Someone Else is Living Your Parisian Dream

“Tu dois pas me laisse tout seule comme ca,” Max called from the balcony, where he was concentrating on eating his popsicle.   The words were a bit like white noise in my head as I read, and didn’t register. My husband laughed and asked whether I’d heard that.”You shouldn’t leave me alone out here like this,” he said.  My husband and I had retreated to the living room - the other side of the glass door and less than 5 feet away - leaving him on the chair, to finish his treat.  As his parents, everything that he says is amazing to us, not because his statements are so profound, but because of their timing and context. Because in addition to really speaking and forming his own sentences, he lifts exact sentences that he’s heard from us in the past, manipulates them a little and regurgitates them in context.  I’ve told him countless times, “(I need to bathe Léo and) I can’t leave you out here alone like this.”Listening to Max’s progress has been surreal, if that’s possible. He began speaking fairly early  first in english and, shortly after, added french to his repertoire when his grandfather began to spend time with him on a regular basis. From english words in a food context… MORE, APPLE, NANANA (or banana), his french influence emerged in the form of Frenglish words or maybe just one: Ap-pomme.  As his only constant English speaking source - it’s on the rare occasion that he hears any english since we don’t watch much TV - I was concerned that his English wouldn’t be up to par; that it would be broken, accented or that he would prefer to speak in French, with me included; the usual behavior when your exposure to a ‘minority’ language is scarce. That he speaks english 100% of the time with me (to date), lends some reassurance that we’ll maintain our ‘connection.’  That things won’t be left unsaid as he grows older, to the extent that he’s willing to communicate with me, when those times come.  That our primary languages will be on par; that we will have the means to communicate and express to one another.While there is a clear preference for French - he speaks to strangers, other children at the park, family and friends in French, even when he initiates - he knows to speak to me directly or indirectly in English.  While he’s speaking with my husband in French, when I ask what they’re talking about, he tells me in full sentences. In English. With Anglophones, I might tell him to speak to them in English, adding,  ”the way you speak with Mama.”  I’m not sure that he understands the true concept of speaking two languages, though it’s clear to us that he’s aware of speaking differently with me. The mechanics of bilingualism - or the non-mechanics as it seems to be in multilinguals that are born into it - is nothing short of fascinating and amazing. And I say non-mechanic because it comes naturally; it’s not a skill that’s honed consciously. My mom once wrote to me (in a not so nice way) that as soon as I began to speak, I was arguing, protesting and questioning.  Max is no different, as tells us what he wants and doesn’t want.   Je ne veux pas manger! Je ne veux pas dormir! Je’n suis pas fatiguer! Je veus jouet avec…. Je veux sortir! I don’t want to eat! I don’t want to sleep! I’m not tired! I want to play ball….balloon…bubbles….I want to go out! I want to ride my bicycle! I want cookies. I don’t like rice. Screeeech.Pull the needle off the record. Whoa. What? You don’t like rice?   My writing in French is horrible, but you all get my drift.  In any other context, to expect full bilingualism from a child may seem a bit monster-mom’ish.  In our context, it’s important, as we’re a multicultural family. To add a personal spin to this, one of my prominent fears is an inability to communicate effectively with my boys as they get older.As Max’s only input in English, we’re experiencing progress beyond our expectations, since bilingual infants are expected to speak later than ‘normal.’  As Léo will have a very influential French input in Max, I can’t help but to wonder how his linguistic path will differ.     

We’ve been spending some time on Skype lately, with my brothers.  I asked Max one morning, from the other side of the counter in the kitchen,”Do you want to talk to Uncle William or Uncle Chris today?”  Max asks immediately, from the living room, “Talk to them now?”I know he’s there, playing quietly, but am unsure of what he’s doing.”We can’t talk to them now. They live far away from us, in California, and they’re sleeping right now.   Do you remember where  California is?”  We had bought placemats for the boys, that have random educational bits.  The one I’m referring to is a map of the US.  I don’t hear a response from Max, so I assume that he doesn’t remember at all, and has focused all his attention on playing. I turn back to peeling potatoes, knowing that he’s playing safely, and allow myself to enjoy a quiet moment. Before I know it, he’s beside me in the kitchen, struggling a little to open a large drawer next to where I am standing.  He pulls out his stack of 6 placemats, finds the one with the map of the US, holds it incorrectly by 45 degrees - California on it’s side on top - and points to the state.”There it goes. There’s California, right there!” He hands me the placemat and returns to the living room.  

Max saw the feet on the footsie pajamas I’d laid out after his bath, tonight.  He hasn’t worn pajamas with feet for quite some time; mostly the two pieces for a little while now. Not for any reason, just that he’d outgrown all but this pair, which I unintentionally stole from my best friend’s son in San Francisco.

“Yamas for baby?” he inquired,? “Yamas for Yeo?” Also, He’s grown fond of running around barefooted.

“These are clean pajamas for you,” I told him.

“Yamas for Yeo,” he confirmed.

In bed, he held his feet up, examining the footsies as if he wasn’t still wearing them just  2 or 3 months ago.

“‘Yamas for baby?”  Where did my little boy -  my first born and first of so many different experiences and emotions -  grow to,  so quickly?  Time is flying … And suddenly, next week he turns 2 years old…

“Omama,” Max stated casually, pointing quickly at the White House with his little index finger. He left zero room for correction. We were reading the children’s book “Goodnight, America” and had just turned to the ” Goodnight, Capitol Hill” page which featured drawings of Capital Hill, the Washington Monument, and the White House. He never fails to surprise me with his memory of an elephant. We read the book last night, as well, and it was the first time that I’d linked Barack Obama with the White House.

“C’est qui le patron?!” demands Papa, while Max down. Who’s the boss?

“Maman l’ pakon!”  he answers innocently.  Funny thing is that I’m certain he has no idea what patron means.

Doesn’t matter though, because he’s got the right answer.