Coulda sworn that my kids were turning bilingual without effort on my part.
A few months ago, Lo started calling Ami, “Chico”. A little puzzled, I thought maybe he’d been watching just a little more Netflix than I really maybe ought to let him get away with. The telltale sign of
letting mein kinder watch too much o’ the telly competing for mom of the year is that they suddenly are a lot smarter than I remember teaching them to be. They have facts about wildlife and the universe that I don’t recall imparting. They shout, “Vamanos!” as they run around the park. I’d love to take credit for my children’s smarts, but their only exposure to Español is Diego. And I’m not talking about a foreign language tutor. Maybe, though, the folks at the park take us for the multicultural people we really are not.
So there is little Lo, calling his sister “Chico”. I’m thinking, then, that he just loves his sister and that this is his sweet — if genderly-incorrect, term of endearment.
I asked him over lunch a few weeks ago, why he calls her “Chico”. Hope springs eternal that I’m raising little einsteins, you know, maybe, otherwise I’m not sure why I asked. Ask and you shall receive an answer, ye wise olde mom, it just won’t be the answer you thought. That dream gonna die hard.
“Well,” he says, in between chews, as crumbs of bread and peanut butter fall from his chin onto the counter, “she has big cheeks.”
That she does, son. That she does.