Lauguage

The Love Language of Barn Doors and Backhanded Wisdom

Week #13

When people talk about "love languages," they usually mean things like words of affirmation, quality time, acts of service. You know, the stuff greeting cards are made of. But in my family, we spoke a different kind of love language—one that sounded a lot more like a raised voice from the kitchen and a heavy sigh from the hallway.

We were an English-only household, which meant no language barriers—at least not in the traditional sense. But that doesn’t mean communication was always crystal clear. In fact, the way my family expressed love was more like a series of shouted riddles, mild insults, and unintentional pearls of wisdom. Looking back, I now see it for what it was: a deeply odd, uniquely effective, and very funny dialect of family love.

Take, for instance, this gem yelled regularly through a screen door:

“Were you born in a barn?!”

It wasn’t a genuine question. No one in our family was ever born in a barn, though I imagine it would’ve made for a great family legend if we had. This was code for, “Please shut the door before the entire air conditioning budget escapes into the wild.” It was a love language of climate control, concern for utility bills, and mild exasperation.

Then there was my father’s signature phrase:

“What are you, stupid?”

Harsh, right? But hear me out. It wasn’t really an insult. It was more of a punctuation mark. A way to express disbelief, disappointment, and oddly enough—investment. My father cared that we were making good choices. He just didn’t always wrap it in a fuzzy blanket of affirmations. His tone said, “I expect better from you,” and also maybe, “I know you’re smarter than that because you inherited my genes, after all.”

It took me a few decades to understand that “What are you, stupid?” was, in its own gruff way, a verbal pat on the back. The love was in the expectation that we could do better. That we would do better. And that he’d still be there, sighing in the background, even when we didn’t.

And of course, the classic:

“If you don’t have anything nice to say, keep your mouth shut.”

Part moral code, part self-preservation strategy. This was the family version of Geneva Convention rules for siblings. My mother wielded this phrase like a verbal fly swatter, designed to keep peace, prevent tattling, and maybe—just maybe—encourage a little empathy. Or silence. Either one would do.

I didn’t grow up speaking a second language, but I did grow up interpreting one. One where sarcasm meant concern. Where yelling meant someone left the door open again. Where criticism came with a side of casserole. And where love was measured not in hugs or poetry, but in daily check-ins disguised as judgmental observations.

So no, I wasn’t born in a barn. But I was raised in a household where the language of love was loud, a little rough around the edges, and spoken fluently by everyone who ever told me to keep my mouth shut out of love.

And honestly? I wouldn't trade that translation guide for anything.

Does your family have any of these types of 'language' comments that have stuck with you over the years?

And That's a Wrap

Barbara 

Keeping Family Story Alive

Next weeks prompt Week 14:  Big Mistake  hum, which one will I write about?