THE INTERPRETER

If my Mom and I were ever paired together in the bonus round of the game show, $100,000 Pyramid, we would win. Mom would feed me the clues as only she could, and I would suppress a yawn while running the table in record time.

Mom: Every kind of leafy green, poppy seeds, blueberry skins

Me: Things that get stuck in your teeth!

Mom: Silver, your friend Suzie’s reputation

Me: Things that get tarnished!

Mom: Wearing your PJs to the grocery store, but covering them with a coat, eating cereal for dinner

Me: Normal things!

I ride shotgun in my Mom’s train of thought. Mom describes it as being “just a little bit off.” Sometimes it is just a little and sometimes it is a lot, but I speak fluent Mom. I first discovered my talent for knowing what she meant when I was in high school:

Mom: You know, I love that Robert Plant.

Me: You do?! Are you sure, Mom? I didn’t peg you as a big fan of his.

Mom: Oh, no, I love him. He is so clean-cut, wears sharp suits, sings catchy songs.

Me: Palmer, Mom.

Mom: Who?

Me: Robert Palmer is who you love. He sings, “Addicted to Love.”

Mom: Yes. What did I say?

Me: Plant.

Mom: Who is he?

Me: He is the lead singer of Led Zeppelin.

Mom: You knew who I meant.

And I did. As the years passed, the verbal miscues were more frequent and got a bit more convoluted. But, I am a trained professional. Who was the Peter she loved to watch play on Sunday? Manning, Peyton Manning of course. What was the real name of the movie we went to see that she called, Flaming Swords? Knives Out, an obvious mix-up of weaponry. Why did she ask about a Bruno Mars song when we started talking about our cousin? Hint: we are not related to Bruno Mars. Easy. Because the last time we saw this cousin was at a family wedding. At that family wedding, we got people up to the dance floor. The first song we danced to was “Uptown Funk” by Bruno Mars. As most sit in confusion as they listen to our conversations, I follow her thought process. I understand her.

So, when I recently told my college-age daughter, Lillian, that I loved that song by the White Pumas, she paused.

Lillian: Tame Impala, Mom.

Me: What did I say?

Lillian: White Pumas.

Me: Are they a band?

Lillian: No, you combined the Black Pumas with the White Stripes.

Me: You know what I meant.

And she does. It feels good to be understood.