The Love Language of Shorthand
Have you forgiven me for my stance on irregardless yet? I hope we can still be friends.
My point was that language is really only what we make it, not an edict that came down from on high—language functions as a shorthand for a mutual understanding.
It’s the private shorthands that are my favorite. And if you’ve grown up in a crazy family as I have, you probably have some shorthands of your own.
For example, in my house, the word “spicy” encapsulated anything that was, as the kids say these days, a little “extra.”
A scratchy sweater was a “spicy” sweater. Seltzer water was “spicy” water (okay, that one raised some eyebrows with the neighbors, as if I were secretly giving them bourbon).
While “spicy water” was fun…I assure you that “spicy bum” was not. I’ll leave that one right there (you’re welcome).
I’ve been cataloging other people’s shorthand all my life, starting with my father, the (in)famous “Bill H.”
Yes, that’s how he signed all of his cards - even to his beloved wife and children. As if we might be confusing him with a different Bill? But we knew what he meant - that he loved us almost as much as the Boston Red Sox.
Although I never adopted my father’s style of demonstrating affection, I confess that I’ve adopted other people's shorthands without even realizing it.
With our close family friends, The Neville Family, there is no higher compliment than “I love you more than bananas.”
What started as an annoying phrase from a Curious George toy has morphed into the family mantra.
The kids say it to the parents. Siblings say it to each other (when they aren’t fighting over the remote control). They considered me part of the family, so I got roped into it too.
Years later, it’s commonplace to receive a text from any Neville family member with simply “🍌.”
Now I love a good banana, but I’ll be honest… it didn't seem like the kind of fruit that really carries emotional gravitas, but I rolled with it. (That is, of course, until I had to track down the banana cartel in Medford to get my hands on some scarce bananas during quarantine. Then suddenly it all made sense)
To this day, these shorthands still make me smile. It’s a private connection with the people I love the most.
Probably the most epic love shorthand is one I share with another branch of my framily (friends who are family) tree: the McCabes.
Behold the etymology of The Greatest Love Language Shorthand of All Time.
Get cozy. It’s a doozie.
Amy-Jayne McCabe (AJ for short) and I met when we were in the treasured time of life, known as the sleep-deprived state of raising toddlers, and found ourselves at a gathering of the Medford Family Network’s Babysitter Exchange.
The Medford Family Network (MFN) is Medford’s most magical entity. Led by a real-life Mary Poppins named Marie Cassidy, The MFN’s mission is to bring families together to mutually suffer support one another to “play, learn, and grow.”
The MFN Babysitter Exchange is but one of many genius ways Marie creates community. Through some kind of magic unicorn pixie dust, she pulled off a Mama Tribe matchmaking whereby Amy-Jayne and I, along with about 20 other families (read: moms) found enough in common to entrust each other with watching one another’s kids.
In our case, we were all bound by a shared love of caffeine, getting TF out of the house to tire our kids to the point of exhaustion, and inappropriate humor.
It was a win-win-win for everyone: the kids had friends to play with, the Mom in Charge could possibly have a cup of coffee in peace, and the Shawshanked mom could gain a few hours of peace and quiet and partake in exciting tasks like going to the grocery store, getting a haircut, or (my favorite) taking a nap.
For reasons that remain a mystery, Amy-Jayne and I would also swap off child care to have date nights with our husbands.
One summer evening in 2006, I offered to watch AJ’s littles, Brady and Madeline, while she and Patrick went out to dinner.
Armed with a stack of trashy magazines and a Diet Pepsi, I arrived at the McCabe residence, naively assuming that the kids were going to bed soon. That was when AJ confessed that theirs was “The Up All Night House” and that the kids were likely not going to go to sleep until she and Pat came home.
“Don’t worry, though, they can just watch TV in our bed. They might even fall asleep there and we’ll bring them upstairs when we get home,” she shouted from the car window as they sped away into the sunset.
True to form, Brady and Madeline made it their mission to stay awake as late as they could. Meanwhile, I alternated from checking in on the kids to doing the People Magazine crossword and praying to high heaven that Scotty would beam me up.
At one point during the evening, the kids were jumping on the bed with physics-defying force, which prompted me to insist they lie down and play “The Quiet Game,” the winner of which would get five dollars.
I then retreated to the living room once again. In vain.
Approximately 10 seconds after The Quiet Game commenced, 4-year-old Brady lost. Proclaiming that something was “pinching him” in the bed, he led me by the hand back to the bedroom.
In a true testament to tunnel vision, I found no evidence of anything that could be pinching him. Not rocks, nor woodland creature. Nada.
However, I did find that (by some small miracle) Madeline fell asleep, and I encouraged Brady to attempt to do the same.
God love this child, he was persistent, a trait that continues to serve him well in adulthood. Brady pleaded his case a few more times, but in my self-appointed role as Judge Judi, it did not please the court and I was having none of it.
Defeated, Brady went to bed and soon enough, was asleep alongside his sister.
AJ and Pat came home not long after, and as AJ and I were talking about how the evening went and how joyous it was for them to eat with both hands, Pat proceeded to the bedroom.
And that’s when things went south.
“WHAT THE HELL IS ALL THIS BROKEN GLASS IN THIS BED?” Pat bellowed.
AJ’s and my response can only be described in a meme:
When you and your friend hop on the elevator to heaven and it starts going down.
The next segment of this evening of insanity can only be described as “Good News! Bad News.”
Good News! We figured out what was pinching Brady in the bed.
Bad News: It was broken glass.
From where you ask? From the broken window pane above the bed, of course!
Evidently, when Brady and Madeline were hosting the Toddler Olympics and bouncing on the bed, one of them hit their head on the pane and glass went everywhere.
No, I don’t know how I missed this (except to say I went to the eye doctor the next day and got a new script, and then the audiologist to get fit for hearing aids).
Good News! Neither child had so much as a scratch on them.
Bad News: Pat, a West Point graduate who served in Kosovo, looked like he was going to kill me.
Good News! AJ jumped in as a peacekeeping force of another nature, declaring, “All’s well that ends well! The kids are fine! It was an accident!” as she and I gathered the kids and brought them to their beds.
More Good News! When the kids woke up during transport, they told their parents they LOVED having me as their babysitter.
Did you hear that? Yeah. There definitely is a God and she is definitely a Mom.
When I tucked him into bed, Brady said, “I love you! I can’t wait to see you again.”
“Pal, I love you too, but I’m pretty sure I’m never going to see you again after this broken glass incident. I’m probably getting kicked out of the Babysitter Exchange.”
Good News, Trifecta! I did not get expelled from the Exchange. Pat, AJ, and I eventually found the incident funny and now tell the story at every family gathering. I’ve graduated to Aunti Judi (sic), or as Brady calls me, “Aunti, My First Babysitter.”
Best news of all: We now have our eternal Love Language Shorthand, a phrase we banter about in conversation, occasional texts, and, most recently, the one I inscribed in Brady’s graduation card as lifetime advice:
“Watch out for broken glass.”
Language can either bring us together or drive a wedge (of glass) between us, and boy, am I grateful for the unity.
So when I tell you that I love you more than bananas, you’ll understand that I’m not bananas. Well, don’t ask my kids anyway.
But I only tell the McCabe kids to watch out for broken glass.
Love, Your friend, Judi H.