Tequila Mamas in Milan

A New Mum, A New City and Unexpected Alliances

There are times in life when, at the very last minute, you form a solid or special connection with someone—or with a group of people. That last day of term, the final moments of a family holiday—an industrial-scale building of sandcastles, moats and dams on the beach. Other kids join in. It becomes a team effort. You strike up a bond. You find your people.

It was like that for me in Milan. We only lived there for just shy of a year. The connection I formed was built on motherhood and tequila.

My husband and I used to joke that when we arrived in Milan, I was homeless, jobless, and pregnant—but at least married. We found an apartment quickly, and a few months later, our daughter was born. I didn’t fit into the above three categories for long.

Our daughter burst into the world at 3 p.m. on Sunday, September 28th. It was warm outside, and the delivery room windows were slightly ajar. Vivi had a shock of white-blonde hair and a crimson face. She wailed non-stop for about an hour, then settled, taking in her surroundings—her lot—me and her dad. Curious and intuitive. That has been her beat, her stride in the world ever since.

It’s odd what you remember when giving birth. There’s a heightened sense of awareness. In spite of that, and weirdly, I distinctly mostly recall the chit-chat amongst the gyno team between contractions and pushing.

"Did you see that Clooney film on Rai 1 last night?"
I wondered which one. Ocean’s Eleven? I quite liked that.
Then it was time to push again.
She arrived—and she was a cracker! Still is. Vivi was here!

Upon emerging, however, there was a slight moment of simultaneous confusion.

"It’s a girl, Signora!"—from the gyno.
"It’s a boy, Em!"—from my husband.
I took the gyno at her word.
I think the umbilical cord may have created an illusion of anatomical misinterpretation in the excitement of it all.

At that point, we didn’t really know many people in Milan. I had lived in Barcelona for ten years and had assumed that experience would serve me well for the move to Italy—and for becoming a mum. A slightly naive mindset. Hindsight is a funny thing. I have often thought that word must come from the experience of landing on your behind—and the insight that follows.

One evening, my husband showed me a tiny announcement in one of those free newspapers distributed around the city.

"International Mums and Tots – Wed and Fri – 10 a.m.-12 p.m. Oratorio Sant Ambrogio."

I decided to go. It was time to leave the safe confines of our apartment.

Arriving at the oratory, I found a gaggle of strollers and baby vehicles of various dimensions and colors parked outside.
Aerodynamic, hand-me-downs, hybrids. All pre-Elon versions.

The church door was closed. I observed from a safe distance—the stroller in neutral.
Then I heard someone say, “Jingles Bingles! I need to get the keys from the Don.”

The voice came from a petite yet springy, elastic-looking woman—a positive yoga person, I thought. She seemed naturally organized and energetic as well.
Inwardly, though, I immediately got judgey. Jingles Bingles? Wtf? The phrase took me back to 1980s pre-teen fiction—Malory Towers—all girls’ boarding school, pages of high tea, high jinks, and jolly hockey.
Was this the vibe of International Mums and Tots?
My hand moved to put the stroller into motion. Could I reverse-maneuver and exit silently, unnoticed?

Then my attention was drawn to another woman—tall, statuesque, blonde ponytail. Casual outfit, but the clothes were definitely expensive.
I was still in judgey mode—I put it down to postpartum hormones. Or just being a baseline human and feeling a bit lost.
Her expression was hard to read, but mostly, she looked thoroughly bored. She was tethering two tiny humans.
She had a slow, soft drawl—Canadian, maybe? I’d have to wait until she said the word out to be sure.
I was still debating: Retreat or engage?

Then I noticed another figure. A wild mass of long, dark, curly hair—must be difficult to manage, I thought. Leather jacket, flared jeans.
Her stance was somewhere between a loll and a slouch—an understated small swagger of cool—without even trying. She was a tetherer of three offspring. That seemed like a lot to me.
Then she spoke.

"Yeah, I’m Italian, but my mum is British. She’s a bit of a cunt, really."

She turned and grinned widely at me.

I took the brake off the stroller and walked toward the door that was now open.

To be continued...

Read Tequila Mamas Part Two here