Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Of course, a ten-minute walk with a 4-year-old easily becomes a 30-minute walk. Matteo is curious about everything. He’s quiet and observant. Walks means he has more time to observe things. The cracks in the sidewalks, the flowers in someone’s yard, or the argument happening between our neighbors. It all fascinates him.
And a four-year-old also lacks the decorum to not stop and watch our neighbors fighting. He will openly stare and stubbornly refuse to move until I pick him up to move him myself.
Maybe we’ll keep driving, I think to myself as I pull up to the line of parents letting their kids out. My saving grace is that the car line is so long, winding out of the elementary school that the teachers probably expect kids will be a little late getting dropped off.
“I love you,” I tell him as I take him out of his car seat. He kisses me before running on the grass towards where his teacher is lining up with the rest of his classmates. It’s one of those moments where I’m shocked at how big he’s grown. I wish I can stay a little longer, but cars are honking their horns behind me and I still need to get to the hospital where I’m doing my internship.
After leaving Colorado, I didn't have much of a plan. I'd decided not to go to Brown, but I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life. Matteo ended up in the hospital with a viral infection, and the emergency room doctor was so concerned with my crying that he called the hospital social worker to check on me.
It was the social worker who helped me get my life back on track.
Telling my father I was switching my major from pre-law to social work had added another nail to the coffin of the relationship we once had. When I told him, he didn’t answer my phone call for days afterward. When he finally did answer, he went for the throat. There was no money in social work, and I was going to live off him until I died if I went into the field. I didn't call him for another month after that.
The hospital internship is in their case management department, and it’s demanding. In the three weeks since I started, I’ve dealt with everything from violent traumas to custody issues in the NICU to talks about organ donations with families. After everything was said and done, I had to relive it through my charting. In the beginning, it made me question if I was in the right field and if I was cut out for this kind of work.
Then I had a mother tell me in her darkest hour, after losing her daughter, my kindness had kept her going. It reminded me of why I wanted to go into the field. Humans deserve kindness.
Each morning, we have a huddle meeting that helps us to understand what is happening in the hospital. There are two other interns from my program who got accepted, so I slip in next to them. Thankfully, no one questions the fact I’ve come in five past the hour.
“What took you so long?” Derek asks as the meeting ends. He’s one of the students from my program, and he’s always been kind to me.
“I had to drop Matteo off at preschool and got stuck in the line,” I tell him the half-truth, not adding in the part that I rolled out of bed late and then argued with my child for a half hour while trying to get him ready. I don’t question myself as much as I used to when I was a new parent, but sometimes I still struggle to admit any difficulties I have out loud.
Being a young mom means people always assume the worst of me. Every decision I make is questioned. My parenting style is open to public scrutiny. If I try to let off some steam, there is always someone around to bash me. I don’t get the benefit of the doubt, not the way older, married parents do.
Derek hums in understanding though he doesn’t have kids of his own. I probably could complain to him, and he won’t mind. Not everyone is a Catholic school nun, but the days of prying eyes and believing your every movement is being watched have their side effects.
“Why did you decide on the name Matteo? I don’t remember you ever saying anything about being Italian?” Derek asks me, the abrupt shift in conversation was almost as jarring as the prospect of talking about Matteo’s heritage.
“I’m not Italian but Matteo is,” I tell him simply, allowing him to work out the implication himself but also holding my breath. I realize it’s completely irrational, thinking anyone who realizes my son has Italian blood will automatically connect him to the Mafia. Most people who are Italian-America have nothing to do with the mafia, and not even his father knows about him.