Lasterday's Ka-chum-chum and Other Variations of Communication

I am listening to how my family talks, something I normally take for granted in the everyday rush of things, and I am amused to discover that over the course of time, we have developed an internal language that only the four of us can understand.

I wouldn't be surprised if every family in the world has their own version of it: a dialect rich in context and bearing its own long-winded origins. The sort of talk that crops up at the dinner table, or is thrown absently over the shoulder as one goes out the door, the kind that causes puzzled looks from outsiders living just beyond our tight-knit little circle of four.

“Ba-buscht!” Atch exclaims, very like a minor Nazi potentate, and no one is surprised when only Eli responds, shrieking-running-laughing into his father's arms. On the other hand, a scoffing “Daw sa ba-buscht ka!” (You ba-buscht, you!) succinctly describes one's apparent lack of humor and understanding, usually accompanied by a playful (and sometimes painful) pinch on the tummy. It is also not uncommon for me to be on the pinching end of the deal.

It will do no good to explain that “ba-buscht” is predominantly the creation of a 16-month-old Woog who used to scream “Ba-buscht! Pa-pah-boom!” - phrases that might have meant something, or anything - while evading his father's frustrated attempts at a bearhug.

Or that one of the many ways guaranteed to get Woog to behave is an ominous “Can we trust you?” And the very solemnity of its utterance calls forth the discordant crashing of a church organ playing a funeral march in the background. Woog, wide-eyed with the weight of consequence, settles down with a quavering “yes.”

Of course, a simple “do you want to get whupped?” always gets the message across, but this in this family, we live for the drama.

The first few times Eli said “Mom-Mom”, I fluttered up to cloud 9. Until “Mom-Mom” turned out to be a word he deployed to suit his purposes. As in “Mom-Mom” (pointing to his sippy cup), or “Mom-Mom” (pointing to a toy car just out of reach), or endearingly “Mom-Mom” (lifting his arms to be carried). I belatedly realize that his lack of an intelligible working vocabulary leaves him no choice in the matter. Incidentally, he uses the “Mom-Mom” routine on his nanny, as well.

In the middle of the night, he cries out in a nasty dream, and if his mother still snores in neverland, Atch rises to comfort him. “Ka-chum-chum,” Atch murmurs, settling the whimpering toddler on his chest, “it's alright, poor ka-jam-jam boy, Tatay's here l'Arlel, ka-chum-chum.” And the use of the magic non-words sends Eli hurtling back into slumber.

“Dubby, Aif.” Atch says before he leaves. “Dubby, Atch,” I say in return. Dubby, as if one didn't know, has evolved from that all too common expression of love everyone seems to throw around. In our family, it has taken on a new twist. Dubby. Dub-dub. Da-la-lub-wub. Take your pick.

Sometimes, even our peculiar language is a source of confusion. As in “Mom, lasterday the teacher said to bring my baby picture to school,” Woog says. And it will take some figuring out on my part whether “lasterday” refers to yesterday, the day before that, or even the week before. In Woog's lexicon, “lasterday” may refer to any given day in the past.

Some words are more colorful than most (announce a “weekee”, and the kids scamper away squealing), others are steeping in scatological inference (“Did you make mush, Eli?”), and some are uttered in a deliciously secret whisper (“Bangy-wang-wang later?”). Others still are decendants of words passed down from both sides of the family (“Mom, my gû hurts so much I made puffa.”).

I wonder if someday, sometime way way in the future, our descendants will start conversing in some totally evolved alien tongue that anthropologists will need to document it.

Won't that be interesting?