I don't speak a lick of Spanish. I stupidly took French and German classes in high school and college, and I really, really regret not learning the number two language of our nation.
My regret deepened this morning as I dropped of Z. As predicted, her beloved Adriana gave birth on December 26th, and since she reopened her day care on January 2nd, she's been relying on her mother to fill in a great deal. Which means that the two women in charge of the kids probably know 20 words of English between them.
More importantly, Z is not about to accept Adriana's mom as an Adriana replacement, and Z clung desperately to me the minute we arrived. Adriana's mother, whom I think is named Ramona (pronounced "Ya-Mona"), asked Z a series of long, complicated-sounding questions in Spanish as she whimpered against me. And to each one, Z said "No" and buried her head in my lap. Finally, I mentioned Adriana and Baby Adrian and Ramona asked Z if she'd like to go up for a visit. (I'm guessing here, because I couldn't understand a word outside of the names and "tu.") Z raised her arms to Ramona to be picked up and they headed upstairs without protest.
I'm so glad Z understands Spanish, and I hope she doesn't lose it when she enters preschool. I do plan to enroll her in a Spanish immersion program at our local elementary school when the time comes.
