Intergenerational Language

I’ve learned such a lot of new words since the children came along. When our eldest was tiny, he struggled with the word “milk” which came out as “knock”. He was a huge knock fan. For quite some time, my husband and I would unconsciously refer to the life-giving fluid in this way, causing confusion in public. I once asked for a little more knock in my coffee at a toddler group, and in an embarrassing moment, one of us bellowed “Can you grab two pints of knock?” when at the supermarket.

He also wrestled with the pronunciation of “footprints” and mangled the two syllables to produce an entirely new word. “Poomfrints.” This sounded much better than the original and again, we hung on to it for as long as we could. My daughter still refers to her “dandruft” and I have recently purchased several bottles of anti-dandruft shampoo.

Now that we’ve got three teenagers in the house, a whole new lexicon has emerged. That sweet little knock drinker is now a hulking heavy metal fan who works out every day to become “hench[1]”.

We’ve got a family WhatsApp group which has proved very useful in these strange times. With five of us living together all the time, me locked away in the dining room writing, the eldest on his college course online or listening to heavy metal while doing bench presses, the other two at school online and my furloughed husband doing any number of jobs and projects, communication can be difficult. Recent messages have mainly been about food (“When’s dinner?” “What’s for dinner?” “Are you coming down? Dinner’s ready”) or school work. “Help! Maths! I’m confused! Hello?” This was our daughter reaching out to our second son who is the Maths whiz in the family.



None of them read my blogs and that is a very good thing as it means I’ve got a rich source of copy, right here at home. Hunched over my desk this morning, my head was spinning as I ploughed through interviews, notes, half-written articles and any number of book-related tasks. My mood was lifted by this exchange between the children.

Guess who’s passed English GCSE?

That would be me.



Wait fr?



Yh.



U not joking.

Damn.



Nah I ain’t joking.

Tell an adult.



Sorry Shakespere.



What can I say?



Gg.



Roughly translated, this might read, “I say, old chap, I’m most frightfully pleased. I seem to have passed my exam.” “Oh, jolly good, that’s marvellous news. I’ll tell Mater and Pater.” “Please do.” “Thank you and kind regards.”

It’s a short, silly blog this week. I hope you don’t mind. My self-obsessed, snobbish heroine, Isabella M Smugge is taking up nearly all my time and headspace. She emerges blinking into the light on the 25th of this month when a box of early copies arrives at Leigh Towers. I can hardly wait to start sending her out to all the lovely people who have requested a copy.

“Gg and a Happy New Year!”




Images by Pixabay.

Ruth is a freelance writer and novelist. She is married with three children, one husband, four budgies, six quail, eight chickens and a kitten. Her first novel, “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge”, published by Instant Apostle, comes out next month. She writes for a number of small businesses and charities and blogs at Big Words and Made Up Stories. Ruth is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter at ruththewriter1.

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[1] Strong, fit, and having well-developed muscles (typically used of a man).