I’m Sorry, I Don’t Understand…

As part of a daily ritual, I talk to my daughter when I get home from work.

We look deeply into each others eyes; I make funny faces and noises (funny to me, anyway) while she smiles at my goofiness. Basically this has been the modus operandi for the last four (!) months.

Last night, things changed.

I was my usual doofus self. The Squeaker wasn’t impressed. Sure, she looked at me; Squeak watched my mouth, my face, my body language. And she just stared at me. But it wasn’t a normal blank stare.

Seriously. I am use to people staring at me, even my own daughter. I wouldn’t blame her if she rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. In fact, it’s expected.

But the look she gave me last night said something else; it said, ”I don’t understand…”

Not the ‘I don’t understand’ where you’re coming from (or your idiot sense of humor), but the ‘I don’t understand’ the language you’re speaking.

Last night, my first born – the eldest of the twins – looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. Actually, she looked like a tourist. An American tourist in France. One that had been ‘in country’ for weeks, but just couldn’t grasp the language.

Her eyes spoke volumes.

Squeaker’s face softened to help explain her eyes’ words. “I know you’re trying to help,” the eyes pleaded. “But I just don’t understand you.”

It was a lot like going out to dinner and asking the busboy when your meal will be ready. He nods and smiles – he wants to please – but you know (and he knows) that he has no idea what you’re saying. So you nod and smile back.

”“I know you’re trying to help, but I just don’t understand you.” When The Squeaker does learn to talk, I think this will be a standard response.