Kids...

Most of you know that I talk to my girls in Spanish mostly (lately, English has been creeping in, against my better judgment). From the day they were born, this has been something I've been determined to give to them.

My hope? That they will learn the language, of course. I figured eventually they'll take it in school, and one day I'll send them off to grandma for a summer of full immersion.

My frustration? That they never speak in Spanish to me. Why would they?? Try as I may, it ain't happening.

My rewards? Not many. There was Larissa at 11 months saying "agua" as her first word ever (go figure). There is Katarina throwing a word here and there, mixed into a sentence of fluent English. There's the girls praying in Spanish with me at bedtime. There is the girls learning how to tell Jim his butt is big in Spanish, and enjoying it immensely (hey, I gotta find the way to get them talking, right? A mom's gotta do what a mom's gotta do...)

The same thing is happening with German, by the way... Larissa is in Saturday German School, and Jim and I could swear she's not learning a thing, not a peep, nada, zilch, zero. The teacher says differently, however, so we keep at it and will be enrolling Katarina come September.

And here's the kicker. The reason that tells me I must persist, and the fact that will keep me going. And yet another window into the little person that is my oldest daughter.

I went to pick up Larissa from school yesterday. On our way out, we run into one of the custodians. He stopped and started talking in Spanish to her (my friend! How are you? See you Monday, right? etc.) Larissa just nodded, which seemed totally in character to me.

He looked at me and said, in Spanish:
"She speaks Spanish."
"She understands it..." I replied, smiling, and hoping, as I usually do.
"No, she speaks it too."
I looked at him, puzzled. Maybe Larissa was saying a word here and there. "What do you mean?" I asked.
"She comes over with two of her friends, and they talk to me in Spanish. They tell me 'here's my friend Tony, how are you, etc.' She speaks Spanish!"

I was elated. I was frustrated. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to strangle her. I opted for smiling at Tony and thanking him for the best news he could have delivered and wishing him a great weekend.

As we walked to the car, I asked her. "Do you talk to him in Spanish?" The little brat smiled sheepishly, avoided my eyes, and said "Si."

Ugh.