My four-year-old corrected my Swedish pronunciation at breakfast this morning. "Mama, it's not 'shoo-ka,' it's 'kyckling,'" she said patiently, demonstrating the proper way to say "chicken" with the authority only a preschooler can muster. This is my life now: being linguistically schooled by someone who still needs help tying her shoes.
When we decided to raise our children bilingually, I imagined myself as this sophisticated polyglot mother, seamlessly switching between languages, cultivating little global citizens. The reality? I'm googling "hur säger man 'time-out' på svenska?" while my toddler has a meltdown in two languages simultaneously.
The Language Dance
Our house operates on what I call "linguistic jazz"—improvisational, sometimes chaotic, but somehow it works. The official policy is OPOL (One Parent, One Language): I speak English, my partner speaks Swedish. Simple, right?
Except I'm also trying to improve my Swedish, which means I sometimes accidentally slip into what my daughter calls "Mama's funny Swedish." And my partner, after years in international business, occasionally throws in English phrases that would make a linguist weep. Our kids are growing up thinking "Kan du pass-a mig the milk?" is a perfectly normal sentence.
"We're not raising bilingual children so much as we're all learning to be multilingual together, mistakes and all."
The Playground Linguistic Olympics
Nothing tests your language skills quite like a Swedish playground. There I am, trying to facilitate toddler conflict resolution while rapidly translating between upset Swedish parents and my English-speaking child. "Säg förlåt," I prompt, then realize my daughter doesn't know that means "say sorry" because I usually say it in English.
The other parents are patient—Swedes always are—but I catch the bemused looks when I accidentally create new Swedish-English hybrid words. "Time to clean-up-a" is not, apparently, correct in any language, but my kids understand it perfectly.
When Kids Become Teachers
The moment your child becomes your language teacher is both humbling and hilarious. My daughter now automatically translates for me at the grocery store, whispering English equivalents when she sees me squinting at labels. She's developed a sixth sense for when I'm about to mispronounce something and preemptively corrects me.
"Mama still learning," she tells her friends matter-of-factly when I stumble over a Swedish phrase at daycare pickup. The acceptance in her voice slays me. To her, adults learning new things is normal, expected, admirable even.
The Identity Questions
"Am I Swedish or American?" my daughter asked recently. The question I'd been preparing for, armed with thoughtful responses about dual identity and cultural richness. But she continued before I could answer: "Because Alma says I can't play the Swedish game if I'm American, but I can't play the American game if I'm Swedish."
Playground politics had made the abstract concrete. We talked about being both, about bridges between worlds, about how lucky she is to have two cultures. She considered this. "So I can play both games?" When I nodded, she ran off, satisfied. If only adult identity questions were so easily resolved.
The Grandparent Challenge
Video calls with my Texas family are linguistic adventures. My parents are trying to learn Swedish to connect with their grandchildren, which results in beautiful disasters like my dad's attempt at "Hur mår du?" sounding more like "Horror movie?" My kids find this hilarious and have started teaching Grandpa Swedish with the patience of tiny professors.
Meanwhile, my Swedish in-laws speak excellent English but want the children to maintain their Swedish. This creates scenarios where everyone is speaking their non-native language to prove a point, and the kids just switch between languages like they're changing TV channels.
Code-Switching Champions
Watching my children code-switch is like watching magic. Mid-sentence, they'll pivot languages based on who enters the room. They dream in both languages (my daughter sleep-talks in Swenglish). They assign languages to emotions—Swedish for comfort, English for excitement, and a hybrid for anger that would make linguists everywhere take notes.
They've also developed their own sibling language—a mix that only they fully understand. "Vi ska go till the lekplats och build en sandcastle" makes perfect sense in our house. Language purists might cringe, but I see it as creativity in action.
"They're not just learning languages; they're learning that communication is about connection, not perfection."
The Unexpected Gifts
Raising bilingual kids while learning has taught me more than Swedish. It's taught me humility—there's nothing like being corrected by a four-year-old to keep your ego in check. It's taught me that mistakes are just learning opportunities with witnesses. Most importantly, it's shown me that children don't need perfect models; they need engaged, trying, growing ones.
My kids see language as a living thing, something flexible and forgiving. They've learned that communication is about more than words—it's about gesture, context, effort, and heart. They translate not just language but culture, explaining Swedish concepts to their American grandparents and American ideas to their Swedish friends.
The Real Victory
Success isn't measured in perfect grammar or accent-free pronunciation. It's in my daughter comforting a crying friend in Swedish, then turning to explain the situation to me in English. It's in my son singing Swedish lullabies to his stuffed animals, then requesting "Twinkle, Twinkle" in English. It's in the way they move between worlds without losing themselves.
They're growing up global—not because they speak two languages perfectly, but because they understand that there are many ways to express love, frustration, joy, and need. They know that Mama sometimes says things funny in Swedish, and that's okay. They know that Grandpa's Swedish sounds like Texas, and that's beautiful. They know that language is a bridge, not a barrier.
So yes, my Swedish needs work. Yes, our home is a linguistic experiment that would make academics nervous. But we're raising children who see the world as accessible, who view differences as interesting rather than intimidating, who know that the courage to try is more important than the fear of making mistakes. And if that means being corrected at breakfast by someone who still calls spaghetti "pasketti," so be it. I'm learning, they're learning, we're all learning together. And that's the most bilingual thing of all.
