Ready? Get set... Wait!

I am in a holding pattern of sorts, waiting for my Washington State teaching certificate. The process is complex, with many required documents, references, forms, exams, and cash outlays. I appreciate why many professionals refuse to stray further than their first professional leash will allow. The  tedious redundancy and expense of crossing state or international borders is ridiculous.
At the very least I will need to sit two two-part tests to teach elementary school. Should I wish to venture into middle school (yes, I'm that crazy), I must take up to an additional four.  The first two-part test determines if I can read, write, and do extremely basic math. (God help us if our universities produce graduates that don't have this! Note: one needs to graduate from college to earn the right to take this first test. It seems we can't be too careful. Even Illinois insists on this one. Yes, I passed it there. No, it doesn't matter.) The second two-part test ensures I know how to teach. I passed that one in Illinois, too. Guess what else doesn't matter?
So I've decided to stop applying for jobs only to hear nothing back, most likely because I don't have a certificate yet. It seems my mind is happy to fill the ensuing silence with relentless self-depricatory remarks. Entering an interview with such uncertainty does very little for my self-confidence. I've never had much of a poker face. In my heart I know I am a good teacher. I know I love to do it and my students can tell. So, I'm doing my best not to choke up when seeing the piles of back-to-school supplies. My teaching-self is on sabbatical in one of the most beautiful places on Earth.

Still, some parts of moving stink.

Tidy Up

It's official: the Mighty household has been downgraded from 'domestic disaster' to a 'bloody mess.'  In the past week I think I've handled every last thing we own at least twice and still there's work to be done. 

Mouse and I spent Monday morning arranging her room, putting her toys away and sorting her clothes.  The following are a few pictures I took after we were done that I plan to make into 'My Room is Tidy When It Looks Like This' cue cards:

I've yet to do the same with Emma, but then she's in school twice as long. As it stands, her room is tidy in the 'out of sight, out of mind' sense. Ask her to find something and I guarantee she'll draw a blank. Does it matter? Yes, and for a number of reasons: 

1. Possessions are a privilege: too many children in this world go without basic necessities.
2. Predicability: next to food and shelter, knowing what's going to happen and what is expected are essential contributors to a child's psychological well-being.
3. Planning: ordering their physical space can be a child's first lesson in planning.  Where do you want to keep your dolls? Where do you like to play with them? By including kids in the process, they are more likely to maintain the results.

Interestingly enough, it's my own room and bathroom that will be the last to receive the Mighty touch. The kitchen was the first. Read into that as you wish. 

The prettiest part of my new house...

... is outside it. Our things have finally arrived from Switzerland and they're everywhere.  What a mess! 

For the record, I'm not complaining. 

Just an observation. 

Wah!!!

My basement, the first one I've ever owned, has flooded. A faulty sump pump appears to be to blame. A wet dog smells better. Our neighbour was kind enough to tell us that this isn't the first time. We've been in the house less than a week! Wah!!!

Gruyère: the back story

Five years ago when the Mighty's moved to Switzerland, Emma the Brave went off all food except milk and bananas. For two weeks my willful three-year-old shunned everything from apple juice to pasta, claiming she didn't like the taste. Granted, nothing tasted the same--not even the milk.  Progress was made but was painfully slow.  Almost two years later we took the girls on their first ski holiday. We arrived at the rented chalet in time to feed the girls lunch. When it came time for dessert I gave each girl a cookie I'd bought especially for the occasion. Mouse, then almost three, accepted it, but handed it back a few minutes later untouched. "Save it," she said. She meant for home. Suffice to say, change hits my kids in the taste buds--hard.

Five years has done little to change the girls' characters. We've had one meal in two weeks that we've all enjoyed and that was sushi. Perhaps we'd be better off in Tokyo than the American Midwest.  After five years of Swiss-style selection--or lack there of-- I should be thrilled. Do I want baked beans sweetened with brown sugar or molasses? Hotdogs made of turkey or beef?Hmm...let me think. Instead I find myself with three jars of pickles in my fridge that my family won't eat and a block of Wisconsin Gruyère that isn't awful, but isn't Gruyère either. 

Shocking.

This is the part of moving that is tough to bear: the part that you spend wishing you were back where life was just a bit more predictable. A trip to the grocery store should not be over-stimulating. A brand-new clothes dryer should work past the first load. And when you buy a house, you shouldn't have to clean up after the previous owner's three dogs before you step into the yard. I still attest that this move is easier than the last, but it's going on six weeks since we left home and I'm tired. 

Tonight I'll sleep in our new house for the first time on a mattress on the floor. It may not be an illustrious beginning, but it's a step in the right direction.

The Mighty's Economic Stimulus Package

With all the big ticket items we've been buying, it's beginning to feel like we are single-handedly trying to turn around the American economy. A house, five appliances, a car, and a million other odds and ends are taking their toll. It makes me think silly things like, 'Do we really need this box of cereal or can we wait a few days?' It's not that we can't afford the cereal--we can. I just have a strong urge to stem the flow. Ah, well. Profittez America! It won't last forever.

Board?

It's been over a week now since we left Geneva and with it the last vestiges of home. I'm dying to get our new life underway but due to multiple factors beyond our control, we're stuck in a holding pattern, at the 'Not Bad, but Not Yours' Hotel.  I'm doing my best to be grateful: at least there's a pool, a half-decent breakfast, and the morning paper. The room is quiet and Honey, our dog, is welcome. There's a kitchen with four of every utensil and a fridge the size of our old shower stall. But, to be perfectly honest, there is big part of me that is impatient and jealous. I want my home, my time, my privacy. I want to cook my own food in my own kitchen.  I want to have a routine that doesn't include getting quarters for the hotel laundromat. I have a novel just sitting there, a school to apply to. It's times like this that bring to mind a label I intrinsically loathe: trailing spouse. What about my career plans, my goals? I know it is only a matter of time before I'm back at it, but for now I'm the link between our old life and the new, a plain-Jane bridge without even a troll for drama. 

Then again, maybe I'm the troll.

Sulky self-pity aside, time spent with the girls has been well spent and necessary. When not poolside or walking the dog, we've made good use of the hotel's stock pile of board games. Emma the Brave is a top Clue investigator and just plain lucky at Uno. Yours truly happens to be reigning champion at Sorry, an accomplishment I'm a little too proud of given my age and that of my opponents.  I can tell Mouse is just biding her time until we break out Monopoly. The kid's a pint-size tycoon and wins by pure tenacity, if not skill.

As a future educator and parent, I can't overstate the value of playing games with kids.  Even in the most simple card games, kids must:

• remember and comply with rules
• take turns
• win and, more importantly, lose with grace
• negotiate 
• use numbers  
• strategize
• and see a task through to completion

How many grown-ups do you know who still struggle in these areas? Far too many, if you ask me. Computer games, if not played against a live and in-the-room opponent fall short of many of these objectives. Rules are dictated by the program and, unless you have a junior code-cracker on your hands, can't be broken. If you lose against a machine, you can play again or quit without consequence. Perhaps my week has been a little under-whelming, but in my heart I know progress has been made, no matter how small.  

Now where's that Monopoly...

Culture Shock by Mighty Mouse

On reading a local restaurant's children's menu: 

"Chickens have fingers here?"

The Top (and Bottom) of Geneva

The number one thing I will miss about Geneva: 

The People 

(you know who you are)

The Birkenstocks

My Biking Belgian

Crazy Canadians

Muses in the South of France

The Original Diehards

Canadians--We're Everywhere!

The Geneva Writers' Group and their exceptional leader

My Corsier Family

And the number one thing I won't miss about Geneva: 

The Occasional Public Toilet

And, yes, this is the ladies room.  It's 2009 people!!!

Good-bye, Au Revoir, and See You Soon!!!

The Geneva Top Two

Things I will miss most about Geneva #2: 

The Mountains

Nestled between the Jura and the Alps, Geneva is a short drive from some of the most beautiful places on Earth.

Avoriaz

Andermatt

The Mighty's on the télésiege at Les Gets

Mouse on Top of the World

The Chalet

La campagne near Gruyère

"Allez touriste! Vous n'avez jamais encore vu une vache?"

Things I won't miss #2:

Swiss Medicine

Take a glass of the world's most bitter grapefruit juice, stir in an equal amount of dish soap, then take a sip--that's what medications taste like here. A dear friend once confessed that her child would sooner take a suppository than allow Swiss medicine past her lips.  That's just not right, yet I see her point. Medication does not have to taste like it's going to kill you to be effective!!!

The Geneva Top Three

Things I will miss most about Geneva #3: 

The Lake

Things that I won't miss #3: 

Motorcycles and Scooters

If you share the road, share the rules!  Don't pass on the right. Don't cross a solid white line. Don't park on the sidewalk. And, for God sakes, don't jump a curb to avoid a red light. I can say this with impunity because the Captain ranks among the top offenders, maybe not for the last one, but easily for the others. 

You all are lucky to be alive.  Don't push it.

The Geneva Top Four

Things that I'll miss: The Food

Pizza at da Paolo

Lamb Shanks from Globus

Fresh Garlic from Argeles

Grapes on the Vine in the Geneva Campagne

Saucisse Frites Everywhere

Tuesday's with Monsieur Poulet

The Corsier Friday Marché

Things that I won't miss #4: Parking

Park any more to the right and you'll get a nasty-gram on your windshield by morning. Any more to the left and you'll sleep in your car.

The Geneva Top Five

I can't help but get a touch sentimental at times like this. We're moving in less than a week and heaven knows when we'll make it back.  If there is one thing the last few months have taught me is that the best laid plans can change when you least expect them. In honour of this, for the next few days I will share with you the top five things I will miss about Geneva. To keep things from getting too sappy, I'll share my least favourite things as well--there are a few.  Here goes!

Things I will miss #5:  Travel

Porticos in Bologna, Italy

Beer in Belgium

Walking the Beach in Argeles, France

Champagne in Epernay

Above the clouds in Interlaken

The Market in Barcelona, Spain

View over Lugano, Switzerland

Cinque Terra, Italy

Things I won't miss #5:

Having to go to three different stores for groceries.  Why is it impossible to find Colgate toothpaste, creamy peanut butter, chili powder and beer all at the same store?  Why must I go to France to buy Cheerios and Nateos cereal? Both are packaged by Nestle and last time I checked Nestle was SWISS! Migros and Coop both carry Heinz ketchup but only Coop carries Heinz baked beans. Why? Why? Why?

The Trouble With Having Friends Who Write Well...

...is that they're so damn good they can make you cry in twenty words or less.  

In honour of my imminent departure, my writing friends wrote me a book. In it they speak about the books that influenced them as they grew up, books that shaped their view of the world and themselves. They also mention some pretty nice things about Yours Truly. I'm slowly making my way through it, though it's taking a lot of tissues.  These people are pros and mercy is not in the cards.

It just goes to show that writers will do almost anything to see their names in print. 

Thanks a million everyone. 

Sniff!

Who needs chocolate?

Allow me to present Hans, the yodeling marmotte: 

Merci Anne-Valerie et Marie-Claude!

Comme toujours, vous me faites rire.

Finding Normal

Parenting through change is a skill unto itself. How can one be the pillar of reason and predictability when life throws you a curve? Here are a few of ideas that are working for us:

Routine, rules and rituals...to a point

Retaining a degree of predictability minimizes anxiety. Since moving into temporary housing we've kept up the Healthy Snack Cafe, Money Matters, standards of acceptable behaviour, and before-bed routines. Homework and chores, however, have fallen through the cracks while bedtimes have drifted well past the usual 8p.m. It's unrealistic to expect life to go as usual, though a little planning can help. For instance, the girls' teachers were informed of our impending move and warned that homework might not get done. Their responses were sympathetic and appreciative. That said, keeping up rules like 'food stays in the kitchen' helps kids see parallels between their old home and the new.

Write it all down

Make a family calendar outlining when big events are going to happen. Our calendar has included the days the house was packed, the day the sea shipment left, the day we moved into our temporary apartment, and the big day--Tuesday, March 24--when we will finally fly west. Emma and Mouse take turns crossing off the days, an important feature. A calendar takes an intangible concept like time and transforms it into something concrete. For quite a while we weren't certain when we were going to leave, so we marked in a tentative departure date with pencil. The girls understood that pencil could be erased and that the date could change. As it happens, it didn't, but tracing the pencil notes with ink had added significance.

Talk it out

"I'm going to miss crêpes, Mommy."

"My bear's going to be lonely without me."

"What if the boat sinks?"

These are just a few things that have been said in our house over the past few weeks. I wouldn't say the girls are fixated on the negative aspects of the move. On the contrary, Mouse can't wait to eat Cheetos. Emma is dying to play in her new backyard. But the sad stuff has come up, too, and has needed acknowledgment.

To Emma's crêpes comment I said something to the effect that I'd miss crêpes, too, and that maybe we'd need to learn how to make them at home. I even went so far as to buy the traditional T-shaped wooden dowel used to spread the batter. All I need now is a recipe and we're in business.

For her giant, heart-sick bear, Mouse and I came up with a couple of good ideas on how to make him less lonely with drawings and pictures, but in the end it was Emma who tied the enormous brown bear to her equally big dolphin ensuring that the two would be packed together. Ten bucks says that Box 25 will be the first one opened on the other side. Any takers?

As for the sinking boat comment, it's possible but highly unlikely. "It would be very sad," I told her, "but we'd be okay. Thank goodness things like that don't happen very often."

Tonight the girls will get a relaxing bath, a proper supper, and, God willing, a good night's sleep. Once their routine is set, maybe I can get one of my own. I miss my writing, my bike, my home. Life isn't normal, not even for me.

Boxing Day Blues

The cowbell rang at 8 a.m. Monday morning.  It was boxing day and our packers had arrived: two herculean men that would spend the better part of three days wrapping and crating our predominately utilitarian possessions.  The Captain ushered them around the house, pointing out what was going and what was not, then the men disappeared, returning minutes later with rolls of  white foam floor runners, cardboard boxes, tape, and reams upon reams of packing paper. 

Mother Earth, forgive us! We promise to recycle.

I've moved seventeen times in 37 years. One might suppose I'd be used to it by now. In many ways, I am. I fully expect months of chaos and confusion bookended firmly on the departure side and more unpredictably on the other. Moving to Geneva took more than a full year of adjustment and adaptation: a new language and culture with two very young children was bound to take its toll. Vancouver, on the other hand, took about 15 minutes. We bought Honey within days of arrival and spent the next year exploring Canada's Pacific Coast. Sure there were unknowns--there always are--but new frontiers in your home country and mother tongue inspire few middle of the night panic attacks, at least in this filly.

I'd like to say I'm experiencing the same pie-in-the-sky anticipation for this move, but that wouldn't be true. Let's face it: it's hard to top Vancouver with a puppy and the USA isn't exactly my native land--no insult intended or implied.  I will be a visitor, permitted to live there by the grace of my husband's employer and American immigration. I will not have the same freedoms of my neighbours, nor the same responsibilities. It's an odd sensation, this expatriate existence, living in countries to whose future your not committed by citizenship.  I'm not sure I approve, at least in the long term. I wouldn't be surprised if one day I'll be seeking my American citizenship, or my Swiss one, for that matter. I'd like to think I'll end up in Canada again, but that day may be very far off. We've made our choices. Now it's time to live them, for better or for worse.

The boxes left today leaving behind the dusty, dirty shell of a house that was once our home. It was good run. We'll miss you Corsier. Onward, ho!

More photos from my Geneva garden:

Simple Pleasures: Hints of Spring

Tulips planted with my big girl while the baby was sleeping.

Last Suppers

In less than ten days all our precious belongings will be packed up, the boxes loaded into a large metal container rigged for rail and trans-Atlantic travel. Many of the items will go painlessly: high school yearbooks, laundry baskets, Christmas ornaments and sleeping bags. These will come out on the other side without fanfare and get tucked into just the right spot for future use or reference. Bidding farewell to my kitchen, however, will be an entirely different story.

I like to cook almost as much as I like to eat.  I keep my knives sharp, my spices at my fingertips, my herb garden watered, and my cooking utensils within arm's reach. For a minimum of six weeks I'll be sipping tea from someone else's cups and cooking in a kitchen only described as 'fully equipped' by the most primitive of bachelors. Knives will wobble in their shanks. Paper-thin pots will serve a family of two modest eaters. Spoons will be either too big or too small. Bowls, too. I admit this is not very optimistic or gracious of me, but it's my 'thing.' I don't need a big kitchen, just mine.

Slowly but surely we've eaten our cupboards bare. Here's the meal plan of the week, carefully orchestrated to make the most of what's left in the fridge and larder: 

Monday: 

Pork chops with homemade applesauce, 

potatoes and green beans. 

(See ya, veggies!)

Tuesday: 

Phad Thai 

(adios rice noodles)

Wednesday:

Souvlaki and Salad

(mmm...tzaziki)

Thursday: 

Macaroni and Cheese 

(for Mouse's birthday dinner)

Risotto for the grown-ups

Friday:

Pasta mish-mash à la Jamie Oliver

(tuna, rigatoni, tortellini, canned tomatoes, 

cinnamon, lemon juice, fresh basil, hot peppers, etc.)

After that, there won't be much left.  Move over Mother Hubbard. Make room for the Mighty's.

Surprise

It was Wednesday night. I was tired and not at all in the mood for the birthday gathering I'd promised to attend. Tuesday we'd made an offer on a house.  The owners had countered our offer not once, but twice. We'd gone to bed with yet a third offer in the fire.  To say I slept poorly would be an understatement. But the party was for Evelyn's teacher. I would go, impending coma be damned. 

As it turns out the party was for me. Over twenty-five mothers and fathers from Corsier had congregated at a dear friend's home to wish me farewell. Even the supposed birthday girl was in attendance. I was showered with gifts: fondue forks and cowbell napkins; chocolates and cheese. But most importantly, I came away with the knowledge that I'd made friends in a language and culture not my own, friends I will never forget. 

Merci mille fois, mes amis! Vous me manquerez plus que je peux dire. 

I slept better last night. And, wouldn't you know? We got the house!