The Languages We Learn
By Sonya Spillmann
@sonyaspillmann
Vocabulary words:
Beginner - dump truck, bulldozer, excavator, fork lift, crane
Intermediate - steam roller, tower crane, front loader, end loader, backhoe
Advanced - cherry picker, skid steer, impact hammer, concrete boom pump
Supplemental vocab: cone, ladder, shovel, bucket, stabilizers, hydraulic arm
Immersion program:
“Which book?” I ask. My son, then four, picks the book I know he will pick, the book he’s picked every night after bathtime, after he stood on a stool wrapped in a blue towel and let me brush his little teeth with fruit flavored toothpaste, after donning onesie pajamas, zipped up his middle. I bought the book ages ago, for his older brother, at some version of a multi-level-marketing scheme held in the coffee shop by the small condo we used to live in—but instead of leggings or oils, jewelry or hair product, excellent quality children’s books were sold, and this I could get behind.
My son hands me the same book I’ve read to him for the last seven months. He cuddles up close, his body—more than any of my other kids—somehow fits perfectly snuggled up to my side. I open the cover and close my eyes. A deep breath. “Construction vehicles,” I say from memory. There’s no story, just multiple two-page spreads of plastic figures on a construction site, various items are labeled in an easy-to-read font. We’ve now turned our nightly reading into a game. “Where’s the … ladder?” He shoots his soft arm out like a dart. “Where’s the … cactus?” —sometimes construction happens in the desert. I try to trick him, but we both know this book by heart.
Supplemental learning material:
My husband lays in bed with his legs crossed next to our son who now snuggles up next to him at bedtime. Instead of a book, my husband holds up his phone and the two of them watch three-minute YouTube videos of live-action construction site footage overlaid with audio of a man singing.
In the middle of the day, while driving, playing with the kids, wiping a messy face, the catchy tunes will pop into my head and without thinking, I’ll start to sing to a syncopated beat, “This-is the-work-he-real-ly loves / because that’s what an ex-ca-va-tor does.”
Use in a sentence:
My son is strapped into his five-point harness and his only entertainment on this six-hour trip are the little trucks in his hands or what’s happening outside the window. I’m driving from our home in Virginia to Ohio, for my kids to spend a week with their cousins. If you live in the midwest, or anywhere north of DC and east of the Atlantic ocean, you have likely driven on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, meaning: you know what it is to drive through construction, for there is never fewer than 27 miles of it at any time of year. Meaning: I drive five miles per hour above the prerequisite 45, navigating orange barrels and concrete barriers.
Bulldozers, excavators, and dump trucks dot the landscape. “Do you see them?” I ask my son. His head’s already turned, his blue eyes taking it all in. I continue to drive past layers of rebar and dozens of workers, until what catches my eye creates a flutter in my chest. A fifty-foot spider arm lifts and extends from an enormous concrete truck, its drum revolving in alternating colors.
The arm, or boom, holds a hose that moves liquid concrete from the truck to whatever hole they want to fill that the truck can’t drive to. I love that I know this. I love that I know to say, “Look!” with genuine amazement, “A concrete boom pump!”
A little gasp. “A concrete boom pump!” he says in his sweet kid voice. Neither of us have ever seen one in real life.
Proficiency:
At one time, I had my own pink hard hat to match my son’s yellow one. But now? Admittedly, I had to look up a few words just to write this.
***
A child’s ability to develop language continues to astound researchers. At birth, a baby is able to perceive every phoneme—the 800 distinct sounds that are the building blocks to every language on earth—and then in somewhere around nine months, a child is able to create the necessary sounds themselves. When put together, these phonemes can create any word in any language of the world. Meaning: a baby’s brain has the ability to learn any language into which it is born. This is why, let’s say, a baby born to American parents in France, or to Chinese parents living in Brazil, both of whom were exposed to both the parents’ language and the language of the surrounding culture, will be able to speak both languages with nearly perfect accents.
Vowels are spoken first, followed by consonants.
Mimicking comes first, followed by meaning.
Learning to speak is one of the most fascinating and complicated feats of the human brain. [1]
***
Vocabulary:
Beginner: Fearless, Speak Now, Red, 1989, Reputation, Lover, Folklore, Evermore, “Starbucks lovers”
Intermediate: Swiftie, 13, Taylor’s version, Olivia and Meredith, Jack Antonoff, four-time winner of Album of the Year, “long list of ex-lovers”
Advanced: presale codes, Easter eggs, Scooter Braun, William Bowery, the buried Met Gala dress, Kelly Clarkson’s role in T.V.
Supplemental vocab: From the vault, friendship bracelets, John, Jake, Tom, Harry, Joe, Travis, creative rights, private jet, red lips, Time Person of the Year, bangs.
Immersion program:
My daughter stands next to me in a sequined dress and white boots. Jewels dot her eyes, bracelets line her arms, and an outlined “13” is drawn on her right hand. She has You play stupid games you win stupid prizes written in black sharpie up her left arm. Nearly 70,000 people in the sold out stadium start to scream—as does my firstborn and her friends. Their phones are out, the music starts, and when we hear “It’s been a long time coming,” the tears in her eyes bring me to tears.
Three months earlier, I asked her to make me a playlist of the songs I needed to know. Some, I’d heard, others, I recognized, and the rest? I put them on repeat while I made dinner, drove carpool, and folded t-shirts and underwear. One album, or era, if you will, became my favorite. On the four-turned-seven hour drive to this city, the music, and the singing along, never stopped.
But it was after the concert, after I realized—no, after I experienced—that these lyrics and melodies and bridges were actually the soundtrack to my daughter’s life, that I began to listen with an intensity and desire that I could hardly explain. Except to say that it was a language she spoke, and one I wanted to learn.
Supplemental learning material:
Instagram DMs of men using song lyrics in ironic casual conversation, concert clips, and conspiracy theories received from/sent to daughter. An eighteen-minute video explaining the history of why Taylor’s Version exists including a table of contents of every person involved. YouTube music videos.
Use in a sentence:
I’ll give you three.
“I can’t listen to ‘Marjorie’ without crying.”
“In my opinion, ‘King of My Heart’ is the most underrated Taylor Swift song.”
“‘New Romantics’ when I want to dance, ‘...Ready for it?’ when I’m angry, and ‘Out of the Woods’ pretty much anytime.”
Proficiency:
I have a sequined dress in my closet and sung “Shake It Off” at a karaoke bar in Chicago last fall. But there’s still so much more I can learn.
***
A mother’s brain, specifically in the auditory regions, rapidly changes after giving birth. As in, a mother’s brain grows after having a child. Oxytocin plays a part in increasing the importance of sounds in a mother’s brain. As in, our natural postpartum hormones make sounds—any of them, all of them—more significant than other stimuli. We’ve all been at the park, at a playdate, in the class, and known when it is our child crying.
These natural changes give mothers the unique ability to react to their child’s needs. But these reactions aren’t just about physical or emotional states. A mother, just by listening to how their child communicates, can discern what is most important to them. [2]
***
Vocabulary:
Beginner: goal, that way, this way, “good hustle!”, “great game!”, orange slices at halftime
Intermediate: throw-in, midfield, first to the ball, striker, sweeper, corner kick, goal kick, penalty kick, AR, yellow card
Advanced: winger, keeper, counter attack, starting 11, set piece, advantage rule, the 18, strategic sub timing, red card
Supplemental vocab: cleats, dribble, tourney, grip socks, in the box, man-on, nutmeg, hat-trick
Immersion program:
My stomach is in my throat. I stand up and move behind my camp chair, the one I keep in the trunk all year long now. I want to shake my arms, jump, scream—do anything to move all this nervous energy out of my body. The outcome is not dependent on my child, but just as each one of the players on the field, he has crosses to kick, headers to place, a moving chess board to keep track of and anticipate. “Nervous?” my husband asks. He likes to stand, while I usually like to sit. But this is my tell. I can’t even talk, just nod.
Each of my kids started playing when they were in elementary school. My biggest concern then was if their miniature cleats fit and their jerseys were clean. I dutifully signed up to bring half-time snacks and post-game treats, and sat and clapped and cheered and said things like “Good hustle!” and “Nice defense!” and “Great game.”
Now, my oldest son plays on a team with other kids who, like him, are as tall as grown men. They move with such sharpness, such accuracy, with such physical aggressiveness, my entire body feels tense as I watch. I no longer shout from the sidelines, unless there is a foul. I do not bring snacks for halftime, just know how much I must feed him when we get home. I still do not care if they win, though for his sake, I hope they do.
“Score for me,” I always tell him when I drop him off before the games. And he used to say, “Mom, I play defense.” Now he just ignores me, because he knows that I know that’s not his role. But I keep saying it, because the day he did score, he told me afterwards, “You were the first thing I thought of.”
Supplemental learning material:
“Which row is it?” one of the kids asks. “Thirty-six,” I reply, noting that we’re already at row twelve, and with each consecutive step it’s like we’re heading straight into the heavens. Row thirty-six is the next to the last row in the stadium, meaning we, along with the pigeons, have a panoramic view of the field, complex, and beyond the jumbotron, the Capitol building and Washington Monument set against the summer evening’s pastel sky. The players look like grains of rice.
I don’t tell them how I saved for these tickets so we all could go as a family, or that I had no idea just how far away from the action we’d be up here. But we ate popcorn and cotton candy, clapped and shouted, and I didn’t have to ask for explanations for any of the calls. After each of the team’s three goals, we all stood and raised our hands and high-fived in communal celebration. “That was fun,” the kids said when we walked back to our car. It was, I thought. Having all of us together like that, it really was.
See also: Netflix documentaries, MLS season subscription, FIFA video games
Use in a sentence: “I don’t think he was offsides—that AR wasn’t watching.”
Alternative: “I still don’t totally get offsides.”
Proficiency:
For as long as I’ve been exposed and immersed in this world, in truth, I do not speak this language very often. When I try, it comes out sounding like I’m a toddler. Or at least that’s how I feel. But I hear it almost every day. And, occasionally, when I’m welcomed into a sweet conversation, I get by—because I understand every word.
***
From the very beginning: Braxton hicks, fundus, transition phase. Football hold, latch, colostrum. When my kids were little, it was Blue and Magenta; Thomas, Percy, and Harold; Dora and Backpack and Swiper. And now I have to know a revolving door of words like slaps, fire, facts, and drip.
I’m a native speaker of swimming. And piano. And horses. Through the years, I’ve picked up some Mandarin and a solid amount of Spanish. Sadly, I’ve forgotten so much Super Hero, dinosaur, and Sesame Street. I’m currently learning viola and gymnastics—and try as I may, I simply cannot get basketball.
Maybe it’s cooking. Or insurance co-pays. Or the infinite number of possibilities. How many languages have each of us learned? How many new sets of words and terms, dialects and accents have we mastered—out of desire, out of necessity—even if only for a season?
How many of us have made our love into a language our children understand, if only by learning to speak theirs?
Theoretically, humans have the ability to learn an unlimited number of languages, but most are only proficient in a few at one time. And while many people believe it’s easier to learn a language as a kid, the truth is that most adults have the capacity to learn just as well as any child. Our brains are wired for it.
As mothers, our hearts were made for it.
The trick? Immersion.
Sonya Spillmann is a nurse, an essayist, and freelance writer living in the DC area with her husband and four kids. She's incapable of small talk, loves red lipstick, and spends the majority of her afternoons driving children around in her minivan. You can read more through her Substack, Finding Feathers.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.