A Spanish of one’s own
I’ve tried to teach H some Spanish over his early years, as have all of his preschool teachers and daycare providers. He isn’t terribly interested in it, so I don’t push it a lot. Apparently, he’s been paying attention, but not the way I thought.
Today he debuted “his Spanish.” It is incomprehensible, being wholly unique to him, but he is pretty consistent with accent. The only word I can remember right now is “clo,” which means “hush.” Lida Jean, his very beloved blanket, also apparently has her own Spanish. In fact, she is some kind of Spanish whiz, as she not only has her own Spanish but can also understand all other types of Spanish.
So I guess what he’s learned in his few short years is that “Spanish” means “words no one understands.”
We spent a long time at the garden today, as I am one of the water stewards (water stewardesses? water attendants?) and today we got the drip system all ready. During the couple of hours it took, H succeeded in
(1) burrowing into the compost pile, dirtying his clothing to an award-winning level,
(2) eating a mystery weed. All I know is that it’s in the parsley family and he strenuously insists it was dill, which is most certainly is not (he is being watched for signs of, you know, dropping dead — why did it have to be a umbel?),
(3) running around with a tomato cage over his head and shoulders, threatening to impale people on the ends.
I’m letting it all go (other than the casual monitoring for sudden death, that is). It sure is nice to have a place where we can both busy ourselves with interesting activities. Most times it’s pretty one-sided as far as who is really, really interested in what’s going on. I mean, I get bored sometimes watching kids play on a playground. Yay for big gardens.