Pittston Dispatch // PD Columnists // Maria Heck - Mother's Daze

Sunday May 31, 2009 | 01:00 AM

I admit it. I attempt to pass myself off as a pseudo-intellectual every chance I get by utilizing as many big words as I possibly can. Sometimes I do this consciously, other times, the syllables and inflections fly out of my cavernous mouth like bats from a cave. I have been this way from the womb when I assured the obstetrician that his delivery was sublime. Later, I tended to alienate my young classmates by telling them their rendering of a snowman complete with an extra appendage was completely “inappropriate” and “redundant”. I’ve been facing ridicule ever since.

I blame my mother. She employs substantial verbage and always has. Instead of growing up playing Candyland, we played Scrabble. She does several intense crossword puzzles every day of her life and never leaves any blocks blank. The only crosswords I can do with adeptness would be the ones in Highlights magazine. And they’re getting harder. Although I now play Scrabble with my own kids, we’ve run into a little roadblock that I think is plaguing America’s youth with a vengeance. Spell Check, found on every computer, has killed our own innate ability to spell. You can have spelling bees until the actual bees show up to sound-out the words: “cross pollination”, but it still won’t make today’s children better spellers than children, say thirty years ago. Not as long as Spell Check dominates our screens. Even my own spelling ability is going right down the proverbial tubes, along with…you know what…my vision, bone density and capacity to get through the night without several tinkle episodes.

It’s a double edged sword. The computer’s ability to provide Thesaurus, as well as Grammar Check functions, has improved our writing skills, but the spelling gene, I fear, is becoming obsolete, like appendixes and wisdom teeth. Is it more important to be an excellent speller or have a varied vocabulary?

The only litmus test I can provide are my own kids. I commend them profusely for a well-placed two syllable word, even if it’s hideously nasty. I tend to focus on the proper usage of the big, fluffy word instead of its barbed and painful intent or correct spelling.

As you know, bathroom time at the sanitarium is just another word for a family picnic. We all pile into the area, en masse to conduct lengthy conversations and generally kvetch. (Modesty? What the heck is that? I wish someone would JUST tell me). So while my youngest son showers, I’m brushing my teeth and my daughter is washing her face. She was prepping for her beauty sleep and trying to talk to me and he was in the shower loudly singing a KC and the Sunshine Band song whose title, Thank God, has now escaped me. To accompany the song, he was dancing (still in the shower) in a way that can only be describes as…spirited. You can only imagine the gyrations while naked as he sang into the Pert bottle. My daughter was at first amused, then eventually became appropriately disgusted and screamed: “He makes me sick! He is so intensely vulgar, Mom!” I was going to tell her that wasn’t very charitable but instead complimented her use of “vulgar”. “Excellent word! Do you have another one?” She looked at me and dryly asked, “How about moron? Atrocious? Imbecile?”

“Okay, now you’re just showing off”, I sniffed.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my son, still in the shower writing the word “Looser” on the steam of the glass door with an arrow pointing at his sister. “Honey! No! Spelling! It’s “loser!” L-O-S-E-R! She’s a LOSER, not a LOOSER!”

She screeched and threw her washcloth at me.

“No! No! I didn’t mean YOU’RE a loser, honey! I was just making a spelling correction!”

Too late, she was gone in a cloud of Neutrogena, astringent and bad attitude.

I pointed at naked boy; “Way to go, buster. Get outta that shower before your little friend wrinkles up and falls off.”

He was riveted: “That would be fascinating!”

I sigh. “Yes. Excellent adjective. It would be fascinating. If it were true. But its not. I made it up. Now get out of that stinking shower already, KC! And bring The Sunshine Band with you.”

Ah, the dictionary.

My sweet, old friend.

Your dog-eared and well-worn pages are now a relic.

A thing of the past. An antique.

I miss you.

Indubitably.