A DAD'S LIFE:ROME IN September? It'd be rude not to go. Especially when there's a pregnant sister-in-law looking for familial support, and the flights are cheap, and the sun is shining, shining, shiny and bright. Forget the mosquitoes, forget the derision every shop assistant shows you for expecting them to have change of a fiver (the cheek of ye), forget the taxi drivers adding so many miles onto the route that you see Florence. Jump on the back of a Vespa, soak up September rays and wave "ciao!" to Benedict.
Due to the aforementioned sister-in-law, the girls now consider themselves half Roman. The elder can cobble together a few sentences and has a vague idea that a lot of stuff started here. The most significant Italian touch, as far as I can see, however, is that she has become very conscious of the style impact of cars, her and her sister. Both of them see motors now as accessories, with a small need for practicality. One wants to spring for a Mini Cooper when she gets a licence, while the other has a retro feel, opting for the original Fiat 500.
Not only do they dig cars, they dig Italian driving. When faced with a left turn across three lanes of onrushing traffic, they can’t understand why a driver in front doesn’t just push out and presume the hordes will bypass him. It turns out his car has a Luxembourg number plate. “Pah!” they say, disgusted at his nervous antics. Also, there is a lot of gesticulating going on in the back seat, dismissive flicking of the chin at any pointed comments, and shoulder rolling with hands to heaven to make a point.
One of them likes the speed of the place, the younger one less so. It’s too hot for her, there’s too much movement. She beams when we find a hotel with a pool and we crash for a day. I like her style. The Sistine Chapel and Colosseum have it going on, but for a six year old, they’re old buildings and, come on, it’s hot. Let’s get our swim on. I acquiesce and now have a tan. Good work, younger child.
But the main reason we are here is pregnant sister-in-law. Of all the missus’s sisters, this is my old party-buddy sis-in-law, the glammest one who moved to Italy to ensure her hair was never less than sun-whitened and hook herself a bronzed Adonis. She managed both while carving out a nice living guiding tours around cultural hotspots. Tiring of dealing with open-mouthed Americans and making the same old stories sound fresh, she decided on a change and flipped neatly into a UN post. Here’s a girl not short on confidence.
Which is probably why it’s funny to see her getting round and sweaty, and nursing her swollen ankles on the couch. Breeding is a tough process.
My girls get involved and we wind up in a disconcerting dialogue. They have been assisting sis with her maternity wardrobe and come to the conclusion that it will not be fair for this child to grow up without a cousin of similar age, as seems possible. They love their cousins and vow to work on their unborn relative’s behalf.
I am reading in the living room when the pincer approach is made.
“Dad, you and mum need to have a baby now. Baby Rocco [the name they have sanctioned under the approval of the father and the despairing sighs of the mother] needs a baby cuz.”
“Really, that’s lovely, you two are very caring girls, I’m so proud. Not a freaking chance.”
The elder has perfected the art of badgering; fast forward 15 minutes from cuteness to pure pain: “Dad, please, c’mon?” I’m bored so, in a fit of annoyance, agree to father another child just to get the existing ones off my case. That’s when the more practical younger child steps in with her vague grasp of reproduction, handed down to her by her shaky-on-the-subject sister.
“Dad, that means you need to mate with mummy.” Oh yeah, mate?
“Yeah. Now.”
The missus appears in the doorway asking what’s going on. The brats tell her and she – unaware quite how motivated they are – looks amused. I eyeball my wife and two daughters and think this has all just got a bit too Roman too fast. Fortunately, there’s a flight home tonight so the chances of my being made perform to an audience are diminishing. Whether that show merits an emperor’s thumbs up or thumbs down is something I have no interest in learning.
abrophy@irishtimes.com