It starts out as a wail, possibly even just a slight whimper. A tiny cry that signifies the beginning of a language you may not always understand.
Those first sounds you hear after the doctor declares, “It’s a boy!”
In our case, the first sound our son made was more like purring as he sucked on his wrist until it turned blue while lying on my chest. It was like bottled-up nirvana right there in the hospital.
Those first few weeks and months are a cacophony of sounds: crying that intensifies as he gets bigger, some of that cooing and babbling stuff, an occasional sigh.
Then comes the laughter. Fits of giggles that rock an entire little body not yet capable of forming a single word.
And this is how it goes for quite some time, this language of noises and laughter, sprinkled with some cries when his needs aren’t being met.
Until actual language takes over.
No mom worth her Starbucks wants to admit it, but there is a certain oddity to the language of boys.
In our house, it all started with the garbage and recycling trucks that came every Friday. I listened to a rambling dialogue daily about why the polystyrene is not included in the plastics bin. He did an incredible rendition of the exact sounds the truck made as it hoisted the can skyward and emptied its contents into the truck. Our garbage and recycling man came at the earliest hour possible, so this narrative was most likely heard without benefit of coffee. And yet this crazy new language was worth learning even so.
It was the language of little boys.
After a time, he moved on to dinosaurs. They lived in different scientific-sounding periods, ate different stuff, and made varied noises including grunts and screeches. I did my best to memorize their names, eating habits, and habitats. I could participate in a mean dino battle, once in a while even remembering that dinosaurs that lived in different time periods couldn’t possibly battle each other.
Duh. Without time travel, at least.
From dinosaurs my son moved on to Bionicles, which had just been invented by the Lego Company as a new way to drain the wallets of unsuspecting parents who had already paid for enough plastic bricks to build a monastery. They teased the release of these new best friends with a comic book series, sent for free to Lego magazine subscribers.
Like handing out free Botox at a PTA meeting. Just try it, just this once.
It’s quite possible that the whole Bionicle phase is responsible for my first signs of memory loss, because I just couldn’t keep up with their names/powers/nemeses. But he soaked it up and spewed it right back at me.
Just another chapter in the language of this little boy.
Then we moved into the video game realm with a simple little device called the Game Boy. New phrases, characters, and game-winning strategies invaded our conversations on a daily basis. Pokemon dudes in different colors; Mario and his cast of characters.
I was losing my grip on his language. I tried to keep up, really I did.
Along the way I learned that potty talk is hilarious (there are at least twelve different words for poo), knock-knock jokes are funniest when repeated numerous times within the same day, and a good armpit fart is worth at least a thousand words.
Now that he’s away at college, his language is a mixture of Biotechnology terms and Periodic Table elements; of classical literature quotes and zombie survival tips; odd quotes from movies I’ve never seen and technical details of weapons used in movies. Once in a while, there’s something vaguely familiar that I latch onto, hoping for a regular conversation between a mother and her son.
The language of not-so-little boys.
A little boy loves you full-force and expresses that love with body-slam hugs and wet smooches; sticky high-fives and a shimmer in his eye. His style of communication is not what you have with your husband or your friends, and probably not what you experienced growing up. It’s raw and larger than life at times, like a funnel-cloud touching down in your living room.
And the older boy? That taller-than-you young man who shaves and leaves socks on the floor, who grunts his good mornings and begs for coffee?
He too, loves you full-force. But I catch this language now in tiny moments, on a Sunday-evening phone call home or a short, funny text message from college. A hug once in a while, a kind gesture, or a thank-you when he’s home for Spring Break and eating my home-cooked meals. This is the language I understand, when all else fails.
It’s the language of a mother and son.
Sherri Kuhn is a wife and mother, writer, lover of wine and cheese, coffee fanatic, and sometimes exerciser. She writes at Old Tweener, a place that’s sometimes funny, often sarcastic, and requires tissues once in a while. She writes about raising teenagers, the craziness of being a middle-aged woman, the perils of a clean home, wistfulness over babies, and anything else that makes her laugh (or cry) in the years between changing diapers and wearing them. Find her on Twitter and Facebook.