In the interests of naked--shall we declare it NUDE?--reality, I will now admit the truth:
I ditch Swedish School.
I make my children go, but I skip. Every possible week.
This whole ditching thing is new to me. I was too mortally afraid of what the consequences might have been to try it in high school. And in college, once I finally got a work ethic, it just didn't make sense. Call me a late-blooming rebel. And, sadder to admit, I never intended things to go this way.
I was soooooo excited for my children to learn Swedish. I always regretted not learning it when I had the chance in college. And of course, I'm still slightly, but not in a testimony-shaking kind of way, bummed that I served a mission in a non-Swedish-speaking region of the world. (Albuquerque is known for many things. Its Swedish-speaking population is not one of them.) After all, wasn't it drummed into my head throughout my formative years that next to being a Merkley, the most wonderful thing anyone could be was Swedish? And didn't I start thinking of Robert as slightly more interesting when I learned where he had served. (Stockholm, '92-'94.)
Swedish school was my chance to redeem myself. I could not reach exaltation, but I would ensure that my children did.
And so we started attending. Roberto loves it, since he gets to lilt away with everyone, and they think he's wonderful. Jobe and Charlie have a good time, learning the Swedish works for "elk' and "badger", although when these would be helpful in conversation is beyond me. (Picture Jobe, in eleven years, on his first fast Sunday in his mission in Sweden: "Brothers and Sisters, I'm just a humble missionary, but I'd like to share with you my testimony of woodland creatures.")
Here's my problem: I don't speak a word of Swedish. Remember that bit? I have a quick ear, and I pick things up relatively quickly, but when words are rushing by at supersonic speed--it's true, I feel their passing, then hear them two minutes later--and are not only spoken, but practically sung with this crazy Scandinavian lilt-thing, it blows me away every time. There's no way to compete conversationally with a fully-loaded Swede; they'll beat a plain-speaking American every time. And I'm the only one there who doesn't have anything to say in Swedish. Even the other American have learned enough to smile and nod at appropriate times. I'm alone in a sea of lilting humanity. (It's more of a pond, actually. They are strong in enthusiasm, but few in number.)
And so I ditch.
I've tried to make it sound efficient. "Oh Honey, I'll just get the shopping done while you and the others are at school, and that way we won't have to waste the time on Saturday." Rob acts like he accepts it, but he knows I'm playing hooky. Really? What tipped him off? The fact that we don't NEED the forty rolls of TP I have on my list (Well, Sweetie, the Young Women are TP-ing for Mutual tonight!), or is it the knocking sound my knees make when we're within ten blocks of the school?
So, there you have it: my true confession. I am, ladies and gentlemen, a Swedish School dropout.
You may hum softly as you file out the door.
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