"I took off my glasses. She took off her glasses. I took a step toward her. She took a step toward me...."

People say that if you look back, you'll miss what's in front of you, or something like that. But there are apps to show you what you were doing this time last year, 4 years ago, 6 years, etc.... I'm nearing the end of my first year without my mother and looking back to this time last year comes to me unbidden and painful.

John Irving and Elizabeth Kübler-Ross and moist-faced family members with arms outstretched all seem to have had the opinion that the first year is the hardest. We shall see then, shall we? 

This time last year I was heading to my mother, knowing that her light was dimming but unsure how long we'd have her. 

This time in 2012, I was increasingly aware that my pregnancy was not taking and that I would soon miscarry. 

This time in 2004, before facebook or instagram (indeed, in those days when friendster was slowly becoming passé) I was regularly flirting with the man who would become my husband, wondering if he was truly worth pursuing, as I would soon be heading to Philadelphia. 

I quit smoking at 26. I'd begun smoking at 13 and didn't want to be a smoker longer than I'd been a non-smoker. I looked back to plan the future.

I lost my lower intestine at age 16. I am now 33 and have lived longer without a lower-intestine than I lived with it. This experience of losing an organ, which felt so dramatic, signified this short period in my life of an excessively long digestive tract.

I look forward to having known Ivo longer than I didn't (only 9 years to go) and changing beside him as he changes and seeing how those new people, who are foreign to our current selves, will relate to one another and these us-es.

but tomorrow is another day

this feeling of superiority

I like to share embarrassing language stories with my students. I like to remind them that I understand their fear of saying the wrong thing or making a mistake. 

I tell the story of the Deaf Church, where I signed to the priest "I'm searching for sex. Where is the sex?" (This particular story plays better in person.) (A slang ASL sign for sex is very similar to the sign for coffee.) I tell them about my German missteps, my french faux pas and my my British English slips. 

Having lived in Zürich for the better part of 8 years, there are fewer opportunities for massive linguistic or cultural errors to make, but they can still happen. And when they happen, I am buoyed by my stockpile of incidences of having being right. 

I've cleverly worked it out. I edit and teach (a whole lot of me being the expert) and translate (trust me, this is how we say it) and then when and if I hang out with other expats, I've been here long enough to know things. 

But I am foreign here. Banks don't want me to have an account here. And I have a chronic illness and it surprises me by making things go wrong. And I'm struggling with infertility, so I'm at the mercy of some strange science that I just don't understand. But then I proofread a text and I make sense of a sentence that is written in the most German English I've ever seen. I cluck my tongue and shake my head and fix it and feel superior. 

this long pause

I've been writing elsewhere and mostly writing private (see: depressing things or cheesy (see: grateful things). But I did used to like having a blog, though my mother will no longer read (see: deceased) it.
2014 was the year I lost my mother and the year I got a lot healthier. It still breaks my heart that it had to happen in that order, as I know that she'd have been so pleased. My guts have never been more smooth and healthy, and mentally, I'm keeping up. I'm more sane and grateful and steady than I've ever been. I imagine that the one likely has a lot to do with the other.
Among all of that getting healthy, my husband got the job of his dreams. As a couple who seems super keen on learning and introspection and talking w-a-y too much about how that all works, we've found our comfort zone with his increased work time away from home just in time for him to return to working at home to finish his dissertation.
So we're still learning and still adapting and still letting go and mourning and being grateful and trying our best. And we're still on the path that will hopefully lead to parenthood; another prospect that will be bittersweet in my mother's absence. 

this teaching anniversary

I've learned so much. I've loved my students.  They're all so different.
Last night, however, I was challenged in a whole new way. I was reviewing time telling with my beginners and found myself at the crux of uplifting and demolishing a student's desire to learn English. The student was paralyzed and I typically enlist the help of other students in that situation. "Can anybody help?" But last night I was so sure that he just needed to try. "It's the same as in German really." He starred at me like a rabbit in headlights. it was like a horrible game of chicken and I had to fight with myself to finally offer the normal invitation to the other students. In those moments before relenting to my better judgement, I had an inner-debate with myself. The thought "is this the moment that students have when they're turned off of language learning forever? " I instantly switched to an alternative activity and as I went 'round the room to check on progress, I squatted next to the rabbit and told him (in a Swiss German whisper) "when I learned German, my husband would forget himself and use the Swiss German words for time telling. I didn't realize that 'viertel ab' was the same we 'viertel nach.' I was half an hour early for everything for a year." He asked how long I'd been learning the language and I told him. "But it was only with and practice." It's true of course. But almost as essential as practice is humility and patience. I need to remember both of those skills when teaching as well, though.

gendery words and wordy gender

I believe that years ago, I wrote on this blog about speaking a masculine Swiss-German. My teacher, after all, is a fella.
This morning I went down to the basement for a demonstration of the top-modern washer-dryer in our basement. Despite the fact that one of the people who work at home here is a man, the basement was full of the female neighbors. This pissed me off. Ivo is typically responsible for laundry in our house, but Ivo isn't here. As a control freak, I feel responsible for everything, so new or extra responsibilities make me cranky. I wasn't looking forward to this demo.
As soon as it began, I realized that I'd never really truly used the Swiss-German words for laundry. Not properly at least;"Kochwasch" for example. Not only that, but female speech in Swiss-German uses far more words in the diminutive. They have special words for wrinkly clothes,  the filth that builds up in the washer, the residue that builds up in the detergent dispenser the, the filth that builds up on the rubber lip around the dryer door.

In class the other day, one of my students said that "cats are more lady-like and dogs are more like men." When I asked why he thought for a long time and said, "Yeah because 'die cat and der dog'."
"I see," I said. "But in English, it's the cat and the dog." "And if I want to ask about him or her?" he asked. I explained that, if we can't tell the gender straight away, then we refer to it as an it. The student then had no answer for why dogs are male and cats are female. "But that feels right, yeah?" he asked. And it does. It feels right.
Bridges feel female to me. Spiders too. I remember the moment when bees stopped being male in my mind and became female. I'm so excited about my new class full of absolute beginners. Gonna bring them a whole universe of neuter. 

The Vatican

This Tuesday, nearly my whole class was out sick or stuck at work. Only one student was able to come, so we had a private lesson. I then proceeded to break nearly every rule of teaching. We talked about religion, illness and moral questions. The student told me about her time at a catholic boarding school. Afterwards, she healed by spending a year in Italy learning the language.
Somehow, we got to talking about the vatican. I mentioned visiting with my husband the first year we were married. My great-aunt had given us the wedding gift, that our names were read at every mass for the first year of our marriage.
"I got there and I saw the marble and the statues and the gold and I felt...."
My student began to nod her head. I thought, "shit, she's going to think I'm talking about a positive emotional reaction."
I finished: "more upset, more disgusted, more crushed than I'd expected."
To my surprise, the student continued nodding. "It's horrific." she said.
And it is.
I looked around and was shaking with anger, thinking of the crusades, of the poor people who go without and the teachings that the church supposedly believes in.
In the past few weeks, I've been constantly reminded of that feeling.

This cliché: good cop bad cop

Having a puppy means being strong, patient and a disciplinarian. I spend the majority of time with Penny in our household and so I own the lion's share of the responsibility for Penny's obedience. This makes me "bad cop."
I prefer being bad cop to being "en Hündler." When we first started talking about getting a dog, this was a slur that was bandied about by our loved ones. The term describes a "dog person" but with the characteristics an American would ascribe a "cat person."; a person who only thinks of their dog and becomes defined by them. The use of this term in early doors makes me twinge every time I notice how often I'm posting about Penny on Facebook. It also makes us aware that we should never use the lil' pendulum as an excuse to not go out.
In addition, an old habit of mine is to not get too close. I'd hoped that my role as bad cop would help me create distance from her. Sadly, however, her constant trips to the doctor have proven that I am indeed close. Meantime, hours spent with her means that I also experience the lion's share of the negative aspects of puppyhood: the nasty habits of eating grotty things, the stubborn days, the unpleasant interactions with alcoholics (the more peripheral edema the better as far as she's concerned.)
Now Ivo is away and I am both cops together. This contains all of the parts at the same time. When I leave her to go to work, I leave her with a special treat. I bought her a valentine's day gift and we cuddled on that day and watched a romantic comedy. Yesterday I had the blues for a moment. I got on the floor and played with her and she made me laugh and laugh as she climbed me and cuddled with me. I realized that this would not have been my instinct in the past. Normally such fun play with Penny is reserved for Ivo, who, upon coming home, hasn't just had to force and cajole her to be a good puppy.
As with so many things, this is one of the experiences of Ivo's absence that help me learn and grow in the meantime.