*Please keep in mind that I live in a white, Southern Baptist household in Georgia.
Tonight Heather and I were having dinner with my parents. The other two girls were off at various events. We'd just about finished eating our pork stew when Dad looked over at Mom and said, "Should we tell them about CHINESE-CHINESE-CHINESE?" "Oh," replied my mother. "You mean the CHINESE-CHINESE?" "Yes," Dad answered. "I think CHINESE-CHINESE-CHINESE."
Allow me to point out that CHINESE-CHINESE is, in fact, real Chinese. My parents were speaking Mandarin over our heads.
I'm almost 25, but at that moment I felt like a little kid whose parents opt to spell out choice words in dinner conversation. "Don't mention that we have C-A-K-E or she won't finish her P-E-A-S." My focus switched from Dad to Mom and back again but, not speaking a word of Chinese myself, I had no clue what they were talking about. Something about that strikes me as unfair--I am an adult now, after all. But as Mom loves to tell anyone who'll listen: "Whoever said life was fair?"
Such is life in the Phillips family. Surreal.
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