With number one son, at the very beginning when we were still making an effort to be a part of the overachieving parents club, we did indeed try the baby sign language thing. Imagine being able to communicate with your baby months before he or is she is actually verbal, the baby sign language literature boasted.
I have a very vivid memory of watching a baby sign language video where a Birkenstocked dad explained that the sign for “toilet” was simply the letter T (thumb stuck between the pointer and middle fingers) wiggled back and forth. “It’s still a very useful sign even now that Moon Blossom is six years old,” he explained. “When he’s busy playing with his friends, we can stand at the door and make the toilet sign as a kind of secret way of asking if he needs to use the restroom, without embarrassing him in front of his friends.”
Because it’s normal for the parent of a six year old to hover over a group of kids making weird hand gestures to see if the kid needs to make the pee pee. Right?
As ridiculous as all that struck me — and for the record, we never moved beyond mastering the “all done” hand gesture — I have always been somewhat intrigued by secret codes. I tried to invent a secret language for my all-girls Chickadee club in 3rd grade. When you see a mean boy, spell out the word “test.” T-E-S-T. Because it sounds kind of like “He is nasty.” Get it?
And to this day, I still use the phrase “olive juice” as code for “I love you,” because when you silently mouth the words, it really does look like you’re saying “I love you.” I’ve done this with Charley for as long as I can remember, and so it just naturally became something I say to the boys too.
The other day Colin stopped to ask why I say olive juice instead of I love you. After I explained my logic — which really sounds a little silly when you spell it out — he paused for a minute and then proclaimed that he would invent his own code. We decided that his code phrase would have to be something that you wouldn’t normally say in the context of any normal conversation. And it couldn’t be something like “Watch out for that truck!” because that just wouldn’t be safe. After some careful consideration, Colin came up with “brains and eyes.” So from here on out, in the Baker house, “brains and eyes” means “I love you.”
This has given rise to a slightly peculiar exchange each night when I tuck the boys in. Each night after backs have been scratched and kisses and hugs have been exchanged, I whisper quietly, “Olive juice.” And each night now, the boys look up at me and respond back sweetly, “Brains and eyes.”
This evening, as I was walking out of Colin’s room, I heard him say again for emphasis, “Brains and eyes and olive juice.” I smiled. “And I’m not just saying that — I really mean it.”
How sweet is that?
eleven bee 