My brother and his wife are in the process of divorcing. Anyone who knows me even a little, knows that I’m wildly protective of my family, especially my brother. I would have made an excellent soldato (mafia soldier). I have a steadfast resolve to protect and serve family. Call it cosa nostra. One of the additions to mia famiglia is my brother’s son Vincenzo aka Enzo, who is three. The fierce sense of loyalty I have for my brother has been bestowed onto my nephew, as well.
As for the divorce, I have an abundance of feelings, thoughts, opinions, judgements, and even demands. And yet it is not my business. This isn’t easy for someone who considers her business to be family. As his aunt, I want to do what is best for Enzo, which means not playing out my interior mafia-themed script. As a child of divorce, I know all too well the divisiveness that results when extended family members weigh in and take sides. Unfortunately, it isn’t the divorcing spouses who take the brunt of all the feelings, thoughts, opinions, and judgements expressed by extended family members. It’s the kid in the middle who takes the hit. The about-to-be-ex-spouses, who might need the smack down, are too busy battling each other to listen to the rest of us.
So then, how do I express my loyalty to my Enzo in this situation?
My husband, who doesn’t tend to operate from an interior gangster script, tells me to keep my dance of feelings, thoughts, opinions, and judgements to myself. More often than not I want to box his ears and run my mouth. I want to go to the mattresses. I know he is right, but …
A few years ago, we as a family spent a lot of time with two other families from church. Both couples’ relationships ended in divorce. Our pastor advised me on how to maintain friendships: act as witness to all of them rather than consigliere to any of them. I should have listened. Now, of those four friends, I’m down to just one – she’s Sicilian.
During my brother’s divorce, I’ve mostly been good. I try to share my feelings, thoughts, opinions, and judgments with only my husband. But, all this stifled combustible energy still burns in the pit of my stomach – agita.
Pass the Antacids, Please.
My stomach has suffered a cultural history of indigestion, a history of untapped energy that scorches my gut. I need some relief.
I’ve decided to tap that powder keg and move – not talk but act. As part of the separation, my brother moved into our father’s house. I rallied the troops to decorate Enzo’s bedroom at his dad’s new home – fresh coat of paint, carpeting, animal-themed decorations, and window treatments. A mattress is on the way.
Last week, for the first time, Dave and I picked up Enzo for a half a day -- without his parents. His mom put him in our car and it fairly vibrated with all the love for him – his three-year-old cousin Cal reached out from his carseat and said, “Yah! MY BUDDY.” Sam, who is nine, came around to Enzo’s seat to give him a stick of gum and a tutorial on how to blow a bubble. Dave turned on the Broadway soundtrack A Year with Frog and Toad and sang along to “Toad looks funny in a bathing suit,” and when the song was over, Enzo called to the front, “Again, Uncle Dave.”
The day would have made Ol’ Blue Eyes croon:
Autumn in New York, it lifts you up when you’re run down/
Jaded rose and gay divorces who lunch at the Ritz/
Will tell you that it’s divine.”
We picked grapes, brought them to grandpa’s house, and we crushed them to make juice.
Finally, I took a long, cool, deep, fire-extinguishing breath. As we filtered the pulp from the juice, I realized my feelings, thoughts, opinions, and judgements were being clarified as the afternoon progressed. I want Enzo to know, much like the fumbling Luca Brasi wanted Don Corleone to know, “I pledge my ever-ending loyalty.”
Wait. Let me revise that. Luca’s fumble foreshadows his demise – a swim with the fishes. I want my nephew to enjoy this oath for a long time.
To you, Enzo-lini-pasta-tini, I pledge my NEVER-ENDING loyalty. You will know you belong and are loved by your family no matter how many divisions, divorces or skirmishes we rack up. We will have seasonal traditions we do together such as this -- pick grapes, squash them, strain the juice from the pulp, and drink.
