The Secret Language of Motherhood

By Michelle Hébert Boyd
Web Exclusive

A good friend of mine has spent the past two years (and a good deal of money) attempting to learn French. Over lunch recently, as she described her struggles with the French language, she paused, and sighed.

“You couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to be in a conversation with someone and actually have no idea what the other person is saying,” she said. “You’re so lucky. You’ve got a real gift for languages”.

I just smiled.

My friend was right on one count. I do have an affinity for languages, and have never experienced the kind of struggles she has in trying to learn a new language. In addition to speaking French with ease, I’ve also studied German, and once taught myself a bit of Spanish in a weekend in order to better my chances at a job (I didn’t get it, but I still can speak very basic Spanish). I even invented a secret language, complete with dictionary, for my friends and I to use when I was in third grade. Well-chosen words and lively conversations have always been important parts of my life.

I thought was in big trouble, therefore, when I was pregnant with my first child. As my due date approached, I became increasingly nervous – but not about the birth. No, I was more worried about how I would communicate with this tiny, wordless creature. I imagined it as a struggle; the ultimate language barrier. The specter of the 352 dull, difficult days of a maternity leave filled with baby talk and nonsensical jabbering haunted me, and I wondered how I would cope with days void of meaningful conversation.

My daughter, however, clearly had meaningful things to say from the moment she was born, and insisted that I listen. She came into this world yelling – not crying, but yelling – and I felt a rush of fear as I struggled to translate those first yells. Was she happy to be here? Was she hurt, or frightened by the birth experience? Was she angry that she’d had to leave her first, warm home? Or was she trying to sing one of the songs she’d heard her daddy sing to her in-utero?

I held her in my arms for the first time, close to my face, and studied her tiny, perfect features with both love and anxiety. She quieted her yelling, and blew bubbles from her delicate, rosebud mouth. With her blinking eyes fixed on mine, she gave me a look that suggested that she recognized me from some other time and place. Without saying a word, I offered all I have to her; she offered me all her trust and love. It was the most profound discussion I’d ever had. I was vaguely aware of other people in the room, of excited chattering and conversations among medical professionals, but I didn’t hear any of it. I was too busy having my first “conversation” with my baby.

The first time I was alone with her, hours after her birth, my nervousness returned. I wasn’t worried about the fact that it had been many, many years since I’d changed a diaper; nor was I worried about getting the knack of breastfeeding. Those skills would come in time, I knew. No, what made me nervous was what would happen when she cried. How would I understand what she wanted? I already loved her so fiercely and wanted so much to make her transition into this world a happy one – how would I know what to do for her? Sure enough, within the first few minutes of being alone with her, she began to cry – a soft, pretty, dove-like noise that made me fall in love with her even more, and made me eager to better understand what she had to tell me. Pushing my fears aside, I instinctively held her close, and spoke to her in a soothing language I hadn’t known I possessed.

After that promising beginning, our early attempts at communicating were not entirely a success. In the early days of my daughter’s life, it seemed we were often speaking different languages. For the first few days of her life, she slept in a crib in the nursery we had so lovingly decorated for her. Even though it broke my heart to have her away from me even for a naptime, I’d been advised that this was for the best – we both needed our rest after a difficult birth, I was told, and I would soon learn to anticipate and interpret her cries. Instead, I began to dread and fear her waking moments. She would cry, and I would run, heart beating wildly, across the hall to her, anxious to quiet her, to determine what was wrong, and to make her happy again. Neither of us was well rested, and I certainly wasn’t any better at understanding what she was trying to tell me. Well-meaning friends and family advised us that she needed to cry now and then to exercise her lungs. Instinctively, I felt that idea was wrong for us. It made as much sense to me as saying that if she was cut, I should let her bleed as it would be good exercise for her veins.