‘Mother with Child‘ by Mikuláš Galanda (public domain), remixed using Paint.NET and Canva.

I'm reading my three-year-old son a bedtime story in my native language about dragons who love tacos.

I'm hearing myself say the word “dragon” again and again as I flip through the pages of the picture book.

I'm fixating on the curious long “a” of my regional accent.

I'm noticing that the tip of my tongue touches my bottom teeth to form the sound.

I'm marveling at how this one feature of the region where I grew up has survived intact when most others have at least mellowed, if not disappeared entirely from my voice.

I'm wondering if he will inherit my pronunciation because I am his mother, and I am his biggest English-speaking influence in the non-English-speaking country where we live.

I’m thumbing through the lexicon of my childhood dialect — an English of quirks shaped by German, Polish, Scandinavian and other immigration histories — and picking out the few words and phrases he will hear me say.

I'm imagining him calling a drinking fountain a “bubbler” or throwing “once” onto the end of commands like “come here” to soften their blow or exclaiming “ope, sorry!” in contrition after accidentally bumping into someone on the street.

I'm chuckling at the idea of this coming true, even though he will surely never reside in that particular region.

I'm contemplating if he will ever live in any region of my country of origin.

I'm questioning if I even want him to.

I'm worrying that he may never delight in the English language like I do, or may never experience the community event that is a Friday fish fry like I did, or may never appreciate the symphony that is a good taco like I do, or may never earn money mopping floors somewhere after school like I did.

I'm panicking that he might, too, feel the need to run far, far away.

I'm scolding myself because how provincial, how privileged, how Anglocentric, and how can I even presume to act like I’m some cultural authority on tacos anyway?

I'm trusting that it will be a joy to see him carve his own linguistic path, and there will be plenty of opportunities for him to find community, try tacos and learn the lessons inherent in mopping floors.

I’m remembering how much I’ve enjoyed the adventure of running far, far away.

I'm hoping that I'm raising a good human.

I'm swatting away envy for his effortless bilingualism and dual passports from birth.

I'm swallowing down a hitch in my breath for how much I love him.

I'm answering his questions about how spicy the various ingredients featured in the story are.

I'm closing the book and moving on with the bedtime routine.