Your Son Said "That's Mid" and Your Wife Wants a Translation

Quick answer: Learn five words. Use none of them. Let your wife enjoy watching you translate, because that's most of the job.

It's Tuesday. Meatloaf. Your sixteen-year-old looks at the mashed potatoes and says, "Okay, these are lowkey bussin."

Your wife puts down her fork. She looks at you. You're the man of the house, and the man of the house is supposed to know things.

You don't know. You know it's a compliment because he's reaching for seconds. That's your entire method, and it's about to be tested.

The first question is always "Is that good?"

Say yes. You'll be right about sixty percent of the time, which is better than the weather forecast.

"Bussin" means really good, mostly about food. "Lowkey" means kind of. So the potatoes are kind of really good. Your wife nods slowly, like a woman hearing a lab report. Then she asks what "kind of really good" is in regular English, and you say "good," and she says, "Then he could have said good."

He could have. But good is mid.

A short glossary, as delivered at the table

No cap. It means no lie. Cap is a lie. Your daughter says, "No cap, that's the best casserole you've made." Your wife asks if a hat is involved. You explain that no hat is involved. She asks why she'd be wearing one. You say you'll get back to her.

Mid. Mediocre. Middle of the road. This is the dangerous one, because sooner or later it gets pointed at something you cooked. Your daughter says the casserole is mid. Your wife says she's been feeding this family for twenty years and has just been called mid by a person who eats cereal for dinner. Nobody laughs for one full second. Then everybody does. That's the pause doing its job, and it does more work than the punchline.

Cooked. In trouble, doomed. "If Dad finds out about the mailbox, I'm cooked." Your wife says she's been using that word since before he was born, usually about the pot roast. The two of you are, for once, in agreement with a teenager. Enjoy it.

Bet. It means okay, deal, sure. You say dinner's at six. He says "bet." Your wife asks if there's gambling now. You say it means yes. She asks why he didn't say yes. He says yes is mid. We've come full circle, and it's only 6:15.

Aura. Points you gain or lose for being cool or uncool. You lose them for wearing socks with sandals. You lose a lot of them for explaining the word aura. Your son announces you're at negative a thousand. You consider this a reasonable price for the entertainment.

The fanum tax, or why your ancestors dumped tea in a harbor

This one belongs at the dinner table more than any other. The fanum tax is when you take a bite of somebody else's food as a toll. Your son reaches across and takes a roll off his sister's plate. He announces, "Fanum tax." She doesn't object. That's the part that gets you.

You, a patriot, have questions. Who set the rate? Who collects it? Does the sister get a vote?

"It's a tax," he says.

"Taxation without representation," you say. "Men crossed an ocean over this."

"It's a roll, Dad."

"It's always a roll," you say, "until it's a stamp act."

Your daughter now has a legal argument for the rest of the meal. Your wife is trying not to laugh into her water glass. You've lost fifty aura points and gained a moment this family will talk about at Thanksgiving.

Rules for the dinner-table translator

Guess out loud. Say "I think it means..." and let him fix you. A fifteen-year-old correcting his father is a fifteen-year-old explaining something, to you, voluntarily, with eye contact. Most dads would pay money for that. You just paid in aura points.

Don't use the word yourself. Not once, not ironically, not "just to see." The exception is a single, deliberate, obviously wrong use, delivered with a straight face, when the moment is perfect. "Pass the potatoes, no cap." Then never again. Slang in a dad's mouth works like a firework. One is an event. Two is a fire hazard.

Let your wife get there on her own. She'll be using it correctly by Friday. Probably at a moment that horrifies everyone. That isn't your fault, and it's the best thing that will happen to you all week.

Expect it to expire. By the time you've learned a word, it may be retired. That's not a failure. That's how slang works. The words belong to the kid for about a year, the way a certain song belongs to a certain summer. Don't try to hold onto it for him. Appreciate it while it's on the table.

Keep one weapon in reserve. Every family needs a counterweight. Slang is the kids' inside joke, and an inside joke is load-bearing. The dad joke is yours. When he says something is "cooked," tell him you've been well-done for years. Hand it to him slowly. The groan is the whole point.

Where it goes wrong

You'll mistranslate something. Say you explain "cooked" to your wife as meaning "delicious," because the potatoes are involved and it seemed logical. Two days later she tells a neighbor over the fence that her son is "absolutely cooked." Be ready to make that call and apologize.

You'll also get sloppy and let a word slip out at the wrong time. Your son will look at you with the stillness of a deer hearing a twig. Don't apologize. Just reach for the salt. Everyone's heard worse.

And the real risk isn't any of that. It's quitting. It's saying "I don't understand a word you say" and going back to the sports page. Your kid is handing you a language, in pieces, at the table, with food on his chin. Take the pieces.

Back at the table

Tuesday again, same meatloaf. Your son wants seconds. Your wife looks him square in the eye.

"No cap?" she says.

He freezes. "...No cap."

"Then it's bussin," she says, and she reaches across and takes a roll off his plate. "Fanum tax."

He doesn't say a word. He just stares at the roll as it goes. Then he starts smiling at his plate, and he leaves the fork exactly where it landed.