Lost in Translation

You know what's making me tired lately?

Well...let me rephrase that.

You know what's making me tired lately, BEYOND THE FACT that I've usually changed 6 diapers by 10:00 am, and we use an average of 4 dishwasher loads of utensils and dinnerware per meal, and I spend the majority of my days breaking up spontaneous mosh pits while lugging around an 18-lb hunk of drooling, cranky, teething baby?

This "sort of talking but not really" nonsense.

I know, I know.
Every parent on the planet is happy to volunteer the ole' "you want them to talk, and then they start talking, and all you want them to do is shut up" gem. (and most of them think they're they ONLY person to come up with this bit of wisdom, god bless their overly-helpful souls). And I am fully aware that clear communication between children and their parents is generally an awful and terrible thing - full of "why??"s and, later, uncomfortable "birds and bees" talks, and what have you.

I am fully aware that there is a lot going on in those overly active brains, and I honestly want nothing to do with 99% of it.

But here's the thing:

When they're just babbling, you can ignore them.
And when they're talking, you can have discussions (or ignore them, depending on your parenting style).
But when they're sort of talking, you spend your days translating seemingly nonsensical terms into coherent requests and observations, mostly based on context rather than the actual noises coming out of their adorable little faces.

It's like traveling to a foreign country, where nothing anybody says is recognizable, and  you struggle to pull out words amongst the jibberish. Problem is, when one of these locals asks you a question that you don't understand, and you try to communicate your confusion, instead of nodding and walking away, they usually start screaming and attempt to slap you in the face. I've never been to France, but I can only imagine it's a lot like that. But with less cigarette smoking and more goldfish crackers.

By the end of the day, my brain is a puddle of mush from trying to distinguish between "car" and "air" and "careful"  and "cat" and lord knows what else. The consequences of misinterpretation range from mild frustration to full on body assaults and tantrums. Mistaking "drink" for "dish" is an act of war. Thinking they want peanut butter when they really want to tell you that they just went Pee Pee (thanks for the info, btw) could result in a roundhouse kick to the shin.

Sidenote: I have so many bruises that for a moment I was scared I was developing some sort of hematologic malignancy before I came to my senses and realized that I've essentially become the Wiley Coyote to their Road Runner.

Dear Boys:
I AM TIRED. Taking care of you and your sister takes a phenomenal amount of physical, mental, and emotional strength. I feed you. I comfort you. I kiss your boo-boos and I retrieve your binkeys and toys from the depths of the crusty, gritty, utterly disgusting couch. I clean your privates and cut your nails and watch horribly predictable and one dimensional cartoon shows over and over again because you love them. I do a lot for you. And all I ask is that you speak coherent words. Talking isn't that hard. I have over-enunciated until I'm blue in the face. Next time, pay attention. Figure out the difference between "M" and "N" and "Sh" and for the love of god, SPEAK ENGLISH. Or Spanish. I will learn Spanish for you if that's what you want to speak. Just speak already. I guarantee you, we will all get along a lot better (and mommy won't fantasize about buckling you into the minivan, putting on a DVD, and walking away for at least an hour).

Love,
The Articulate Pacifist...your mother.