Confession: I don't know how to talk to my kids

Confession: I don’t know how to talk to my kids

I don’t speak three-year-old.

I once read that parents should speak to toddlers and pre-schoolers like Cavemen. The theory is, the little monsters basically ARE Cavemen (and not the Geico kind), so if we speak to them a ‘la Tarzan, they will understand and obey.

This deeply offends my English-teacher sensibilities. I prefer to speak to my children using words like ‘epiphany’ as in, ‘ahhh, Jennifer, we just had an epiphany! If you flush Barbie down the toilet, the toilet overflows, Barbie drowns and Mommy has to call the plumber’.
I refuse to speak Caveman.

This linguist gap is the reason I could not be a stay-at-home mom. I SO envy and admire those women who stay home. And yes, as friends, family, acquaintances and strangers on the street with ‘real’ jobs tell me, I realize that as a teacher, I only work ½ of the year, thus making me a stay-at-home for the other half.

Trust me, I am WELL aware of that other half!

The stay-at-home half is when I lose my beautiful, private-liberal-arts-college vocabulary and find myself resorting to various conjugations of ‘no!’ I even vary my intonation from high-pitched, dog-howling screeching ‘no!’ to deep, resonant, drill-sergeant ‘no!’ Sometimes the ‘no’ is a soft reminder, other times a weary, defeated sigh. In fact, I don’t think any two ‘no’s’ are ever uttered the same. The only constant is my three-year-old’s reaction.

Invariably, she ignores me.

A recent conversation illustrates this point:
Mommy (quiet, zen, good-Mommy voice): “Jennifer, no honey, don’t climb the
TV cabinet.”

Jennifer: still climbing the cabinet.

Mommy (louder, forceful, Mommy-in-charge voice): “I said NO!”

Jennifer: summating the top of the cabinet and looking gleefully down at the
screen of the TV.

Mommy (shrieking, frustrated-Mommy voice): “Jennifer NO NO NO NO NO NO!"

Jennifer: “Look, Mommy, I’m on top of the TV!”

Mommy (firm, angry, shaking voice): “Child. Down. Now.”

Jennifer: long, considering look at well-educated mother speaking Caveman.
Gleefully jumps off the TV cabinet.

Mommy (quiet, defeated voice): “No jumping off the TV.”

Jennifer: running away to the next adventure.

Mommy: Horrified by her Tarzan impression; wondering when she gets to go
back to work and speak in full sentences.

It is this utter isolation from the rest of the fluently-speaking world that convinces me I am an unfit stay-at-home Mommy. I can handle the endless chores, the chaos, the loneliness, the endless hours. But I MUST talk to another non-cave-dwelling human being for at least one hour a day.

And yes, I do realize that telephones exist. However, as every Hot Minivan Mom (stay-at-home or working) knows, children view the telephone as their mortal enemy. Not even Bed Time, Bath Time and Vegetables (other worthy combatants) rank as deeply evil in their minds as that small device that steals their Mommy’s attention via a dis-embodied voice crackling over the lines. Or cell towers. Or cable-optic-thingies. Whatever.

Trying to have a conversation with anyone who is home during the day—meaning other Mommies—is like speaking Chinese to a water snail. One Mommy will start the conversation. The second Mommy will answer. Both Mommies will be thrilled to be engaging in anything resembling a conversation that does not involve a debate between the merits of Littlest Pet Shop and My Little Pony. Or Ben Ten and Batman. Or some weird, fucked-up orgy of all small, expensive, made-in-a-Tawainise-sweatshop toys that are available exclusively at Hell-Mart.

Suddenly, one of the children will launch a full-on offensive attack, usually involving loud crashes, Rebel Yells and severe collateral damage to a sibling. The Mommy who—to her chagrin—gave birth to the marauding hordes will pause in her witty repartee to bark in Caveman, “NO!”
The Mommy on the other line will wait patiently, perhaps peering anxiously down the hall in anticipation of her own defenses being breeched.

Generally, the phone call ends before fifteen minutes have passed.

I have tried calling the only other people who are home and available for mid-day chats: retired people. Unfortunately, whenever I call my Mom (the only retired person whose phone number I know), the conversation soon disintegrates as she grunts at my Father. My Father—despite the fact that he retired as an executive vice president of a Fortune-500 international company-- is of the generation in which the males generally resemble three-year-olds at home, thus rendering phone conversations with my Mom as impossible as those with other Mommies.

Thus, come August—after a long summer of inventing errands to run--alone!--once Stuart arrives home at night so that I can guiltily listen to NPR on the car radio, savoring each erudite word and clever turn of phrase the way a closet alcoholic relishes that first drink—I find myself eager to return to work.

Work, where 50-cent words are my trade, compound-complex sentences are my currency, flowing syntax and well-chosen anaphora are my tools. Work, where I can sneak in conversations between classes with well-educated adults. Work, where I read Shakespeare aloud, inhale Shelly and Frost, sink into Austin, sip at Hemingway.

Work, where I spend my day with teenagers who do NOT speak Caveman. They speak Text.

U not LOL? WFT!!!