Why, oh why

Do my children insist on trying to communicate with me at the pitch of a whiney tea kettle. A stream of unending vowels and consonants imitating the squealed peel of an agitated dolphin. To my hearing lossed ears it’s just a pointless whistle that contains no information at all. Like a fire alarm in a high C monotone in which I am requested to decipher both the meaning and an action plan remedy. Followed, obviously by tears, flailing and shouting from the other sibling in response. And it happens constantly no matter how many times I tell them that I don’t speak tea kettle, dolphin, or whistle languages fluently. The Joy’s of parenthood I suppose. Blessed.