At some point next Friday afternoon, my 8-year-old daughter Zayley will be singing a Chinese song somewhere in public with her class. Or maybe it’s Japanese. We’re not entirely sure. It’s some foreign language. But it’s really happening, and Zayley really needs to practice at home to be ready.
That’s about as far as my wife Amelia got with Zayley Wednesday in trying to figure out what exactly is going on.
It started with Zayley first telling her she had to sing a French song and she had to practice. Then she pulled out a, no doubt crumpled, piece of paper upon which she had written syllables like “Mi,” “Pi,” “Ha” and “Hi.” In other words, not French.
The name of the song, “Golden Sunset,” along with the syllables proved enough for Amelia to find it on YouTube, complete with the Asian characters we’re to assume the syllables represent. Thank God.
“When are you singing this?” Amelia asked.
“Next Friday,” Zayley answered.
“What time?”
“After lunch.”
“Where will you be performing?”
“In front of the orchestra!” Zayley replied, exasperated at my wife’s lack of just knowing information without being told.
To date, there’s been no note from the school about this performance. No field trip permission slip, either. That may be forthcoming. Or Zayley may have lost it. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.
So to this must-have practice, once Amelia started the music, Zayley became frustrated again.
“I don’t know why we have to sing in Spanish. I don’t even know Spanish. I just know American (yep), British (no one really knows why she claims this one) … and Country (pronounced cuuuntree, and yes, she definitely knows that one).”
My wife tells me often that living in our house is like playing a never-ending game of telephone. She’s not wrong. And Zayley’s far from the only culprit.
The 10-year-old, Julia, bandies between communicating with us as if she’s 40 and not knowing English, at all. You never know which one of those is coming, either, until you’re in the moment.
The toddler, Pfeiffer, is so impressed with her own hilarity that she scarcely has time to focus on anything else. Also, she’s earning her master’s at changing the subject.
“Did you spill that milk?” we might ask.
Then she’ll walk across the room, pick up something that may or may not even be round and say “Ball!” before she throws it at us or one of her sisters and laughs and laughs.
They say this is all normal, and they’ll grow out of it. Surely, they will, but I suppose I ought to enjoy it while I can. It’s not unlike the stage where children say all their words wrong when they’re really little. It’s really cute, but you worry about their speech development the whole time they’re doing it. Then it’s gone, and you kind of miss it.
This “telephone” stage is equal parts entertaining and aggravating, but I suppose Amelia and I will just keep calm and play on.
In the meantime, though, we really need to know more information about this concert next Friday.
Zack Plair is the managing editor for The Dispatch.
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