I love that there is a woman somewhere that speaks more languages than anyone else, and yet, she is still a mother first.
I would never write about her developing a stutter, and it threatening her career, or the events that lead up to her insuring her tongue for hundreds of thousands of dollars.
I want to consider the hours of her maternity leave that she spent trying to learn the language of her child.
I want to wonder what her child's first word was, and what language it was in.
I want her to write a book about it. I want it to be a best seller.
The world's top linguist cracks the code of baby talk.
Until everyone finds out that everything she wrote was particular to her child.
And none of it pertains to anyone else's.
Because language is work, and the empty hands of our minds move quickly in all directions.