I was the Secret Reader today at kindergarten!

I was so secret, in fact, that even I was surprised when the receptionist told me that I’d arrived an hour early!

Oopsie!

No problem. I hung out in the school office and watched the parade of cute mamas (and one daddy in golf clothes) arriving (with food!) to eat lunch with their children.

“If I could have a dollar for every Chick-Fil-A meal that comes through this office,” the receptionist said, “I’d be a rich woman!” I laughed as she buzzed in another daddy.

He walked in hesitantly, not sure where to stand.

“Yes?” she asked. “How may I help you, sir?”

He stammered a little in a heavy accent. “I need..uh…early…uh…”

“Early dismissal?” she said. He nodded, and said a child’s name which I couldn’t understand. She didn’t understand him either. “Hmm,” she said. “What grade is your child in?”

“Five K. Five.”

“Two children? Five K and fifth grade?”

“Yes please.”

“Would you please spell that last name, sir?”

I felt myself flinch.

She wasn’t being unreasonable. She was perfectly kind and patient.

I flinched because I’d time-travelled back to 1999. I was the mom version of this daddy, trying to raise my kids in a country brand new to me, not fluent in the language that everyone spoke. (What? Three years of high school French didn’t make me fluent 17 years later? That’s a joke!) Constantly having to talk in rooms of curious people who watched my every move and made their own assumptions and judgements about who I was, why I was there, and how smart (or not smart) I was.

I flinched because being asked to spell something in another language isn’t as easy as you might think. I know this sounds obvious, but not only are the words different, the letters are pronounced differently too, and sometimes the accent is really hard to get right. Try spelling your first and last name in another language in front of a captive audience when your two kids are whining for snacks and your baby’s trying to nurse your elbow!

I LOVED our four years away. Even at first, when the embarrassment made me cry in my car. Even when clerks heard my accent and ran to hide. (It didn’t happen often. French people love it when you try.)

But as I saw that kindergartner race to kiss his daddy—and as I watched them cuddle and talk as they waited for big brother—that daddy’s bravery moved me.

It was beautiful. I was lucky to see it.

Enjoy your weekend!