I do not regret having taught Lucas to speak Spanish first, although I was close to it the other day. He was sitting at the table, making a nice little nativity scene out of his supper. A Mary and Joseph made of cheese; a tiny little Jesus in between them. Mary and Joseph were walking around on his plate, taking care of their newborn. Matthew and I were listening to him with one ear, talking to each other with the other. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that it's easier for me to understand our son while only half-listening than it is for Matthew. When Lucas walked his sweet little Jesus up to Matt, saying "saludalo a Jesus, papa, hablale, preguntale como esta papa" Matthew turned and looked; distracted, not knowing what Lucas was saying or what he had been carefully making on his plate, he took his fork and stuck the piece of cheese onto it. Jesus had been stabbed, and Lucas didn't know what to do. He looked at me, startled. He set down the fork. Fyo stood up and, taking advantage of the moment, gobbled up the cheese. "Fyo se lo comio a Jesus!" Lucas exclaimed. Matt looked up, understanding the sentence. "Fyo ate Jesus?" he asked me, in utter confusion. In distress, Lucas flailed his little hand. Mary's feet ripped off. "Y ahora Maria no tiene pies y no puede caminar!" Lucas added. Matthew, finally realizing what was happening (and who he had stabbed with his fork) turned to his son with eyes wide open and said "Oh I'm sorry, Lucas, I'm sorry!" Lucas, left with a maimed Mary and a weeping Joseph, nodded his head solemnly in response, accepting the apology. We gave him an extra scoop of food. He busied himself trying to carve a black bean. We turned towards each other, biting back laughter, switching our conversation to Spanish this time, hoping it might help Matthew hear his son better. Lucas, for his part, was silent for a while, finally proclaiming "Ay papa, fue una calamidad." Matt understood. "Yes, it was a true calamity."