C.R.: Mostly “Thank you.” They love to give out high-fives. They are the generation that we need to keep our focus on. Our interaction with them and how they view us is CRUCIAL to the future of this country, the US-IRAQ relationship and the future of the Middle East.

¿Usted habla español?”

As I drove home dumb and nazed, I mean, numb and dazed from a recent shopping extravaganza, my son Sam turned to me and said,

            “El SAM es un mal muchacho. ¡Él no tiene un elefante plástico!”

            I looked at him like he had sprouted a taco from his left nostril and replied,

            “El translate-o  mucho grande, please-o, Enchilada Breath.”

            “Sam is a bad kid because he does not have a plastic elephant,” he proudly announced. “See? I’m learning to speak Spanish. ¿Usted habla español, mamá?”

            I am both duly impressed and vaguely concerned that he is learning to say things out loud to my face without me understanding exactly what it means. For all I know, he could be calling me a big, stupid, ugly gorilla with chronic halitosis. At least, that’s what it sounded like.

            “Ms. Moore is teaching us how to say things in Spanish, you know, like, things we say, you know, all the time, like, you know…”

            “I get it. So, how do you say ‘like, you know?’”

            “Very funny, Mom. I’m not sure. I think it’s, “’Usted hedor!’” he said, stifling laughter. I vowed to look that up later.

            “Usted? That’s how you said ‘used to’ when you were little. You would squench up your cute widdle face and say ‘Mommy, I usted wike gween beans, but I no wike gween beans any more.’ I thought I’d never break you of saying ‘usted.’ Just like ‘snuck.’ Do you know there is no such word?”

            Sam rolled his eyes and exhaled with that here-we-go-again look on his face.

            “Yes, I know. It’s sneaked, not snuck. Hey, I wonder how you say that in Spanish?”

            “I’d be glad just to hear it in English more often,” I sighed.

            “Hey, Mom, maybe you can teach me something in French,” proposed “un mal muchacho” while manhandling a strip of Airheads candy. I cringed at my less than fluent recall of high school French.

            “Let’s see. Something in French. How about ‘Pardonnez-moi, monsieur, mais vous vous tenez sur mon chou,” I stammered in Southern-drawled Francais.

            “You said something about a shoe, didn’t you?” asked Sam.

            “I’m not sure what I just said,” I answered. “I think it has something to do with standing on a cabbage. Or not. Either way, I fear it’s about as useful as having a plastic elephant.”

            “You know, Mom, you have to use what you learn in language class for it to stick,” chastised the sticky boy. “I think that’s why Ms. Moore teaches us crazy stuff like plastic elephants. It’s kind of funny, and it helps you remember. She says we’ll learn Spanish faster and be able to use it in conversations better when we hear things that sound silly.”

            I thought about how we go about learning English. The baby talk, Mother Goose, songs about itsy bitsy spiders and little lambs at school. In a way, Sam learning Spanish now is a lot like him learning to speak his native tongue as an infant. I momentarily pictured him in diapers with a head full of ringlet curls, clubbing a piñata with a palo plastico.

            “I’m glad you’re learning a second language, Sam,” I said. “Who knows. Maybe you can learn to speak Spanish well enough to be a translator. Now, call your sister and tell her we’ll be home soon.”

            Sam dials the number on the cell. When Katie answers, he reports to his sister with a bit more enthusiasm than seems appropriate for such a simple statement.

            “¡Hola, Katie! ¡La mamá está loca! ¡Ayuda!”

            I suspect something’s up, but then there always is. I lower my gaze and raise my eyebrows at my son who is whispering between laughs to his sibling on the phone. He responds by quickly hanging up and smiling sweetly.

            It is the universal language any kid understands, the silent but fully effective ability of a mother to communicate without even moving her lips. And while I have deeply employed a writer’s license to stretch the truth here just for fun, I do honestly believe that any effort to communicate better, whatever the translation, is always a noble endeavor. So, thank you, Ms. Moore. Usted es profesor muy especial, en cualquier lengua.

            In other words, you rock in any language.