when they enter the kissing girls stage? Sure, I’ll talk to them about consent but then we are faced with yet another cultural collision…
We’ll likely continue to venture to Italia come summertime. And at a certain point, there will be Italian girls whose interest is piqued by these half American intruders and their famously scrumptious lips. Gabri, Italian as they come, is flabbergasted by the timidity inherit in the pre-kiss pause for consent. You can’t blame him and assume he’s on the side of evil. He’s just Italian, romance and bravado intertwined. He fared pretty well with bold moves and worries that his sons will be forced into playing second fiddle by bolder boys.
I wonder how, in my youth, I would have felt about being asked for consent in sterile fashion before a crush went in for a kiss. I guess it would have been exciting all the same had it been the norm. But it’s not the Italian norm. And no one’s really giving moms guidebooks for how to teach their kids appropriate behavior in the age of #metoo movements and its satellite cultural misgivings. Or maybe they are. Just not in preschool. I guess part of the lesson in all this is that the world isn’t ready for Rafa.
So, I beg you, should you or your cheeks find their way into contact with my sons, beware and please be forgiving. We’ll get there. We’re just wrestling with time while trapped in a cultural conundrum.
Sharing is caring, so please don’t hesitate:
And if you haven’t yet, there’s no time like the present!