It happens occasionally, most often on the telephone, that Lydia and I will have a conversation entirely in Swedish.  I don’t much notice it while we’re actually talking;  if someone speaks Swedish to me, I’ll speak Swedish back without even thinking.  After we hang up, though, I always feel a little disoriented.  It’s just weird, somehow, for the two of us, immigrants both–me, American to the core, and my American-born, native-English-speaking daughter–to connect in a foreign language.  It’s interesting, too, the small differences in our relationship that switching between languages makes.  Though we’re both fluent in both languages, my English is obviously stronger than hers while her Swedish beats the pants off mine.  Those differences in ability effect some subtle changes in our mother-daughter dynamic, and that throws me off kilter sometimes.