I never dreamt that Ana and I wouldn’t speak the same language.
We are on the living room floor, surrounded by the debris of the afternoon’s play. The carpet is a mine field of Lego blocks and toys. My husband is, wisely, sitting on the sofa and listening in casually, until suddenly he interrupts me.
“A cockerel says what?!”
“Kukureekoo”, I say, seriously. A book about animals is on the floor next to me. Ana’s little hands are busy pressing the buttons to hear the noises.
Wayne falls off the sofa laughing.
“That’s what it says!”, I protest. “If you listen carefully – “
“I could listen extremely carefully, with a hearing aid, and still it wouldn’t say that,” he says.
“Well it does”, I insist. “It really says kukureekoo, in my language.”
“A cockerel says cock-a-doodle-doo, in any language”. My husband is howling with laughter now.
THIS ESSAY HAS BEEN PUBLISHED BY THE AMERICAN MAGAZINE 'BRAIN, CHILD' AND YOU CAN NOW READ THE REST OF IT ON http://bit.ly/1lEIzjr
“A cockerel says what?!”
“Kukureekoo”, I say, seriously. A book about animals is on the floor next to me. Ana’s little hands are busy pressing the buttons to hear the noises.
Wayne falls off the sofa laughing.
“That’s what it says!”, I protest. “If you listen carefully – “
“I could listen extremely carefully, with a hearing aid, and still it wouldn’t say that,” he says.
“Well it does”, I insist. “It really says kukureekoo, in my language.”
“A cockerel says cock-a-doodle-doo, in any language”. My husband is howling with laughter now.
THIS ESSAY HAS BEEN PUBLISHED BY THE AMERICAN MAGAZINE 'BRAIN, CHILD' AND YOU CAN NOW READ THE REST OF IT ON http://bit.ly/1lEIzjr
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