Comment dit-on 'Gelato'?


Rhiannon had her five-year check-up at her new pediatrician's today. Mom was at school for classes and an evening archaeological society event, so it fell to me to take Rhiannon to the doctor, and then dinner out, and ice cream. Rhiannon is smart. And as she knew that the treats were forthcoming, she began questioning me in the car.

"Am I going to get a shot?"

Drat. She was going to get THREE.

"Maybe. We'll see what the doctor says." Yeah. Pass the blame to the physician. Dad is then blameless. Genius! Of course, this will engender a mistrust of medical staff and a predisposition not to go to the physician as they will be associated with pain, but hey! My conscience is clear!

"Will it hurt?"

"Maybe. It's like a little pinch. When I used to get shots, my mom used to tell me to say 'ouch! peaches!'"

Laughter. "Okay, dad."

We arrived, did the paperwork. A boy of about six came in with his dad.

"Hi!" Rhiannon said. Was this a new kissy boy?

Blank stare.

Rhiannon immediately turns to the father. "Does he talk?"

"Well, he talks a lot when there are not a lot of people around."

Here it comes. "There are four people. Four is not a lot of people."

"Ummm."

The nurse calls Rhiannon in. Thank goodness.

We sit in the waiting room and read books together. The nurse comes in and weighs and measures Rhiannon, takes her blood pressure. Rhiannon is a stringbean with a strong heart. 42" and 37.6 pounds. Her best friend Nicola in Wisconsin is five and weighs over 50. But the nurse is not concerned.

"She is just where she needs to be," she says.

She lets Rhiannon listen to her own heartbeat through the stethoscope.

"What does that sound like?"

"buh-buh buh-buh buh-buh buh-buh" in perfect time. The nurse is impressed. When she takes the blood pressure, she asks if Rhiannon feels okay in the cuff.

"It feels kinda good."

Rhiannon also gets a hearing test, which she passes. Now she has no excuse in pretending not to hear us when dinner is ready.

So far, no shots. Little does Rhiannon know that I have already sold her out, back at the front desk, turning in the paper from her school that says she needs her injections today. I feel like an informer, and the kicker is that I will have to hold her while she takes her medicine.

After the nurse leaves, a physician's assistant comes in and starts asking Rhiannon lots of questions. Because five-year-olds don't lie to authority figures like doctors, Rhiannon tells the bald truth. Thank goodness she has been taken care of.

PA: Rhiannon, can you tell me what you do in the car to stay safe?
R: Tell dad to leave the beer at home. [this is a JOKE]. She actually says "buckle".
PA: Do you sit in a booster seat in the car?
R: Yes.
PA: Do you eat lots of fruits and vegetables?
R: Yes. Sometimes I eat candy. [the cat is out of the bag now]
PA: That's OK. Everything in moderation. Can I see your teeth? [now she is looking for proof]

Rhiannon opens and smiles. Her teeth are perfect. And her ears and eyes. Her organs. And her "bits" which the doctor examines quickly after my permission.

"Rhiannon, you are a perfectly healthy girl."

"I know." As if she needed a doctor to tell her this.

The PA seems to be genuinely amused. And now the bad news.

"Rhiannon, we need to give you three shots today."

Instead of looking at me, saying "J'accuse!", Rhiannon takes this in stride, as if she was expecting bad news, prepared herself for it, and was not disappointed when it came.

"Okay," she says, and the PA leaves the room to fetch the nurse.

Rhiannon and I read more books. The nurse arrives with a tray.

"Okay, Rhiannon. I am going to give you three shots, but then I will give you two prizes."

I expect Rhiannon to ask for one prize per shot, but she does not. Rhiannon is rock-solid and clear-eyed. She smiles a little.

"Sit on your dad's lap and give him a big hug."

It's as if she's about to say good by as I am put on the train to Siberia. Rubbing alcohol is applied. Rhiannon turns her head from the needles to face the shuttered window. The first injection is done. Rhiannon didn't even flinch. Then the second. No reaction. She gets the third in the other arm, and still Rhiannon is motionless and calm.

"That's it?" she asks. She sounds incredulous.

"Yes. Would you like your prizes?"

"Okay." The nurse gives her a pink, beaded bracelet and a sugarfree lollipop.

"Thank you. My arm is bleeding," Rhiannon says calmly.

The nurse applies three Tasmanian Devil band-aids on her arms. Rhiannon looks disappointed that they are neither pink nor of princesses, that they are in fact boy band-aids, but she doesn't say anything. It's as if she had become fifty during this hour.

We walk to the car. It is five o'clock. Time to take her to dinner as part of her reward for being so good.

"I was brave, dad."

"Yes, Rhiannon. You were very brave."

"It didn't hurt at all."

"No. I guess it didn't. I am very proud of you. Where would you like to eat dinner? We can go anyplace you want."

I am hoping for a place with big food, ambience. She's been to those. She's liked them.

"OLD MCDONALD'S!"

Crap. A promise is a promise, so off we go. We eat. The toy she gets is a Madame Alexander miniature Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz.

"Dad! I don't have this one!" Which is a miracle. As she has the rest of the collection.

So we eat and laugh and then she plays in the indoor playground with another boy a little younger than she is. They become fast friends. I let her play for almost an hour, waiting for her to tell me when she wants to go. With playtime, it's best to let the children go until they drop, go out on their own terms.

She comes to me a bit tired, but happy. Her band-aids are missing. She is ready for Part Two of the post-doctor treat.

"Can we get gelato now?"

How many five-year-olds do you know who knows a) what gelato is and b) how it differs from ice cream? I'm talking American kids, not those European kids who know 20 different kinds of cheeses by the time they are three and already have a sizeable wine collection of bottles they have already drunk by age six. I can count the number of kids on no hands.

So we go to Dulce Luna which is less than a mile from our apartment. Dulce Luna is an Italian-owned gelateria that serves twenty kinds of real gelato as well as assorted Italian coffee drinks, and reminds me of one of the places I used to go to in Vescovado di Murlo, minus the Communists.

Rhiannon orders up two scoops of Oreo gelato, and I forego the sweets (a first for me), and instead opt for a grande cappucino (12oz.) with NO sugar (the first time I have tried it this way), but lots of chocolate on top. Rhiannon is amazed at the size of the white mug and is delighted by the foam on top. She eats her gelato, and I sip my cuppa, and we chat. She is a delightful companion and a fun date.

We finish and it is dark outside. We drive home, feed the cats, and become domestic. She writes. I wash. And the day ends sweetly.

Rhiannon. La mia ragazza sveglia.

Andrew (Papa)