My daughter called me "Bro" the other day instead of "Appa."
Not by accident. Deliberately. With full eye contact. And a confident nod — like she had just promoted me.
I did not know whether to be offended or deeply honoured. After a few seconds of genuine confusion, I chose honoured. This felt like an upgrade.
But it also made me realise how completely lost I am when my daughters talk to each other.
They speak in a dialect I was never taught. A whole private language — fluent, fast, and very, very Gen Alpha. Full sentences that contain at most two words I recognise. The rest is some kind of evolved internet English that has broken off from the mother tongue entirely and is now doing something completely different in a basement.
I've been taking notes.
The glossary. A survival guide for Gen X parents like me.
I am not making any of this up. These are real words my daughters use, with what I now understand them to mean:
I have studied this list. I have used some of these words in sentences to see if they land. My daughters have stared at me with expressions ranging from mild horror to reluctant amusement.
Progress.
The sentence that started all of this
The other evening, my daughter — I will not name her, to protect her from the internet — said to me, with complete sincerity:
I stood there for a moment.
Then I said: "Thank you?"
She nodded. "That was a compliment." And walked away.
I spent the next twenty minutes with the glossary trying to reconstruct what had just been said to me. Here is my best translation:
"Appa is chaotic and independent and strangely cool in a way that doesn't quite fit normal categories, and I mean this seriously."
I will take it. I will absolutely take it.
What I've actually learned from all of this
There is something underneath the language that I find genuinely interesting — not the words themselves, but the way Gen Alpha uses them.
They value authenticity over polish. Based is a compliment. NPC is an insult. They are not impressed by people who perform confidence — they can tell the difference between someone who actually believes what they're saying and someone who is following a script. That instinct is good. It's actually quite sophisticated.
They are efficient. W and L reduce a complex evaluation to a single letter. Lowkey adds nuance in five letters. They have compressed meaning in ways that take full sentences in my generation.
And they are funny. Genuinely funny. Skibidi, Ohio, delulu — these are absurdist, self-aware, not-taking-themselves-too-seriously words. There is a lightness to their language that I find refreshing compared to the era of Very Serious Self-Improvement I grew up reading.
My daughters are teaching me something without meaning to. They are not trying to educate their father. They are just talking to each other. But I am paying attention — taking notes, staying curious, not pretending I already understand.
That, I think, is what parenting asks of you eventually. Not to lead. To follow along, quietly, and try to understand the world your children are building without you.
No cap.