on having a baby in italy

Okay let me preface this post by saying I’m not here to compare pregnancy and birth stories with other mothers. Growing a human is hard work and getting them into this world is barbaric. I had no idea. I thought I knew, but I had no clue just how hard this experience would be. Every mother out there reading this is a goddam goddess for existing and doing her best no matter the conditions she is facing.

Tip: If you do plan on having a baby here, bring a portable fan.

So here we go…

Hands down, one of the most frequent questions I get since moving here and finding out we were pregnant is, “What is it like to be pregnant/have a baby in Italy?” 

On the surface, it sounds really glamorous and may remind you of Sandra Oh in Under the Tuscan Sun. So much of my pregnancy in Italy was exactly that, pure romance. It was easily the most peaceful I’ve been within my own body in my entire life. I felt like even though there was turmoil going on in my head (it’s me, hi… former workaholic with idle time), this need to be calm and create a space inside me for a baby to grow became my #1 responsibility. Sure I had some uncomfortable symptoms, hormonal acne, ate a lot of 3am insomnia cereal, and by the end was a house-on-legs like everyone else… but in totality, I never felt stronger. I felt beautiful, and sexy. I had a great doctor guiding me and the only man I’ve ever imagined building a family with holding my hand.

Aside from the fact that Italy was on a strict lockdown, the medical experience during my pregnancy was above my expectations. I had the advantage of having several girlfriends back home who were pregnant at the same time so it was easy to compare our care. While my husband was not able to be present for every monthly appointment, he was allowed to be there for the initial ultrasound, the 12 weeks and the anatomy scan. And once a month from 7 weeks onward I was lucky enough to receive a full ultrasound and take home photos of my baby’s growth. The midwives were gentle and understood that we were here without extended family (without a “tribe”), a scenario for a first pregnancy I had never pictured for myself.

Also at this time, Italy’s borders were closed to the United States. Getting my mom here, going home for a dreamy baby shower, shopping for baby clothes with my Mother-In-Law. All of these things were too risky albeit impossible to make happen. 

At times this made my pregnancy feel like it didn’t happen. I don’t have a single photo of my baby bump in my mother’s hands. It broke my heart at the time being so far away, because I felt like I was not only robbing myself of these memories, but I was taking it from our family too. I felt homesickness grow in a bigger way because of it. It was frustrating feeling so out of control of the border situation here. But remember, when you’re carrying your first baby you’re afraid if you cry too much it will hurt them (it wont). That if you’re sad too often you might damage them permanently (it wont). If you’ve been there you know what I am talking about. So you put on a smile. Somewhere within, the mother you will become starts to plant a seed in your soul.

One morning at the end of April 2021, I woke up feeling off. I had been able to work-out every day up until 37 weeks and yoga was a lifeline at helping old ballet injuries calm down under the pressure. The best I could do on this particular morning was a pretty lame supported child’s pose and quickly it became clear something was wrong. We rushed to the ER and it was confirmed that I had to be admitted immediately. Remember how peaceful and beautiful the entire pregnancy was? Well we made up for it in the next 24 hours.


So much of my experience was a blur and part of that is because we didn’t have anyone to help us translate what was going on. I remember a lot of stress tests. I remember how hot the room was.  I had studied plenty of words and phrases in Italian for this day, but by no means could I express or understand anything severe or medical. So I wasn’t prepared to ask, “Is my baby okay? Am I okay? Should I be scared?”

Let me explain something: I always knew I wanted to be a mom. Through all the variables, that one thing was constant. The way my life has unfolded is beyond my comprehension and a central fixture of that is the man I married. To be in the position of going through this with him, of carrying his child… it was something the rose-colored-glasses-me had been daydreaming about for fifteen years. If I let you, I’m certain you could find an old journal entry of me describing this very day. Of him being the one next to me, holding my hand, bringing our baby into the world. 


What I hadn’t imagined was that I would be in a room full of people standing over me who couldn’t speak my native language. That I would be convulsing uncontrollably strapped to an operating table. That I would be alone, with my husband forced to stand outside and watch. Somebody pinch me, because this has to be our nightmare. 

“Is my baby okay? Am I okay? I’m scared.”

“Bambina sta bene? Sta bene? Sono spaventata”

Just before she was pulled from my abdomen, my Italian anesthesiologist (God bless him), was able to give me an upside-down “thumbs up” signaling that she was okay and it would be over soon. Her cries! There are no words to express that feeling for new parents. Cry! Cry louder! Cry stronger! They brought her to my face, my arms still strapped down, and I said to her between sobs “You’re okay, it’s okay baby girl” and she softened for a moment before they took her away. 

Recovery was a blur. Because of COVID, private rooms like you see in America were not available, as they were reserved for severe patients recovering from the virus. But private rooms are not the norm for the maternity ward here anyway. The biggest difference between having a baby in the United States and Italy is that it’s expected that mothers support other mothers during the first days after bringing a baby into this world. What does that mean? It means that it’s normal for three to four mothers to share one room, one bathroom, one changing table, one chair. There are no couches for Dads to sleep on. Dads don’t stay overnight. No privacy curtains between the beds. Bringing a baby into this world is a mother’s work. The nurses are not there to help you get rest. The hospital is not there to provide you with supplies. You’re a mama now - Andiamo!

I say this with every ounce of respect I have. Would I have chosen this for myself? No. Do I get crazy jealous when I see American childbirth on TV? Yes. But I wouldn’t change a moment of it. That first week in the hospital recovering with my Little Dove after what we went through together, and the way the Italian nurses throw you head first into motherhood is a gift. I see that now. I hate to admit it, as hard as it was, it shaped me. 

Eventually, we were able to go home to our hillside and be a family. A looming monster was ahead in the form of a diagnosis for postpartum depression. But for the moment, the three of us were in newborn bliss after the storm. We had all the confusion new parents have. All the weird sounds newborns make at night. Our Little Dove was here. Our little peanut, full of gas and giggles and wrist wrinkles. Another little piece of our home in Italy was falling into place.

(If you’ve made it this far, Brava! Because trust me when I say that even as a mom I loath a long birth story.)

There is a point to all of this: Let the lesson from this self-proclaimed control freak rub off on you. Countless years went into crafting the dream of what becoming a mom would look like for me, and it didn’t involve an emergency c-section with foreign doctors. It’s silly, because what else could possibly be more out of your control than another person’s life and choices? I never considered that my daughter’s birth could fall into that category.

It can be heartbreaking to feel robbed of how you think a milestone moment is supposed to play out. Anger is normal. Depression is normal. Feeling helpless and desperate to change it is normal. But there is beauty and levity in stepping back and seeing that the moment was designed for you better than you were capable of imagining on your own. This experience in letting go could very well, very uncomfortably, break you into a version of yourself you’d never have found otherwise.  It’s painful, but that’s okay.

For me, that was Rylee Lou. A little six-pound Italian-American girl who broke me like glass into a thousand pieces and has spent every day of her life since then putting me back together again. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Te amo, piccolina.. and thank you.

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venezia, italy