Less than a mile from our house there are some horses. Quite a few horses, maybe 50. It’s a rent-a-horse deal. Whenever we drive past the horses I am sure to point them out to Raphael because he gets so excited. It’s gotten to the point that if Raphael isn’t in the car and I don’t point them out, one of the other boys reminds me.
“Look, Mama. The horses!” I guess they figure I’m so interested in them usually, they’d hate for me to miss them.
When Raphael sees the horses, he erupts into a celebration of horse.
“HOORSEES!” he shrieks, “Oh, wow horses! I see tails! Hello, horses! Wow horses!” Then, as we drive away, he waves vigorously. “Goo-bye, wow horses.” And we all repeat after him,
“Goo-bye, wow horses.”
When children come into your life, they change your vocabulary forever. When Tre was about three years old, whenever it was time for his multi-vitamin, he said the same thing, “Oooone byemien.” Holding up one chubby finger in front of a solemn face. See, we had talked about how many vitamins he could have and he knew it was one. To this day I don’t think any of us can take vitamins without reciting,
“Oooone byemien.” Fortunately, none of us takes vitamins in public, or we’d all look entirely nuts.
When Max was two-ish, he was helping me tuck Tre in bed one night. (Max has never been much of a sleeper, and went to bed at 11pm or so until I finally gave up on making him take naps.) As we turned to go, I instructed Max,
“Tell Tre night-night.” And he parroted,
“Night-night.”
“And tell him sweet dreams,” I continued. He chirped,
“Weemees.”
Now, do you think anyone around here can go to bed without a chorus of
“Weemees?” Certainly not!
I’m certain that children affect the portion of the brain that processes language. Words that the rest of the world uses are swapped out for your own family jargon. The change is irreversible.
Tonight I experienced an odd sandwiching of jargoning. We have a family recipe that we enjoy every summer, Fruit Slush. It’s a mixture of strawberries, bananas, grapefruit, and orange juice, mixed together and frozen. It’s better than it sounds. When it’s been sitting on the counter long enough to go all juicy and melty, and you scrape jagged ice crystals of fruity sweetness into your bowl…it’s better than anything sounds. Well, when I was about two, I called it Flush. Naturally, that became the family name for it. I’ve always had to think carefully before I offer some to a person from outside the family. “Would you like a bowl of Flush?” just doesn’t sound all that appetizing.
Tonight we had our first bowl of Slush for the summer. Raphael was very wary of it at first. He stared at the spoonful I held out as though I were in the habit of offering him poison. But I convinced him to taste it, and he quickly saw my side of the matter. Enough that he climbed up in my lap and ate practically all of mine.
“Do you like that Slush?” I asked in that inane language development way moms of young children have. He nodded, peering into my bowl.
“Raphael? What is that?” Mom asked. I could see the interest in her eyes, and I watched Raphael to see what he would say. Would his jargon replace my jargon? We waited. He looked up and said,
“Flush.”

And so it shall be.

Wow horses couldn’t drag any other name out of us.