In three months time.....

I’ve been crapping myself every day.

Now there’s an introductory sentence you’d probably wish I hadn’t written, right?

But it’s true. Moving to Switzerland has utterly thrown me. Yes, off course – as it should considering the change in seasons, time zones and countries – as well as off line (struggling to find the energy or will to write) and well, just off.

Sapphire is struggling too and summed it up the other day when she said, “Mum, Dad, when I smile you know it’s just fake because I’m trying really hard, don’t you? The only time I really laugh or feel happy is when we watch some ‘Raising Hope’ episodes on the iPad.”

All I could do was hug her in response because I feel exactly the same way.

And I hate that I do; hate that I haven’t the strength or energetic positivity to see this experience for what it truly is; a rather challenging settling-in period. My Melbourne-based brave words and dinner party bluster about it being a fantastic experience for travel and new culture now clogs the back of the my throat; a lingering effect of the cold we all got on arrival here. No amount of coughing will clear it and every time I try to speak I have to Ah-hem several times which tires me before trying to ask, “Je suis desolee – parlez vous Anglais?”

The morning crap-fest is the first reminder that I’m frightened of being here and unable to relax. I’m afraid to fully examine how I’m coping or how Sapphire sees me deal with new and puzzling situations as her sole companion and source of entertainment. I can’t remember the last time I laughed without considering it first or being aware of the smaller person observing me as I did so.

Once the toilet is flushed, hands washed and body showered, things improve. Firstly, we’ve moved into our apartment which is roomier than our little Melbourne house. It echoes with emptiness that IKEA furniture can’t yet soften but is a haven from the challenges I don’t always want to face outside. Language, traffic, prices, loss of direction.

Sapphire got the dream room she wanted but the realities of a bunk bed and desk combo are quickly revealed when trying to put a fitted sheet on a mattress only two feet from the ceiling as the metal support structure holding things together creaks and wobbles. “It’s not home yet Mum,” she cries later that night, “I hate it here.” She sobs so hard that my chest thuds in sync and I don’t want her to see that my eyes are filling up too: I’m supposed to the strong one.

I stand on the floor about a foot below her, feeling useless, my arm stretched out to hold her hand. “It’ll get better love, you’ll see. In three months’ time….”

I’m sick of saying that, to her and to myself.

And yet we’re able to buy groceries without any unfortunate incident, smile at our fellow neighbours in the lift and correspond to a French teacher via an expat website. Lessons start next week and all niggling repairs have been completed by varying Swiss tradies that don’t speak a word of English. A hearty “Bonjour” and pointing to the offending powerpoint/cistern/wall vent seems to suffice.

We decide to take our lunch down to the shared garden because it’s a sunny day. The concierge dashes over and all I understand is ‘sun’ and ‘eat’ but it’s clear that we’re not allowed to sit on the grass or eat there. It’s all for looks, not actual use. I feel like kicking him in the nuts and ripping out a rose bush as I stalk by but instead I smile, gather up the plates obediently and walk back upstairs with Sapphire. “He thinks he’s important, doesn’t he?” She squeezes my hand and comforts me as my mouth wobbles slightly.

Money Schmoney as we venture back out again and wheel our two nanna shopping carts the shopping centre and buy airlifted US and UK magazines in our hunger for something to read, sewing gear in anticipation of the machine arriving in an eagerly anticipated tea-chest and a selection of supermarket chain paint brushes, canvases, sketch books, pencils and acrylics. “Why don’t you create your own pictures for your room and help me do something for the lounge?”

For the first time I see a real smile in Sapphire’s eyes.

We’re going to a BBQ for fellow Aussies tomorrow night and are off to a tour of the United Nations on Sunday.

Love Chunks has just walked in the door and is already messing with the wireless control box so we’ll have UK telly and news available soon. The fridge is full of nanna-carted food and Sapphire’s first two works are drying on the parquetry floor as she runs a pre-dinner bubble bath.

It’s long past time for me to count my blessings, but how come tears are still so close to the surface?