Teaching a foreign language has been a new experience for me.  Not because it was French or German, but because the student was my two-year-old as he transitioned from toddler-speak.  At first the teaching was not done purposefully.  We sang the Alphabet Song.  We played with sidewalk chalk.  We watched Barney and Sesame Street.  Parenting proved to be a consuming role.

            “Enjoy this time in your life,” people would quip at me.

            “When, exactly is that time,” I wondered. “Between dirty diapers and potty training, or teething and sibling rivalry?” 

            Yet somehow, in the midst of a house strewn with toys and a kitchen of unwashed dishes, we found joy in the moment of discovery.  “I can spell my name,” exclaimed the baby-faced four-year-old!  His toddler scribbles definitely resembled a few of the letters in his lawyer-length name.  But Nathanael’s success was as measurable as if he had only a nick-name.

            After Vacation Bible School at our church, the refrigerator magnet N’s were turned sideways to begin “Zoo”, the theme of the week.  The magnets began to spend more time on the refrigerator than the floor.  Family names emerged and added color to the stark white background.  Little sis got into the act too.  She arranged colors and paraded shapes.

            Play dough letters, sandbox fingerprints and crayon markings all served a purpose.  When did the learning take place?  It began with a picture book, and a lap to cuddle in, and nursery rhymes to chant.  Who was the teacher?  Not a wise and loving parent, but a curious mind, bravely trying out fragile wings and wobbly skates.  Learning began in the unspoken exchange of affirmation between my son and me, in an obscure moment of eternity.