The Language of Love

I speak four languages. Hubby does too (maybe even more!). The kids speak English. I say that now, a little less guiltily.

I have accepted that they might never be as fluent as we are in our native languages, that they might never chat incessantly with their grandparents in Tamil or Kannada. No, we haven't tried teaching them Tamil or Kannada either. Nor do we send them to a language school, no! But hey, maybe that's okay!

Being multilingual sure is awesome, but it's not the end of the world, really. Between making sure they're growing up to be good kids, they're learning to wipe their bottoms after a poo, they're sleeping in their own rooms, they're practising good manners and a whole bunch of other things that matter, we never found the time and energy to try hard NOT to speak to them in English. We spoke. They understood. They spoke. We understood. We moved on.

They speak to their grandparents about school, about what they ate at dinner, about how they made a painting, about their new toy and they do so with no barrier of language. Because the only language they both understand and speak so well, is the language of love!

I'm not here to start a debate. I understand the argument about how there's an advantage to being multilingual. But I'm also happy and satisfied that my children speak English. For now, as long as they're uttering kind words, saying whatever it is that they are with confidence, and rattling away with happiness in their voices, I'm a happy and proud mumma!