Words, Words, Words

I've had language on the brain this week.

First and rather unpleasantly, there is the language of the law. Despite a house-wide lack of sleep, the major disruption in our family right now relates to one poorly-written phrase in an outdated will of my father's. It's a long story I can't tell in detail, but there's an outside chance that a few unfortunate words may mean that a substantial portion of the modest inheritance Dad intended for me, my brother and my children could be siphoned off to someone else.

So instead of being free to grieve his loss and undertake the management of his estate, I am gearing up for a potential legal battle that can only end in tears and wounded family relationships. While frustrating and heartbreaking, it's a survivable event. Whatever happens, life will go on.

It's well-known that the legal world does not always share language with the average person, or even common sense. I was talking about this the other day with a friend whose husband is an attorney, and she recalled a time when he ripped up a will they had recently written in case of emergency while they were traveling. Upon re-reading the document, he realized that one particular word in the will would actually negate their overall intentions and cause major problems for their friends and family. One word. Sheesh.

I can read something and think it means one thing, while my lawyer sees something entirely different. We both speak English, as did the author, but it's like the difference between me staring up at the starry night sky and Stephen Hawking regarding the same scene. One sloppy turn of phrase written 37 years ago could impact many lives today, and undermine the whole purpose of a document. A painful reminder to the writer about the power of words.

On the other, more fun end of life and the language spectrum is my two-year-old. He is learning to talk in the messy way with which two-year-olds do everything. He picks up words and phrases immediately after hearing them and uses them -- right or wrong -- over and over and over again. He does this with wild abandon, until eventually he narrows down their meanings on his own. (And on his own terms).

My son is absolutely reckless with language and does not worry a bit about being wrong. One of his favorite new word games is to hold up his index finger dramatically and say, "Mommy, I have ONE question." Of course I oblige and say, "What's that, babe?" and then he grins broadly and picks a nearby object as inspiration to give me a one-word response: "Car!" "Box!" "Window!" "Candle!"

When I gently try to explain that those things aren't questions, they're, well, things -- it seems to fall on deaf ears. I try giving examples of questions as demonstration: "How are you?" "Where are we going?" etc. But rather than picking up on the definition of the word 'question' by illustration, he just answers all the example questions. Hilarious. And then we go back to what he really wants to do anyway, which is play the "I have a question" game his way.

I don't press the point. I'm almost positive that by the time it matters, he'll have worked out what the word 'question' really means, whether I try to teach it to him or not. And honestly, I love watching him explore the world this way -- shoving the square peg relentlessly into the round hole, not caring whether it fits at all. He's absolutely confident in his worldview, even though it may change from moment to moment. It's wonderful.

In the meantime, I find myself singing to both of my boys more than ever. Not just the traditional lullabies and kids' songs, but the music my Dad loved. He used to have classic and folk rock stockpiled in the car for long road trips: Crosby, Stills and Nash; Neil Diamond; Elton John; Simon & Garfunkel; Joni Mitchell; Janis Joplin; Roger Miller; Peter, Paul & Mary.... and lots of others. At 16, I thought these artists were mostly lame and outdated (or at least, that's what I claimed when I wanted to listen to Guns 'N' Roses or Nirvana instead). But now, those songs are the legacy through which I fondly remember both my parents, and that I try to share with my children.

The other night, I sang "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" to my two-month old while I rocked him to sleep. I thought about Dad and our road trips, and how the lyrics of that song used be so full of mystery to me -- before I had an adult's perspective. Now I see so many things differently, and I turn to wonder how my boys will come to love and explore the mysteries of their world.

As a mother, I can't promise what the future will hold for my kids. But I hope I can pass on some of the wonderful characteristics of my parents to them, even if only through snippets of melodies and old song lyrics.


As a writer, I realize I have to tie all of this together to create anything worthwhile. The reckless abandon and unadulterated joy of a two-year old trying things out -- unafraid of results. The surgical precision of the lawyer who must have every word at its best and most meaningful. The love of a daughter/mother trying to capture a legacy for her children.

Writing is a journey that mirrors life. Somewhere along the road, I have to embody all those things to tell the stories of my heart. I'm not always sure how to do that, but I'm lucky to have some wonderful souls in the minivan with me. And great traveling music, naturally.