Mother Tongues
I grew up in a house where multiple languages overlapped, depending which friends or family were over, or what was being discussed. English mixed with French, and maybe a bit more rarely Hebrew got thrown in. It shaped my ear, and maybe my brain, in ways I didn’t appreciate until I got a bit older.
Now I regret not passing that gift to Sofi. I made excuses for myself when she was younger, and to be fair with myself, I did have a lot going on in her formative years, between a divorce that led into a pandemic all while also shifting into a much less stable and financially secure career path. But the truth is, I didn’t make enough of an effort. And the younger the mind, the easier it is to absorb those sounds, those rhythms, until they feel as natural as breathing. When I hear her natural facility with language and music, especially given how little consistent instruction she’s gotten, I get sad sometimes at the loss she doesn’t even realize yet she’s had.
Science backs this up: bilingualism strengthens problem-solving, empathy, memory. It literally wires the brain differently. I had the advantage of growing up inside it. Sofi didn’t. Not yet, anyway.
I can’t undo those early years, but I can change now. Even if I stumble through rusty Spanish or half-remembered French, maybe the effort matters. Maybe it’s less about fluency and more about planting the seed/ That other languages exist, and with them, other ways of seeing the world.