|This Post Brought to you by the Letter Y|
I have started recently to talk in a strange lingo ending words in Y. I'll hand the boys a bottle and shampoo and demand, "Washy-Washy!" or reprove them with, "No Touchy-touchy!" After spending their entire lifetime speaking to them in the grown up language of fully formed sentences and adult vocabulary, it strikes me as rather odd that I have suddenly reverted to some version of friendly cave-speak.
However, I think such idioms are the language of affection, and nostalgia. The memory of my mother singing "Mom Thing" culls memories of soft round warmth in a way nothing else does. When I think of how she put up with me deciding to call her Moo-Moe, at age 12, I have the feel of snuggling and her rubbing my back in a way other memories don't capture.
Nothing more fully represents the closeness my brother and I shared than our secret chirping noise made in the back of the throat that we used to identify each other in crowded areas.
Our secret familial language is a way of saying, "we are us," in a way that separates outsiders and locks them out of our word play. And I hope my new "talky-talky" conversations, while not eloquent or sophisticated, will live in my children's hearts and remind them of the best parts of having me for a mother.
Or maybe I've just been watching Raising Hope too often.