Speaking Spanish

Our Armada has decided that it is going to malfunction and cause us grief this week, so we are going everywhere in the Prius.

Let's just say that the Prius would be perfectly fine for a family of three or four. It worked really well with a toddler and two in car seats. But with three very verbal, broad-shouldered, some long-legged kids in the backseat now? Things can get a little dicey every now and again.

There are the obligatory "He is in my space" issues. If anyone should dare to pass gas, there are gags and sighs and "You are so disgusting" comments. But, the giggling? OH.MY.GOODNESS. There is something about closeness that causes boys to got high-pitched and start to sound like a bunch of girls.

By far and large, it's the giggling that causes Mike and I to lose our ever lovin' minds. See, the giggling leads to whispering which leads to stupid comments which leads to rude comments. And then? Time outs. Compliments of parental keen hearing.

It was during one of those very time outs, for which Nickels and Hooman were paying the piper, that The Babe decided to edumacate us all in Spanish.

The Babe + Spanish = a complete surprise to me. Between Mike and I, we can order a beer, get to the toilet, and say hello and goodbye. Beyond that? We need an interpreter.

So The Babe fires up the counting..."uno, dos, tres"...and then says something for "cuatro" that was completely unintelligible.

Nickels about came unglued. He was DYING to interject the proper Spanish four into this recounting, but his predicament cost him that chance. BUMMER.

The counting continued..."cinco, seis".... And now Hooman was dying to be free of time out because he could see where this was going and he was determined to add his Spanish sense to the conversation before The Babe hit "diez".

But, we didn't get that far, because the next number will be a source of discussion/laughter/story retelling for years on end.

See, when The Babe got to the number seven, he said, with a tongue-rolling gusto only previously heard from the mouth of a drunken Sigma Tau pledge, "SEXY!"

Pandemonium broke out in the car at that moment. Two brothers were all the sudden unable to keep their vows of time out* and were all into correcting mode.

Mike just grabbed my leg and squeezed**, so I immediately looked the other direction to keep myself from making eye contact with him. If we had made eye contact in that moment, it would have only led to gales of laughter and another six-year-old rendition of "SEXY!"

I'm still a little unclear if sexy is the word he's heard when counting has been done in Spanish in his prescence or if he was just being Babe-like and pulling out all the laugh stops, since he did have complete command of the kid stage, considering the time out situation in the car at that moment.

Regardless, we are on high guard in the Nowell house. We've come to realize that there is something about the youngest that makes you simultaneously glad you went for that "extra" kid and something that makes you think "Only through God's grace will this child not kill us both."

No matter what happens, this story has a coveted place in my brain. It's the place in my intermediate-term memory that files all good stories about my boys. It's the place that will be accessed just about twenty minutes before The Babe and his bride-to-be start their rehearsal dinner.

As my Mother used to say: "The chickens are coming home to roost."

Take that, SEXY boy!


*Thou shalt not say a word until Mommy and Daddy have calmed down enough to talk with you sanely. Which, generally, takes anywhere from five to twenty minutes, depending on time of day, severity of the infraction, and whether we are feeling up to parenting.