Parlez-vous Mommy?

As I looked around at the city of Paris from the top of the Eiffel tower, I saw a hot air balloon wafting around the city, I heard the lovely melodic chatter of french spoken all around me--the view was incredible.  It was a little foggy that day, but still beautiful. (N.B. The view is better from L'Arc de Triomphe.)  After I descended the tower, the next stop would be the Louvre.  Can't complain!  After taking the required touristy photos, it was time to hop on the elevator and go back down.  There are two elevators at the Eiffel Tower: one that takes people up and one that takes people down.  But where was the elevator?  Sometime after a friend and I made it to the top of the tower, several bus loads of people also made it to the top and we were getting pushed and shoved by large numbers of loud french tourists.  No one else in our party was visible.  We couldn't find the queue to the elevator.  We had actually managed to get lost on the top of the Eiffel Tower. 

We managed to squeeze our way into a queue that we just prayed was the queue to go down because no sign was visible among the hordes of people.  Ten minutes later--we discovered it wasn't the right queue.  The yelling of the french tourists back and forth to each other was increasing as our fear and anxiety was increasing.  We couldn't understand them or any of the guides telling us where to go.  Finally, we found the right queue.  After a long, loud wait, we made it onto the quiet elevator with only a middle-aged couple on it.  We breathed a sigh of relief and overheard the couple quietly chatting to each other.  They were AMERICAN!! English speakers!  Never had the horrible twang of an american sounded so delightful, so musical, so comforting.  We clung to their every word.  We understood them.  It felt safe.

I never knew that with parenthood came a new language.  Not just the baby babble that becomes most of your speaking voice, but the language of different experiences.  Unfortunately, as I become fluent in this new language, I forget the language I used to speak.  Just like my four years of high school french--over years of not using the language, you lose some vocabulary.

As I talk with friends, I am often transported back to that frightening time on top of the Eiffel Tower when I understood nothing and was lost.  They talk about dating, traveling, evenings out, spontaneity.  These are words that are no longer in my vocabulary.  I haven't used them in years so I forget how to talk about them.  All I can muster in my conversations in this old language is a meek: Cava? (How's it going?)  And just like when I was trying out my high school french, I can ask the questions, but I can't understand the responses.

When something in my language comes up in conversations, I cling to it like I clung to the words of the Americans in the descending elevator at the Eiffel Tower: "Child birth?! I know all about that!" "Your baby doesn't sleep through the night?! Mine either!" "Teething? We have a great remedy!" "Carrot poop? Don't get me started--we had to ventilate our car!"  When someone speaks to me in parent language, it's music. It's easy.  I understand.

It's difficult being a young parent because not many people speak your language. The language of going to bed early, of a social life revolving around someone else's nap schedule, or a babysitter's availability.  It's foreign language to most of my peers.  And I can't seem to communicate in their world.

It's not that I don't love the language that my friends speak. But it's a struggle to keep up.  I run through vocab that I once knew in my head.  Baby brain slows down my responses. I'm dreaming of that quiet elevator where I can relax and be understood.