I've always been a good speller. I took third place in the fifth grade spelling bee, and my abilities, in part, have not only translated into a career in editing, but recently, have served me in good stead at home as well. With young RK now in her fourth year of life, and her vocabulary burgeoning, it has become necessary for my wife, AKL, and me to do more and more spelling out of words.
We use ridiculous euphemisms, shorthand, and spelling in an attempt to code our discussions to a level above RK's already-wise ears. (Just last night, when AKL stumbled onto a cache of mushed raspberries under the table and exclaimed "Jesus!" RK, with flawless timing, added "Christ!") So when it's necessary to talk about things that concern RK in front of her, we do things like refer to her as "the elder" and talk of ice cream as a "cold, dairy-based non-savory comestible" and such.
Normal conversation requires quick, nearly unthinking, spelling, and I seem to have a knack for it. (I knew that college experience in improvisational comedy would come in handy at some point.) But then the methodical editor in me tends to check for errors in the letters that have just escaped my mouth — a review process that occasionally causes me to actually miss AKL's response to whatever is was that we had been talking around. Resulting, of course, in the unpopular husband F-A-I-L.
We know RK will shortly outgrow the spelling and then we'll need new wordplay (even my family's dog learned to spell "W-A-L-K"). Time to dust off the high-school French, or start using military shorthand — wherein words and phrases are shortened to their root letter and then expanded, using the military alphabet, so that "on the move," for instance, becomes "oscar mike" and "what the fuck?" becomes "whiskey tango foxtrot?"
I drop the occasional street-hipster syntax too, because RK and two-year-old E-O don't roll like that yet, and, you know, that's how we 40-year-old honky-ass dads do. And because when discussing the often gargantuan and malodorous results of our young'ns' peristaltic process, yo, let's face it — dropping terms like "P double-O to-the-P" can make dealing with said parenting moments slightly easier to take.
Yesterday I met up with Ab & the girls at Kelly's Diner. I pointed out the Betty Boop statue to E-O and said, "That's Betty Boop!" Her reply: "Poopy diapers?" RK thought that was HILARIOUS--as did I.
Posted by: Kerrie | June 19, 2009 at 09:49 AM