We've had many experiences—some good, some not. When we were offered the chance to place Agnese in a nursery school as a trainee, we could hardly believe it. It felt like being young again, receiving a gift you've always wanted.
There has always been a struggle, and there still is—one that exhausts us. The environment remains unaware of what our children truly need. They don't understand that love with a capital L is essential—not in words, but in deeds. (And to be fair, we parents aren't saints either. Sometimes we slip up, lose our temper. But one of us talks sense to the other later, and the mistake becomes a lesson.)
We can't expect everything to be easy. If our children are to find their place in the world, they need to face it as it is. Some caregivers barely look at them. Others are warm and engaged—and it's these we watch with hope, waiting patiently for the rest to change.
The first months were hard. Agnese was assigned to a nursery in the Trullo district. By public transport, it took an hour and a half. But the effort was worth it—she was truly welcomed. The woman in charge, Angela, cared for her like a daughter. When she was transferred, on her last day I went to say goodbye to the owner of the bar where we'd have breakfast each morning. Everyone in the place grew quiet. They were sad to see her go, but they wished her well, hoping to see her again soon.
Now, the school is two hundred meters from home. But she isn't welcomed by everyone the way we'd hoped. We think the social services should have done more to prepare people. What lifts us up are the small things—the ones that turn out to be enormous—like when we're out walking with Agnese and we meet a child from her nursery. The mother looks at her child and says: "Say hello to your teacher."
We know there's a lot of wishful thinking in that. But we just keep adding it to our hope and our faith. Without those, life would be unbearably sad.
Ettore and Angela, 1979