I Must Speak A Foreign Language

I must speak a foreign language. I’m not sure where I picked it up, or what language it is I’m speaking, but apparently I’m fluent and my children are not. I thought I was communicating in English, but just like a regrettable trip into Tijuana proved—you may think you’re communicating but you’re not.


I try not to overburden my children with large vocabulary words or abstract concepts. I speak clearly and to the point. I look them in the eye and sometimes, as is the case with my middle son, I actually hold his head between my hands just to make sure that his eyes are focused on me. And yet I’m unable to express even the simplest of concepts to them.

Take Sunday game night, for example. My hubby and I stretch out on the couch with twin Dr. Pepper’s on ice and start to watch the football game. Up until this point I’ve been doing dishes and running loads of laundry while my hubby was cleaning the pool. During those hours I have no idea where my children were. They had disappeared like puffs of smoke. As soon as we sit down, BAM, they all reappear and begin running laps around the couch. They are told no less than five times—in progressively louder tones, to find somewhere else to play. So, they disappear for a minute, then they reappear only this time they’re scaling the back of the couch like it’s Mt. Everest. My hubby turns and yells, “What did I just tell you?” He’s met with blank stares until finally my son says, “You told us not to run around?” It’s a complete guess. He has no idea what we told him because my husband also speaks the mysterious language not understood by our own children. We would have had better luck had we tried to communicate in beeps using Morse Code.

Other sentences which are incomprehensible to my children include:

You’re sleeve is not a tissue, please don’t wipe your nose on it.

No, you may not drink my drink.

My nose is not a garage for matchbox cars.

No, Mommy does not want to kiss your dirty stuffed bear.

Don’t forget your (fill in the blank) homework, backpack, stack of fabric for Home Ec that I had to run to Walmart at midnight to pick up because you forgot to tell me you needed it in the morning.

But, I’ve finally figured out how to bridge the language barrier and it doesn’t even involve gestures or an interpreter. Today the mailman delivered a comforter in a big cardboard box that my son promptly began to carve into small pieces in the middle of my kitchen using his new scout knife. The pile of cardboard was soon kicked around until it looked like the aftermath of a Frat party. I calmly said, “You need to sweep the kitchen floor.” The lack of response told me that I was speaking that darned foreign language again so I tried a little harder. “Sweeping the kitchen is your ticket to football practice. If it’s not swept up by the time we need to go, then I’m not driving you.” Finally! I made a sentence in English—either that or he was listening all the time.

I’m so good at this language stuff that maybe it’s time to bone up on my Vulcan. Live well and prosper my fellow language enthusiasts.