The Mrs. and I, with delight, devote each physical and emotional aspect of our being to the kid. It's paid off in big ways. She's becoming independent, she's smart, happy and has fewer accidents than our dog (not so good, if you know Sooz). Meh.
There's one problem. We've sent her to a French immersion program for her K-8 experience. The precocious one, within a year or so, has the potential to start mocking me to my face with her friends, giggling uncontrollably while doing it.
Parents, if your children are starting down the path of acquiring some subversive underground communication schema, you must act immediately and with precision. You must place yourself in their little burp and fart world of chocolate milk and anticipate their attack.
My situation is more difficult. Mom speaks French. I, the only male in our home, am the only one in the dark. We even have reason to believe Sooz knows a few syllables based on her reaction to "foi gras."
Some of the expressions I'll be anticipating:
Donnez-moi la crème glacée homme chauve.And so on. Get to Google, Rosetta Stone, whatever. Just start learning.
Give me ice cream bald man.
Vous avez le cervau d'un sandwich au fromage.
You have the brain of a cheese sandwich.
You're bugging the shit out of me (this will hurt, probably won't be used until 9 years old).