I daily wonder whether I'm speaking the same language as my children.
And I'm not speaking strictly metaphorically. Last week, Aidan flew through the front door and breathlessly informed me, "We're not doing what you told not. We're on a small hill. We're in a pocket place where we're smash rocking. I LOVE that place."
Huh?!? I still don't know what he was doing.
Leif's problem making himself understood comes from a combination of being 3 years old and super enthusiastic. Most of what he says comes out sounding like skat singing.
Rowan doesn't do a lot of talking but he has a few things down. He can tell you something is hot. He can cheer for his brothers or for the Red Sox. He can instantly communicate his need for attention with a scream that makes your spine feel like it's drilling up through your skull.
The communication doesn't necessarily improve with age.
Liam walked past me this morning and said, "Mom. Do you think I should name her Cookie or Buttered Toast?"
I said, "Name who what?"
His response? A haughty, "You know what I'm talking about."
Well, no I didn't, but I recognize when I'm beat and so I dropped the subject.
Sometimes the message gets through, but takes a little time getting there. Last week, we were at a friend's house admiring and sampling her heirloom tomatoes. We were walking in her field when we were joined by her elderly donkey.
Before you could say, "Grab your 'Biblical-sounding-synonym-for-a-donkey," it had mistaken my mop-topped, blond '70s-haired Ty for a dog and knocked him down from behind. Ty popped up off the ground before I could pick him up and said, "I'm OK. I'm all right," in a shaky voice.