Now that the 2000-aughts are coming to a whimpering end we can look forward to the nostalgic retrospectives, most of which will no doubt focus on the end of the bubble, or series of bubbles. It was the housing bubble that brought us down (we took a bath), and amid the talk of bubbles we may think of the baby bubble that was subdominant in the lifestyle pages kitty-corner from the business pages. If you subscribed to Cookie or Brain, Child, groused about "opt-out revolutions," double-wide Bugaboos and the cost of Bisphenol-free bottles in the comment streams of mommy blogs, then you know as a member of the tribe of nesters, you had your own little branchlet of English: a jargon.
Jargon or no, what has evolved to suit the requirements of grown-ups in an information-rich world is Occam’s-razoresque: short sentences, simple vocabulary, logical progression. Parents who want their infants to learn language need a lot more than this. They need "motherese," that high-pitched sing-song dialect that puts everything in the third person and diminutizes it. ("MOMmy WUVS her lil PUMkin!") It is serious business, motherese, a term coined by Dean Falk, a professor of anthropology at Florida State University. It is "spoken music" whose melody exaggerates the "statistical and prosodic regularities in language input that lead to phonetic and word learning," which, according to speech scientist Patricia Kuhl, is key to early language acquisition. I learned a bit about this when Early Intervention sent a speech therapist for my taciturn 2-year-old. I adopted her extreme flutelike tones, and lo, within a couple of months my son went from a twenty-word vocabulary to six-word sentences. He wasn’t the dumb one; I was, for not deploying motherese with more gusto.
Falk claims that motherese is the key to the evolution of human language. In her new book, Finding Our Tongues: Mothers, Infants, and the Origins of Language (Basic; $26.95), she sets forth the theory that the first protolanguage evolved from the vocalizations between hominins and their babies, which unlike the babies of other primates could not grasp the mother and periodically had to be laid aside so that the mother could forage for food. Falk calls it the "putting the baby down" hypothesis. The child’s distress would be allayed by the mother’s voice, which amounted to an extension of her arms: vocal contact. (Animals, too, use vocalizations to regulate distances.) Moreover, language seems to be "built from the networks in the brain that were originally important for reaching and grasping," which makes our idiom of mental grasping less metaphorical than literal. The mother’s voice is really that other pair of hands she always needed.
Chimps are more likely to vocalize when sad than when happy. The idea that language evolved to mend a rift that caused a mother and infant to become prematurely part of each other’s "external world" is not so very distant from the Orpheus myth, wherein the trauma of separation from Eurydice becomes the genesis of poetry. In the end, Orpheus’ dismembered head babbles its song down a stream. Babbling, of course, is the precursor to language and–in one of the most intriguing facts in the book–so is crying a precursor to babbling. Researchers have identified "melody arcs" in infant crying, prosodic patterns that get more complex as the baby grows. If loss, song and language are truly intertwined, Falk’s is a new twist on an old myth.