My sister and I took the kids to the river to hang out and watch them poke things with sticks and dig holes and bury themselves while whining about what a terrible time they were having. Another family sort of surrounded us. They were talking in and around and between and through us. Honestly I barely noticed what with the battle I was waging against gravity with my eyelids and the tiniest bathing suit bottom I‘ve ever witnessed outside of thong on a rather nice ass mere feet from me.
Thatcher grabbed my wandering attention and asked me huffily “what is that man in the blue saying?”
“He’s not talking to you, don’t worry about it.” I told my nosey two year old.
“What is he SAYING? I can’t HEAR him.” Thatcher protested. Apparently even when I think I’m entirely engaged (and nearly spent with the work of) preparing a mind your own business speech and opening my mouth to deliver there were other parts of my brain working and they realized what was going on. The Man in blue was speaking in Spanish.
I bent down to give Thatch a lovely cultural awareness lesson and explained the man was not babbling, that he was speaking another language. Thatcher was not buying it for one second. Every night at dinner, when he wants to have something to say but actually has nothing to say he will insist it is his turn to talk and then speak in tongues for a good five minutes running while we all nod and chew enthusiastically so as not to discourage him.
“That not language!” Thatcher informed me loudly. “He says beedoobabbbaaadooobabdadasdksocho.” There was an entire body movement thing going on with the babble and I'll admit I found this impression sand rolling hysterical.
Around the laughing I managed to point out:“It only sounds like that because you don’t know where the words begin and end. I know you don’t understand what he’s saying but he is saying something…. You just don’t speak his language.”
“It’s MY language! It beeboobababalsdaldkakdalskdoo. I saying it.”
There’s really no arguing with that.
July 10, 2009
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