Integration: Facing the Language Battle

Often we are asked when or if we plan on returning to Australia. My response usually amounts to something along the lines of, "Well, we are happy here right now, and that's all that we know. If one of us wakes up tomorrow and wants to go back to Australia, then we deal with that then."

My first German: Cafe speak! 

A few weeks ago, I had the big light-bulb moment that maybe I wouldn't actually ever go back. We really are just so happy here... but the one thing standing in my way is the language. I will never assimilate if I am not fluent in German, and not only that, but in (insert a full-body shudder of fear) Swiss German. My German is currently okay. It's not great... I have a very limited vocabulary and my grammar is positively shocking, but I seem to have the ability to fool everybody into thinking it is better than it is. I think that my training as an English teacher has given me the ability to think on my feet when trying to come up with a strange way of explaining something. For example, when waiting today at the Mütterberatung (the place I go to get Ruben weighed and measured occasionally and to ask questions to a midwife), I was speaking to another mother. I didn't know the word for 'crawl', so without a pause I explained that in the last week, Ruben has managed to move forwards using the opposite hand and foot. And then I asked her what that is called in German. Most people are okay with me slipping in the occasional English word if I'm at a loss.

So... I thought she said lift our babies now?

I can't go to intensive German lessons anymore, and while I always have grand plans of how I will actively improve my skills, the only one that I am currently employing (and well, I might add) is to have no shame. Ruben and I go to a local play-group on Monday mornings where I speak my bad German to anyone who will listen. I do the same at our babyswimming classes. When we are at the playground or on the train with other children, I speak. I not only answer questions, but I ask them too, and attempt a real conversation. I do the same with all the people that approach us to coo over what an incredibly good-looking baby I have. Haha. I have stopped being embarrassed (okay, not totally... but I am getting much better!) and have started speaking. My Swiss German, or more specifically, my Züri Deutsch, is also getting better, but only when it comes to conversations regarding babies. All of this in mind, I don't think that I will ever feel comfortable speaking German on the telephone.

Making the decision to take Ruben to the local playgroup here was a very difficult one for me, as I knew I would be an outsider. But Ruben needs baby-interaction and getting out of the house on a Monday morning is good for us. I am so glad that I put on my brave hat and went that first time, because now I often wave at other mothers I see at the shops, on the street or waiting for the train. I feel like I am a real member of the Horgen community now, and that makes me a little bit proud. And I'm learning all those Swiss German songs, which I'm loving.

Having and raising a child in a foreign country certainly has its challenges. I often wonder how different this experience would be if we had done it in Australia, and perhaps if it really would have been so much easier.

Learning to ski! Yes, really!

I've always wanted to ski. It's probably just my fascination with snow, to be honest, more than the idea of actually exercising in it. But really, the concept of standing at the top of a mountain and being able to swing your body side to side and just zoom down to the bottom (with very little effort, right?) has always been so enticing to an Aussie like me!

My first chance came when I was studying in Nova Scotia, Canada, when I was twenty-two. Some friends organised a ski trip for the Saturday, and then the Wednesday before, I fell down some stairs

Looks like I won't be learning to ski in Canada then...

  and broke my foot. I was in a boot-walker for the remainder of the winter, and thus began my endless stream of foot and ankle problems.

And then there was the winter that we first moved to Switzerland, in 2010. I was excited but also scared about the prospect, as any discussion with any member of the public about skiing ultimately turns into something equalling the likes of some exotic disease: that is, it always ends in paralysis, coma and death. I had one chance, it turned out, and I made the stupid mistake to actually attempt snow-boarding, as all of my friends here at the time were snowboarders. I booked a lesson in the morning and the afternoon, and two hours of repeatedly falling on my butt with extreme force, of catching myself with my hands, of never being able to throw my centre-of-gravity forward enough to be able to get up myself... well, I ended up having to cancel my afternoon lesson. The next six weeks saw me having to cancel my yoga lessons due to a hyperextended elbow.

Paris in a wheelchair... not pretty

But I still had the rest of the winter, right? No need for me to worry, though, as I broke my ankle again (yes, the same one... actually, I crushed a bunch of bones, but let's not get finicky) in a netball tournament in Paris, and that ruled out the winter of 2010.

The next winter, last winter, I was busy building a baby, and repeatedly falling over was probably not a good idea.

Preamble over.

Along came the winter of 2012/2013. And suddenly I had no excuses anymore. In July, I began to feel anxious about potentially learning to ski. As the air grew colder, my anxiety worsened... it seemed, you see, that I had become a very accident prone lady. Broken feet, crushed bones in my ankle, a hyperextended elbow, and later a broken elbow... all of this exacerbated by a very poor sense of proprioception thanks to my fibromyalgia... Obviously I was going to die. Or worse: Have an horrific injury that causes brain damage and leaves my husband and my little boy with a burden to carry as they care for me the rest of my life.

Catastrophising much?

A breeze of relief washed over me when my sister agreed to visit us at the same time that we would be staying in the mountains, and she agreed to learn to ski with me. At least there would be someone there to call the rescue chopper! When she arrived, though, she knew that something was amiss. She can read me like a book... and only after prodding and probing did I admit how scared I was, and how worried I was about being seriously injured now that I have a baby. She went about organising us private lessons and ensuring our instructor knew about my fears, and then off we went.

Monday... not the best of views! And what am I doing with those poles?

We had three morning lessons of two hours each -- Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Monday, I 'faced my fears' (my most hated phrase in the world... I like my comfort bubble!) and, although I repeatedly fell, I managed to actually ski a bunny slope and returned home injury free. I learnt to do some turns and managed some controlled stops. I still had a way to go with getting out of the way quickly enough at the top of the travellator though...


Wednesday, and it was as if I had learnt nothing on Monday. The snow was completely different thanks to the incredible sunshine, and every subtle move I was making on Monday did nothing. I fell and fell and fell, I nearly took out a young child, and it seemed that our instructor was really having to pull at straws to find something to tell me that might fix it... if it wasn't for my amazing sister making fun of me and laughing all of the time, I would have called it quits and left crying.

Wednesday -- Sun! The one looking uncomfortable? That's me :)

Friday came and the first thirty minutes was a repeat of Wednesday. I was gutted. I was so good on the Monday! The beginners area had three different slopes, with one very steep slope at the end (our instructor said it was the equivalent of a red run). I was yet to make it down the steep slope without falling dramatically. But it seemed that Merlin, our instructor, had had enough and wanted us to actually give it a shot at skiing down the mountain. For real. Oh my god, I was really to poo my pants.

And here we are, skiing down the mountain. Yes, I fell. Of course. But I did it!!! And wow it was just spectacular. By the end, I actually had the hang of this skiing business! We got down the mountain in a bit under an hour (ha. Yes, really), and then took the chairlift up for another shot, Merlin making sure that we were okay if we were late (what a nice guy). I skied down to where the run veers off to the bunny slopes, and fell just once but quite dramatically. I then realised how exhausted I was, and it took literally five minutes for me to find the strength to stand up. I sent my sister and Merlin off down the mountain (she says that she didn't fall once! What a superstar!) and I went back to the nemesis of the steep bunny slope. I'm so glad I did -- I went down the slope perhaps a dozen times, all different ways, with different turns, and I nailed it every time! The last time, I even threw out some snow when I turned at the end, and managed to ski right onto the travellator to make my way back to the top. I was on such a high!

HELL YEAH! WE DID IT!

My sister says that the great thing about learning to ski for her was just the concept of being able to learn a completely new skill, from being unable to even walk while holding onto our skis, to actually skiing down a real live mountain. For me, it was the fact that I returned injury free, having finally achieved what I deemed as my next badge of assimilation into the world that is life in Switzerland.

Now to get up the guts to try again...

Myths of Motherhood

In relation to my New Year's resolution of trusting myself and my instincts more, I've decided to explore this idea of what I am coining 'Myths of Motherhood'. When I had Ruben, I had so many ideas of what it would be like and what kind of mother I would be, but -- as everybody warns you -- you can never be prepared. These are some ideas that were continuously reinforced during my life pre-Ruben, that I have found to be entirely false. In saying this, perhaps they are wholly true for other mums, but certainly not for me.

Baby out, placenta still in...

Myth #1: You will see your baby for the first time and instantly forget every moment of pain that led you to that point. 
Oh how untrue this is. Firstly, you still have an enormous placenta to give birth to, so you can't just drift away into your little new-born love bubble (in my case, this was another hour-long battle that required a bunch of midwives and their different techniques and tips. The thing that eventually worked for me was blowing up a balloon... weird!), and then there might be a few other medical procedures (stitches, for instance). I won't ever forget my labor, and the prospect of perhaps doing it again someday scares the pants off me. Of course I love Ruben more than I could have ever imagined, but I certainly won't forget what I had to go through for him to get here! I'll try not to remind him of this at every birthday though...

Is something wrong, little boy?

 #2: You will learn to differentiate your baby's cries and respond to them accordingly. 
I think it was probably about six months before it really became clear that Ruben was crying because he was tired / bored / hungry / uncomfortable / in pain / wanting cuddles. Before that, I just had to work my way down the list until something worked. Even now, at seven and a half months, it's not always clear. This doesn't mean I'm a bad mum and haven't bonded enough with my baby in order to effectively read his cues (as some books led me to believe)! I believe that even he had no idea what the problem was, just that there was something not right. And now, I know that cry - the one where he's at a bit of a loss. You aren't a bad mum for not knowing this. This was a very hard lesson for me to learn.

IQ test: Is this baby hungry or tired?

Myth #3: You instinctively know what is best for your baby and what your baby needs. 
Those 'instincts' that people rant on about have a lot to answer for. I remember when he was about six weeks old, I actually put him in the pram (!) and took him out for a walk. I had just fed him (breastfeeding), and he was probably going to go to sleep. He just screamed and screamed the entire time, and I had three older women separately approach me while I was holding back tears, telling me that I needed to feed my baby, that he was hungry. I was so defensive, saying that I had just fed him, and he was just tired. Eventually I took him home, and he ate the biggest bottle he had had to that date. I had no freaking clue. I think these 'instincts' that people talk about aren't instincts at all, but are just experience. Now I know my boy, what he needs, what he wants, and how he responds (most of the time). That's all there is to it.

A previously private photo that I think
really shows me struggling.
This was my 'smile'.  

Myth #4: If you really want to breastfeed, you can. 
This was my belief. This is what was broadcast everywhere. Although I strive so hard to be a non-judgemental person, I was judgemental of those who said they had 'tried', and of this I am so very sorry. But all the DVDs I watched about breastfeeding, all the experts I spoke to, all the websites dedicated to the subject, all the books I read... they all said that if you stick with it, it will happen. So obviously those who gave up just gave up too early and didn't want it bad enough. I wanted to breastfeed like my life depended on it, and I believed, in my own way, that Ruben's life depended on it. It turns out that sometimes the thing you want the most in life just doesn't happen. My beautiful friend Cadi said to me once that when it comes to babies, you can't be totally non-negotiable about anything; that if there is one thing that you really won't budge on, that's the thing that will f*** up. What a wise woman she is (and oh how I miss her). (Edit: I eventually, around a year later, managed to write about our failed breastfeeding journey, if you want to have a read.)


Myth #5: Newborns are the best.

I pick this one! This smiley, fun, learning, loving baby!

I believed that the innocence and extreme vulnerability of newborns (along with the cute froggy-legs and floppiness) would make that phase of babyhood the best. Beep - wrong. This phase is the best! A baby that laughs at you when you wiggle your tongue, a baby that smiles so broadly when you come back from the toilet, as if you have been away a month, a baby that obviously loves your company and just wants to play and cuddle all day long - as I do, a baby that giggles at all other children he sees, a baby that makes the cutest noises during bath-time with his daddy, a baby that learns before your very eyes... this is the best. Though, I did think that when he was six months old too, but now it is better. Maybe it will just get better and better and better!

* * *

I imagine there are many more myths that will spring to mind as soon as I post this... have you come across any? Or do you have any expectations of parenthood that you fear might be thwarted in the future?

2012 in photos

Time for my yearly wrap-up... as it is for countless others. It has been the biggest year of my life, and I am assuming that I will remember it that way until the day I die. It has been a steep learning curve, as it is with any new mother, and a lot of the year has been spent in survival mode. There have been many many tears, both good and bad, mostly hormonal, and much laughter. 2013 is going to be all about enjoying life: not being so hard on myself (this is quite a tough goal...); not doing so much research about what we should be doing, and learning to trust myself more; enjoying remaining in my comfort zone, instead of thinking I need to always push my boundaries. All of these things will lead to a happier me. Well, that is the plan.

These photos might not be the best ones I have, but they are the ones that I feel best demonstrates my life during that month.

January - The first moments of 2012, our biggest year yet, with some of our best friends here. 

February - Enjoying the peace and quiet (and surprising sunshine) while we can, with our traditional big weekend breaky.

March - Our last holiday with just the two of us, to Samnaun, for  some romancing, some skiing (him) and some bathing (me).

April - No need to explain what was encompassing my brain in the lead-up to Ruben's due date!

May - The big one. Ruben is born and I become a mother.

June - Venturing into the big outside world. I even left Ruben for a five minute swim! Big big news for me!

July - Trying to get used to having a baby and still being able to have some aspects of my former life... like meeting a friend for coffee at my favourite cafe.

August - I finally decide that, after three months of hard struggles,  it's time to give up breastfeeding. And attempt our first little family holiday into France for a long weekend. 

September - Mum and Dad come to visit! Mum stayed for a month, and really rescued me when my elbow was broken.  It was the beginning of a great love story between Ruben and his grandparents.

October - Making my way back into netball and winning our  big Swiss tournament! Go girls!

November - Ruben is six months old, and such a happy, giggly boy. This motherhood business is really starting to be fun!

December - Finally learning to ski with my gorgeous sister in what has to be one of the most beautiful places in the world.