I was walking Aura into preschool (or as I prefer to think of it, Two-and-a-Half Hours of Heaven) the other morning when the director popped out of her office to say hello to the children entering the building.
“Good morning, Evan!” she called. “How are you?”
Evan said he was good.
“Good morning, Madison!” she said next. “And how are you?”
Not surprisingly, Madison was also good.
We were up next. ”Good morning, Aura!” The director smiled. “How are you this morning?”
“I’m well!” chirped Aura.
The director’s face momentarily contorted in confusion. Then she beamed with understanding. “Oh!” she said. “You’re wow? Well, isn’t that great?”
I leaned in, aiming for what I hope came across as a conspiratorial tone and not a creepy-stage-mother tone. “No,” I explained. “She’s well.”
“Ah,” the director replied. “Of course!” Then she disappeared into her office. And maybe she closed the door.
Okay. Get the eye-rolling and derisive snorts out of your system. Go ahead. I’ll wait. (As long as you snort well. I don’t suffer readers who snort good.)
Needless to say, neither does Aura. It makes her kind of lip-curly.
Now that you’re done, I’d like to hop up on my Grammar Soapbox for just a sec. Yes, I was an English major in college. Yes, I am a writer by trade. And yes, perhaps I am the teeniest bit compulsive about my child speaking correctly. But I ask you: So what? Didn’t we just finish up eight years of making fun of a president who couldn’t conjugate his way out of a paper bag? Doesn’t the rash of best-selling books and popular Web sites about proper punctuation tell us anything?
Now I’m not saying I’m perfect. (I mean, I am. But it seems immodest to admit that here.) However, I see absolutely nothing wrong with trying to raise children to speak correctly, even if they do it while behaving like cretins most of the time. Once in a while, it feels…nice to use a word with its original definition in mind, instead of some modern mixed-meaning bastardization. Even the loudest snorter among you has to agree that there is something adorably impressive in hearing a child say difficult instead of hard, or entire instead of whole, in a sweet, reedy little voice.
As you can see, fishing in a tutu is difficult. Especially with an entire pool of fish to catch.
Don’t even get me started on yeah. While it doesn’t bother me in the least to hear an adult say yeah, hearing my 40-inch angel say it makes me kind of mildly homicidal. I can’t offer an eloquent explanation for this. I think my aggravation stems from the fact that English is often so dumbed down, so lowest-common-denominatorish. Kids growing up today don’t have a freakin’ chance. Look at that damn Dora the Explorer. I want to launch myself across the living room and strangle that navel-baring, animal-befriending little bugger every time she yells yeah, which is an average of 67 times per episode, if I’m not mistaken. (Perfect people rarely are, you know.)
And so Aura says she’s “well” when asked her current condition. She’s been trained in other adverbs, too, though the -ly rule and its exceptions can be tricky devils, often resulting in directives to “Run fastly, Mommy!” But then recently, when I did a particularly admirable job answering her pop quiz on Santa Claus and the snacks that must be left for him on Christmas Eve, she told me I was correct, not right. I tell you, she got the BIGGEST cookie. It was like each and every one of those chocolate chips was a testament to our shared appreciation for the literal.
Well, then. The bulk of this post is complete. So let me share the conversation Adam and I had last night.
Adam: Want to order a pizza tonight?
Kate: YEAH!
Adam: Onions, peppers, broccoli?
Kate: RIGHT!
Adam: I’m so hungry that I think I might…
Kate: …eat the WHOLE thing!
Man. This language thing is hard.
