Having spent close to a decade teaching, I’ve faced my fair share of classroom hurdles. Yet, nothing really prepared me for the toughest one of all: teaching my own kids to speak both Russian, my native language, and English. It turns out, they couldn’t care less about extra credit or the allure of Tootsie Pop bribes—they simply weren’t interested.
When they were still babies, I was committed to speaking and singing to them in Russian. But everything shifted when they started day care. Suddenly, it was like a barrier went up overnight. I would scoop them up with a cheerful “How was your day, my bulochka?”—bulochka translates to “little pastry”—and they would hand me their lunchboxes, glance around to check for any eavesdroppers, and whisper, “Speak English, Mommy!”
Was it because I didn’t impose a strict language regime on them, unlike the rigorous style of my Soviet education? Or perhaps because their dad, despite promising to learn my language when we were dating, wasn’t fluent? (Full disclosure: I promised I’d master making Tater Tot casserole, which also hasn’t happened.)
I found myself feeling lost, grappling with a sense of guilt. I wanted my kids to be bilingual, not just for the cognitive benefits—which are substantial—but because as an immigrant, I stand as a custodian of my family’s language, trying to bridge the old world with the new. Without the language—and all its complex history—I worried that a part of my identity, and theirs, would remain forever out of reach, limiting connections with family both near and far.
I began to dig deeper; I spoke candidly with other immigrant parents, read extensively, and, most importantly, observed.
What I discovered is that there’s no magic bullet for raising bilingual kids. Children aren’t like sponges, simply soaking up all they hear. Teaching them to communicate differently from what they’re exposed to on the playground, in school, and on social media is hard work. Results might not be flawless. People can become bilingual at any stage in life, but truly equal fluency is rare—more unicorn than everyday occurrence.
So, what does work?
I observed that their language skills became stronger the more exposure they had to it, both at home and out in the world.
Our home transformed into a hub of conversation, literature, music, and often amusing YouTube videos in Russian. Beyond our walls, interacting with native speakers—like their immigrant grandparents, babysitters, or even clerks at a Slavic grocery store where we’d pick up beet salad and chocolate candy—was vital.
It also helped to engage in cultural events and playdates where the kids could swap silly jokes and Pokémon cards in Russian, so it didn’t seem so outlandish.
What definitely didn’t work were the rigid rules and well-meaning advice from others. Pretending not to understand English, some suggested, would teach them quickly! Send them abroad to live with relatives for the summer! Have each parent stick strictly to one language!
That last one, known as the “one parent, one language” approach, didn’t fit our family. It wasn’t realistic for us.
I couldn’t consistently speak Russian without sidelining my partner. Sometimes, after a long day, I was just too tired to monitor every word. And leaving the children with my parents for entire summers or jetting off to Russia, Ukraine, or Belarus isn’t feasible, especially considering the political climate with Russia’s ongoing invasion.
Instead, I found a balanced approach: high-quality and frequent exposure to the language, though not non-stop.
I also came to understand the fraught nature of language and its susceptibility to prejudice. It made me confront my teenage years as an awkward refugee in California with limited English. I still recall the sting of judgment and how starkly I stood out from my fluent, affluent classmates. Back then, I’d pretend I wasn’t an immigrant, communicating in English only when in public—a move not unlike what my toddlers would later do at day care.
Ultimately, liberating myself from the judgmental voices of relatives or past teachers has been freeing. Those who chuckle, “You call this bilingualism? Talk to my hairdresser’s cousin Olga—now her son’s a real prodigy!”
Now that my children are in elementary school, I’ve realized that nurturing their curiosity about our family’s language is what truly counts, even if it occasionally takes a little bribery. Watching them read to their grandparents or engage with cousins overseas in our shared language fills me with awe at their growing roots and newfound knowledge, instead of stressing over unattained perfection.
I’ve learned that praising ourselves for small victories, rather than fixating on unmet milestones, is half the battle.
Masha Rumer is the author of “Parenting with an Accent: How Immigrants Honor Their Heritage, Navigate Setbacks, and Chart New Paths for Their Children.”
