Furbo: clever like a fox. And my son.

Italians have this great word, “furbo.” It means sly, clever, fox-like, and is one of Tuscany’s most prized character attributes. A guy who is furbo won’t be able to get a permit for a pool but will join the community fire watch and offer to put in a reservoir in case a fire breaks out. And then build it in the shape of a swimming pool. That happens to be in his yard. (And we’ve met him. And he’s told us, in detail.)

I wasn’t expecting to use this vocabulary word when I was doing one of my most dreaded tasks as an Italian mother—parent-teacher conferences. There’s no schedule, just a block of time when all the teachers sit at desks in the classrooms and the parents stand in line in the hall and wait their turn.

If a waiting parent is particularly organized they will post a list so other parents can note the order in which they arrived. But mostly, you run from one classroom to another trying to hold your place in multiple lines while attempting to chat in Italian. (Another great word is “chiacchierare,” for chatting or gossip.)

And then you have to go in and talk to the teachers. One by one. And no one speaks English—not even the English teacher.

My sessions never take long. The average parent’s turn with a teacher is about 15 minutes. For me, it’s one. Every parent wants to be next in line after me.

When I went to Sebastian’s first conference at his new school, the basics were conveyed quickly, and were consistent with what previous year’s teachers have told me. “He’s smart. Doesn’t work had enough. Too much energy. But lovely.” This last round, however, he got two “furbo” ratings and one “Furbissimo.” (Italian adds this useful suffix “-issimo” to mean an extreme level of something.)

I was crushed. My little boy furbissimo? On the way home I called John, in shock, to share the upsetting news. He couldn’t have been more delighted. Our son was really becoming Italian.