It’s All About Perspective

Written by Daniela Balzano-Fenton

I was about 8 when I created one of the most guilty moments of my childhood. My mother was holding a party, something that she was notoriously wonderful at. She would set a beautiful table, armed with fancy, eccentric wine glasses, an over abundant amount of silverware, and a bounty of fresh towering flowers that would eventually act as a shield during my family's inevitable heated political discussion over dessert.

Before the start of the event, my mother would play surround sound music, usually Bonnie Rait or Bob Marley, and would dance around while preparing savory and delicious dishes for our guests.  She would shout out plenty of demands during this process, inquiring which one of her children would "wipe down the master bathroom", or "make sure that all finger prints would be wiped off of the hallway mirror". In the midst of our scrubbing and spraying, we would hear her words projecting over the already loud music "Girls, never forget, a beautifully set table speaks a thousand words."

By the time the guests would arrive I was exhausted by my morning activities but would quickly be re-energized by the faces of my much loved family members and friends.  My mother is Jewish and her friends were Israeli, and my father and his family are straight off the boat Italian.  Conversation was passionate.  My home would become full of wine and laughter, and after a large meal condensed with every color in the palette, we would relax in the family room and wind down.  This was our time to shine.    My sister Lisa and I would bust out with our various premature talents including piano playing, theatrical performances, poetry reading, and more.  These were the moments when as a child you feel on the top of the world, and as a teenager you are mortified when forced to watch them on taped footage!

I’ll never forget that night.  While busy jotting down some words that barely rhymed for my would-be poetic performance, my aunt Dee popped her head in my room. She asked if I wouldn't mind walking to her car and pulling her suitcase out of her trunk.  I was annoyed to be torn away from my means to fame, but knew that any hesitation would be greatly frowned upon by the adults in the next room, not to mention, would result in an hour of undesirable lecture from Aunt Dee, an outlandish and uncensored personality type.

It was a cold and blustery day, and the walk to the car seemed equivalent to a full day of travel.  By the time I reached the trunk, I discovered it was locked and I was without a key.  Instead of accepting defeat, I convinced myself that I would be able to pick the trunk lock with a twig that had fallen near the car.  Not understanding that my theory was not only technically incorrect but just plain senseless, I began poking and twisting the primitive tool until eventually it broke off right in the lock. It was wedged, and no pulling or prying could remove it from the snug embrace of the lock.

I knew that I was in hot water.

With my head held low, I returned home and headed straight for my room. I became a hermit for the rest of the evening, and the guilt of my poor decision was overwhelming.  I cried out of embarrassment, and prayed deeply that none of the guests would discover my error.  I became fixated on the downstairs conversation, and after what felt like hours of waiting, Aunt Dee's voice spoke the words that were dreaded.  She announced that her trunk was unable to open because a stick was wedged in her lock!  My mother's footsteps up the stairs immediately followed.  My door opened and I immediately began to cry.  I had explained to my mother that I was deeply sorry, and had truly believed my scheme to be genius.  She laid down a mild punishment of no TV for the week, and the moment that was so deeply dreaded quickly passed.  Yet what remained was my lingering guilt (known to be extreme in women of Jewish and Italian descent), and because I was such a sensitive kid, it stayed with me for much of my childhood.

My daughter is now 8, and has made plenty of "interesting" decisions of her own.  These are the times that I remind myself to examine the scenarios from an 8 year old perspective, and realize that to her young growing mind, her actions made sense and were justified.

Just last night, I grabbed for some ice cubes out of our tray only to discover suspended green beans, garlic, onions, and decorative beads in the frozen ice.  "A science experiment, Mom," exclaimed my daughter with excited eyes, "I wanted to see what sunk, what floated, and if the onions would still burn my eyes after they were frozen!" It was because her actions were so familiar to me, a mere mimic of my childhood psychology, that I just smiled and gently reminded her to inform me the next time she planned on “experimenting."

Daniela lives in New Haven with her husband Michael, daughter Luna and her son Solomon. Daniela has a degree in Natural Therapeutics and a BS in biology. While her education has always been based in the sciences, her love for art and creation has always remained alive.   As the owner of Blend for Kids in Branford, Daniela now gets to share her passion for all things creative with kids everywhere.