It’s happened. Despite my best efforts, my son has a local accent. He says “wooder” for water, “oo-un” for on, and “goo-un” for gone. And, oh, it hurts me.
I mean, it’s not the prettiest accent in the world, but that is not the problem. The problem is that I now need to come to terms with his separateness. Don’t get me wrong: this is a good thing. He is his own person and the sooner I really integrate that knowledge, the better for the both of us, but I can’t pretend it’s not kind of painful.
I’m a Red Sox fan. A Pats fan. I say “wicked awesome” and although I have mostly lost my hardcore Boston accent, I can pull it out with ease. I can spot a bad one (Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting, anyone?) and an authentic one (Marky Mark in The Fighter.) And even though I have lived here in Philly for seven years, I have Boston in my bones. But…my kid doesn’t. I was born and bred in Boston, but my kid wasn’t.
His Sox cap still fits this year, so I am spared a complete surrender, but next summer, I think he’ll be sporting red on his head.