What My Surfer is Teaching Me that French Never Did
Learning new languages in parenting.
Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash
My newly turned 13-year-old (gulp) recently returned from surfing one afternoon and began telling me about his experience.
What?
I smile, celebrate his enthusiasm, and google the terms later. Sometimes, in my more centered moments, I feel confident enough to ask what the words mean. I remind myself I am strong enough to withstand the eye-rolling.
You see, I am originally from Virginia, where, from what I hear, people do surf, in Virginia Beach. But they do not surf in the Washington, DC suburbs where I grew up. Although I have now lived in California for over 20 years, I have only ever seen surfers “in the wild,” that is until we started having one live with us. (That surfer being my son when he was about 8.)
It is exhilarating to learn this new language with G, particularly because these are the words of his passion. Unlike my four years of high school French, where the struggle was real, learning here is a joy. I am listening to and for my son as I seek to understand and know him.
When I was pregnant with my boys I had one prevailing hope, that they would love the ocean; that they would jump in the waves with me and we would share this love. It is also because I learned well after I got married that my husband does NOT like being in the ocean. He is rather content to look up from his book and wave from the shore. (Yes. I had children to have water playmates. I’m okay with that.)
But my son’s love for surfing transcends even my biggest dreams. It is his delight and I want to learn about it.
My parental enjoyment and adoring was a gift passed on to me by my mom. Throughout my life, she has often remarked with amazement at the places her three children have taken her. She has been on film shoots, listened to drum sessions, visited Austria all because she was coming to learn about our experiences, to speak a little of our languages.
Her perspective shaped my own curiosity and excitement to see where my boys will go. It is powerful to communicate to our children “I can’t wait to see what you discover and what you will show me. I can’t wait to learn the language you will speak.”
I am also now entering a new chapter, with another unique language — Teenager. The teenage language, which consists of minimal words when interacting with the parent. I have been creating space for this reality for a while now, readying myself for this age-appropriate individuating.
The Rosetta Stone audio-course I was planning to buy on speaking teenager consisted of one long lesson about using the fewest words possible with footnotes filled with meditation strategies on patience.
But, to my surprise, we are currently in “Intro to Surfing.” I find myself clinging to whatever is uttered, thankful for the opportunity to listen and learn.
Recently, my boy had a rather dramatic surfing collision with another surfer in the water that left him with 25 stitches and a doctor’s note to stay out of the water for six weeks. So, he spent more time on his skateboard. ( I implored him to say out loud to passers-by that he isn’t being beaten on the shins, the evidence of all his practicing.)
When he isn’t surfing, or playing baseball (a language I speak remedially), he is skateboarding. More specifically he kick-flips and ollies.
Thankfully, there is some overlap in the language of skateboarding and surfing, a little like Spanish and Italian. But, it is all a new learning curve for mom. Unlike my high school language classes, however, where I never got to practice with native French-speakers, I have opportunities every day to try out these new words. I simply adore the one teaching me.
No matter how much eye-rolling, I will keep learning and delighting in this new language.
Shaka brah.