Being Schooled on the Spielplatz

I'm a kid person so I don't know why it always takes me off guard when some random little one approaches me but it does. Here in Berlin, it's quite humbling when some three-year-old tyke starts talking to me and I just have to stare and smile back in response or commence some sort of wild gesturing that will get my point across. Even worse? When an older kid approaches and I am able to say to them, "Sorry, I don't speak German" which leads them to switch to English to accommodate my needs. Remind me, when is America going to get on board with mandatory foreign language requirements?

So yesterday, while taking care of my friend's baby, I had wandered over to the local Spielplatz with him. I placed little Daniel in this mesh, disc shaped swing/hammock thing, gently swinging him back and forth when a bright little girl wearing pink tights, sparkly pink shoes, and a frilly pink skirt skipped toward us and gently placed an equally pink doll on the swing next to Daniel.

"My baby's six months old!" she announced. "How old is he?"

I was struck by my own reaction to this little blond thing who appeared to be seven or eight years old. I'm always relieved to hear an English speaker when I am out and about. However, I hadn't realized I'd ever be excited to have a conversation with an English speaker from the second grade level.

"Um, he's about eight months old now," I said, tickling his toes.

"Ahh," she replied. "I remember when my sister was a little baby. Hey, look at this!" Within seconds, she began to demonstrate a series of "tricks" that involved balancing herself on one foot, swinging from a rope, and doing pretty much anything that involved exposing her underpants to a group of strangers on a playground.

A few seconds later, her mother (or au pair?) approached and began speaking to her. In German. I was shocked. This girl had no remnant of a German accent whatsoever. The only accent I detected at all was a slight English lilt so I had naturally assumed that she was living in Berlin with her British parents. I couldn't believe how instantly dumb I felt. And speaking of, it was as if she could read my mind.

"Do you speak any German?" she asked, dangling from a rope, her toothy grin barely visible through her mop of blond curls.

"Nein," I replied, smiling.

"You do! You do!" she giggled.

"Nein!" I said again, laughing. "Believe me. But your English is amazing. How do you speak so well?"

She went on to say that she attends a bilingual school and then suddenly switched gears to give me a full account of all of her dental appointments as of late. Her vocabulary blew me away. I mean, was this kid really talking to me about dental procedures? For the 100th time, I wished that I had the sponge-like brain of a child instead of having to stare at pink post-it notes on my kitchen wall that say things like, "Ich mache der Abendessen" (Oops, das Abendessen! See??), hoping that one day, this stuff might actually sink in.

As little Blondie finished her story about all of her recent toothaches and trips to the dentist, I said, "Wow, well, I'm sorry to hear about all of that. Sounds quite painful!"

"Yes," she replied, as she launched herself off of a balance beam and into the sand, "but it makes a good story."

Couldn't have said it better myself.