Lost in Translation

My kids were in swim lessons this week. This means that every day this week, rain for shine, we schlepped to the lake for their back-to-back lessons.

Two days ago, I squared off with my body-image issues and donned a bikini, but yesterday, fall made an early appearance in New England, and we all dressed much more conservatively. It was rainy and chilly and the kids spent much of their time shivering. My son’s lesson finished early, which I realized when I saw the teacher walking across the beach with a bundled-up three-year-old on each hip. She handed my son to me, all burritoed up in his striped towel. I kissed him on his chilly cheek and asked how swim lesson went.

“We’re having a special surprise tomorrow,” he said, teeth chattering.

“Oh? Do you know what the surprise is?” I asked, snuggling him closer. I already knew that the big surprise was ice pops, but I wanted to know what he thought the surprise was.

“Yes, we’re going to swim all the way to those boobies.” I looked where he was pointing.

“Oh! You mean buoys?”

He paused for a moment, looking out at the lake with furrowed brow, then he turned to me and said slowly, “No…the teacher said ‘boobies’…”

Today I confirmed that his teacher does, in fact, know the proper pronunciation of “buoys.” And now my son does, too.

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