I don't speak Italian very well

No matter where I am, if I meet someone new or I need help from someone, I still start off with "Je ne parle pas Francais tres bien", or "Non parlo Italiano molto bene."  I guess I figure that way I'm covered and I can make mistakes or say that I don't understand a thousand times and I won't feel like a total idiot.  Those conversations usually end with the person telling me that I speak Italian or French well and that they understood everything I said.  But, I still start the next conversation with the next person with the same phrase.  I don't know if I'll ever have the confidence to drop it.
However, I was extra happy (and maybe I should have been a little embarrassed) the other day when I realized that I was speaking Italian without worrying about it.  After lunch on the terrace with Matteo's mom and dad (fettucine handmade by their aunt for an average Thursday afternoon lunch) I picked Matteo up from school.  It seemed to be just like at home.  Some of the moms walk together and they all meet outside the school a little bit early and chat.  Then I realized that something was missing.  There was no line of black SUVs with their hazards on blocking traffic.  No moms with cell phones in one hand and Starbucks in the other.  (In fact, another mom had just come over for a cup of coffee after lunch and we all walked to school together.  It reminded me of 1969, if I can really remember this, at 15 Dean Street in Grand Rapids, when the dads would go to work and the moms would have each other over for a cup of coffee at the kitchen table.  Does anyone do this anymore?)
Anyway, we walked home from school and Ivana dished up three cups of gelato.  She asked Matteo where he wanted to eat it and he chose outside.  He wanted to sit on the swing that his dad had made from nothing.  It really was S.O.O.N.---Something Out of Nothing. I told Matteo that I loved it and he said, "I knew you would."
After gelato, Matteo wanted to play tennis.  We went behind the house to the driveway.  He lives in a little row of townhouses with garages below and in the back.  He keeps a string tied to the gutter and there's a nail in the concrete wall on the other side.  The nail's a little high, but it was already there and it works just fine.  He ties the other end of the string to the nail and he has a rather high tennis net made of one string.  This is where I realized I was speaking Italian with no fear.  There were lots of "sorrys" and "oops" and "nice shots" in a louder than normal voice.  Let me remind you, I don't like speaking English on my cell phone in public places in Chicago.  You should see me speaking Italian on the train or in a shop in Italy.  I usually whisper so no one can hear me. But, somehow, playing tennis with Matteo behind a row of Italian townhouses with a lot of windows and balconies, I was free. And maybe still "Non parlo Italiano molto bene," but "Parlo Italiano."