My daughter waved her hand, which is a sign that she understands the "bye bye" that she said first in her proto-language, in which neither the order nor the letter of God is known yet. But still, she said bye bye. No less and no more than the language of those who bombarded us, the little girl spoke it and wounded her father with a treacherous act that gives rise to the meticulous care of a patriot.
The second daughter has not yet spoken and I hope that she will give some primitive word, Slavo-Serbian, or that she will utter a ś, but not a pagan Polish but our ś, which will make me feel less of a quisling after that bye bye, that treacherous act that I can forgive but not forget. It's really strange for your child to speak a foreign language, but people say that it's not rare these days and that my parenting is not flawed. Poor consolation, anyhow.
All our toys are made of plastic and all the toys have some music and recitals and all the recitals are in English, except for one wallet that arrived from Berlin and when you open it, it says something like "mencendumuncen". Maybe it's good that the sense of money and bank cards develops in the language of thrifty Germans, but they also bombed us, so my stomach is clenched like a partisan's fist in front of a firing squad.
They won't have a clue about the partisans if I don't frighten them in time with two or three stories about the Chetniks, and then during lullaby I growl - where is the Chetnik? - which is bound to cause a nightmarish panic in the children that they can only defeat by naming Peck's divisions. But that's just my imagination. These children have already been born with bye bye, I can see it's nice, their scope is to glorify possibly an allied officer. My children are those gullible children from partisan films to whom the British pilot gives chocolates and chewing gum. Bye bye?! Well, I felt like letting them play that new Orthodox cartoon, just so they could get a dose of the Serbian language, which is also my language, our common language, whatever you call it. I thought that tongue was sucked with breast milk, but since there was no lactarium in the neonatology health unit, my girls were sucking nestle's formula and I guess that's why we have a problem now.
But good. I take that Orthodox production and play the first Orthodox film for children. In the first Orthodox minute for children, the narrator mentions festering wounds, but the head of Christ appears to some king who is decomposing in those festering wounds, which opened the possibility for my children to say the word "pus" first, and I didn't like it because I looked around horror movies with small children and I'm already imagining the baby running towards me with outstretched arms, laughing and saying SHIT and then I wake up covered in naked water and go to cover them, I see that they are sleeping peacefully in their cots, probably dreaming some kind of stupid American dreams. Now I ask you brotherly - American dreams or Orthodox animation, are there more terrible dilemmas for a parent.
And where is the Public Service? Can he help me in the linguistic affirmation of the national through the verbal practice of my daughters. It's already morning and they're watching sheep babbling in English on television. It is exactly 9:40, the time of the educational program. On RTCG 1, Kiki Lesendrić frowns like a squatter, while RTCG 2 forces the history of papism. The debacle. Now they are both crying because neither Kiki nor the pontifex maximus are watching them, the girls just want some good fun (Lauper, 1983), and all good fun is in English. Whether we want to admit it or not, we simply do not stand out in the production of toys, we did not make some kind of stuffed bear with a Montenegrin cap that says "good night, my child" in the voice of M. Bubreško or sings the national anthem when you put your paw on his lower stomach.
So what is left for the parent who conservatively defends the linguistic and cultural delusion called homeland? What to do in the absence of stuffed animals with Montenegrin caps and perfect diction? There is no other way than for a parent to let their children speak in English - and then, as soon as they grow up, force them to use the archives of SFRY programs, that is, productions for the children of a country that fell apart in the blood of civilians. In any case, only Dragan Laković is allowed in the arcades.
There is no new music for children to be found. There is no space for children. When it rains, everyone rushes to Delta city. And there again, English. That linguistic occupation is difficult for me, I listen to "Old Macdonald Had A Farm" as if it were "Lili Marlene". I press the remote control, it sings to me all day long on the Baby TV channel. And whose Baby TV is it? It is common knowledge that Baby TV is owned by the Fox international Channels consortium. The infamous Fox producers are smarter than a thousand foxes. They may be controlling our babies, loading them with secret messages against the fatherland, and when you see a benign bee in a cartoon, who can guarantee that you're looking at that, that it's not some cryptic thanks to a drone or an invitation to high treason. And then you wonder where the children for NATO come from, and when one day you see the inscription "Guantanamo" on the dollhouse, hang yourself, brother.
All right. I imagine how my daughters will say some of the important things in life in a foreign language. Like it's not right for me. But in the midst of patriotic despair, I realize that the language ceases to be foreign to me because they will speak it - they will bring new meaning to it, soften its rhythm - and then I let Uncle Leonard Cohen do the same in the manner of the best grandfather in the world. First we take Manhattan, than we take Berlin. Everything is as it should be, children, dad is joking about the partisans and Chetniks, you live in a different time, you were born in a country that has been oversold, and be happy because there is no care here - everyone has the right to determine their care and reading. And dad will tell you. At least reading. Of course, I don't mind baj baj, on the contrary, when you say it, it's as if my grandmother said it to me. And Minja Subota always looked like Michael Kane to me. Don't worry, my children, you will meet both of them, and Santa Claus named Raša Popov, whom some rascals wanted to beat.
Bonus video:
