Oaks Vivid Wheel / I Wish You Hadn't Asked
Winter at Oaks Park.
Only skeletons remain.
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Over the weekend, I was at the local swimming pool, in the water with our children (all of them except the newborn).
When we are in public, we are often asked questions by complete strangers about our two-and-a-half-year-old daughter. I can't say that I'm used to it, but I have come to expect it. This time, a lady watching her own kids from the side of the pool asked me, "Who taught her to speak so well?!"
How am I supposed to answer that? Questions like that drive me nuts!
Our little girl *does* speak remarkably well, I recognize that. Especially when we are at home. We sometimes forget to remember that she is still just two years old, when she is speaking in such perfectly-formed complete sentences. We forget that she does not yet understand the appropriate use for things like lotion, and that it's our fault for leaving it on the counter.
When we are out of the house and she is aware that people are listening, she usually goes into shy-mode -- she doesn't let on that she could actually bust out a paragraph or two of charming prose if she wanted to. For most people to hear her communicating at her full potential, she needs to have forgotten that anyone else is around and is possibly listening.
So while she played with me and her brothers in the pool, this lady had caught a peek into our daughter's somewhat private world of language. And being impressed, the lady asked the question, "Who taught her to speak so well?"
Who *taught* her? Ugh!
I hate having to come up with something to say in response to a question like that. Because, I don't want to... and because there *is* nothing appropriate to say in response to it. Because it's not an appropriate question to ask. Let me offer this to the impressed stranger-ladies of the world out there: If you must say something, say something like, "Wow, your little girl *does* speak remarkably well! I imagine you must sometimes forget to remember that she is still just two years old, when she is speaking in such perfectly-formed complete sentences." That's a statement I could respect. And best of all, it's not a question.
But there was that question hanging out there. I don't know what kind of answer the lady wanted, what would fulfill her curiosity. I don't think she thought that far ahead. And it's not my job to fulfill her curiosity, but I felt pressured by the situation to give something back. After an internal pause, I said something like, "Well... she has always just been good with words. She has two older brothers, so she's motivated to keep up with them verbally." I don't know. It fills the void. You say words, I say words. We'll call it a conversation.
Other things to say that I thought of later:
"It's the pre-Yale program we enrolled her in at nine months. Well worth the investment."
"She's participating in an experimental gene-therapy program at OHSU to develop super-genius traits. The side-effects are minimal. She could also guess your weight."
"Her mother and I won't let her have breakfast until she goes twice through the stack of vocabulary flash-cards from Gymboree."
Or, "Come on in the water and I'll *show* you!"
Just to point out that there was that added layer of awkwardness, me being dressed only in wet shorts, and her towering over us fully clothed. Totally not fair. That's actually a position to consider next time you want to negotiate a raise, or broker international peace. But make sure you are the one with clothes on. -=-
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