Habla Espanol? I can speak approximately 50 words in Spanish. OK, maybe a few more but not by any means, a LOT. I have a set of those expensive Learn-To-Speak-Spanish CDs that I've listened to off and on for two years with moderate success. I'm to the point where I can read the billboards up and down Federal Blvd. I can say many useful things such as:

How much does that cost?

Where are you going?

Give me a cup of tea, please. Hot tea.

He's paying for it.

That last one is the most useful. For a long time I've said I'm going to join our local Spanish language study group, to converse with other Spanish speakers beyond the tinny voices on my CD. I just got more motivation to go to tonight's meeting. Here's why:

I'm part of an email list comprised of Moms (and some Dads) within my neighborhood. On the surface, it sounds like a real girly thing to be a part of (if you know me, you know I normally balk at girly things) but believe me - it's much more than a bunch of Ozzie and Harriet types exchanging the best way to get those stubborn grass stains out of little Ricky's pants. In fact, I don't think I've ever even seen a post on grass stains. Hmmm...

ANYway, this email list is amazingly useful - it's a powerful group of people who, when banded together over a community issue, are a force not to be reckoned with. Restaurant reviews, service provider recommendations (and warnings), creepy-guy-knocking-on-doors watch, volunteer projects, activities with and without our kids, and more. This group has been written up in the local paper more than once for the influence they (we?) wield. A number of places outside our neighborhood provide discounts when you mention you're a member of this group. Last summer, I found a kind dad on the list who was not only willing to let me borrow his rototiller, but delivered it, tilled half my yard for me, and then picked it up when I was done. For free. And what's mind boggling to me is that this is only an email list focused on the people who live in one Denver neighborhood that's maybe two square miles. There are 900 people on the list, more than 90% of which live within the neighborhood. Whoa. I can throw a rock from my front porch and hit 4 list members. Not that I would do that - it's not very neighborly.

So, when I saw a glowing recommendation for a child care provider who's now available a couple of days a week, I knew it would be a quality person. Marc and I have been talking about hiring someone who can help with Coralyn so whomever is staying home with her can get a couple of hours to work, run errands, or whatever. Kind of a backup plan in lieu of family members living close by. Plus, once Cora is comfortable with this person, maybe we could go out as a couple, on occasion. Because it's not a necessity for us, we've not been in any rush to hire someone. But this person sounds great. Only catch - she speaks only Spanish. No worries, I thought, I've been sort of studying Spanish for two years. And I actually view the language barrier as a "pro" for many reasons - if she's with us long-term, my Spanish will improve and Coralyn will learn something beyond my limited bumblings. And we definitely would like Cora to be multi-lingual - something I wish I'd had growing up. Surely I can get through a simple phone call to talk about coming over a couple of days a week to help out with baby. So I thought.

I made some notes on what I wanted to say, practiced out loud a bit, and dialed the number. A woman answered and I asked if Maria was there. She let me know that she was Maria. Success so far! I then told her my Spanish was limited and slow and the reason for my call. She understood. More success! Then the real conversation began and let me tell you, the Spanish floodgates let loose. I'm sure she was talking more slowly than normal, but I became mind boggled with the intimidation that comes from knowing you are talking to someone fluent in a language when your strongest phrase in that language is "Where are you going?" and "What?!?" Eventually, we got it established that I should call back after 3pm, when her daughter would be home. Relieved, we said goodbye and hung up. My friend, Barb, pointed out that her daughter would be home after 3pm because that's when school gets out. "She's probably 8 years old," she snickered.

I am, nevertheless, undaunted, and will be eager to have an opportunity to practice my Spanish more, have someone highly nurturing be involved in my daughter's life, and perhaps learn a few more phrases beyond "I want a beer. No, two beers. No, three."