The first time I tried to speak French was in 2001. It was pre-9/11 and Dustin was deployed on the USS Enterprise. When the aircraft carrier made a stop in France, most of the wives flew over to meet their husbands. Because I don’t like to fly, I volunteered to stay behind and feed everyone’s pets and water their plants.

It was during my housewatching duties that I was bitten by a cat, and according to the doctor, I needed to get the pet’s vaccination records. So I called the hotel in France where my friend was staying, and with my limited French (by “limited,” I mean I didn’t speak it at all), I tried to leave a message with the concierge.

Turns out that the English words “cat” and “friend” do not translate well. “Shot” did translate, but not in the way I had hoped. Rather than thinking I was looking for a “shot record,” the concierge thought someone had been shot with a gun. And because I looked up and used the word “manger” (to eat) instead of “mordre” for “bite,” the concierge thought I had eaten the cat.

More than a decade later, Dustin was home from another deployment in Djibouti, Africa, where he worked as a liaison between the Djiboutian Navy and ours. Djiboutians speak French, so Dustin became quite fluent. In 2014, we were invited to the White House state dinner honoring French President Francois Hollande, not because of my husband’s work overseas, but because of my book “Dinner with the Smileys.” (As one of the White House aides told my husband: “Your wife is the invitee; you, Commander Smiley, are her guest.”)

In the pre-dinner receiving line, Dustin took extra time to speak French with President Hollande and tell him about his experience working with the Djiboutians. It was one of those awkward moments where you’re included by default in a conversation you don’t understand, but it was made infinitely more awkward by the fact that the other person standing idle with me was the president of the United States.

Soon after that state dinner, my oldest son started taking French. Next, my middle son did, too. And because my youngest son hangs on his brothers’ every word, he began to pick up the language without any instruction.

Now my husband and children were conversing in various levels of fluency with each other in French, and I felt left out. So I found a beginner’s French class in the Adult and Community Education program and began to learn, too.

Three weeks in, we planned a trip to Quebec City in Canada, where I was told that most of the population speaks French. (Spoiler: Turns out that most of the population is actually bilingual and moves fluidly and beautifully between the two languages.) I thought I was doing OK with my “je vais bien” and “je m’appelle

Sarah,” but as soon as we crossed the border into Quebec and the street signs switched to French, I was dumbfounded. And I was driving.

Ford: Mom, you’re going too fast!

Me: I’m going 90 like the sign said!

Ford: It’s kilometers per hour, not miles!

It might surprise you that although I’ve been a military dependent for 39 years, the only foreign country I’ve visited is Canada. This was my first time being surrounded by a language I don’t understand, and it gave me a whole new appreciation for people who struggle with literacy. I didn’t even know where to get my beloved caffeine.

And then the Tim Horton’s sign rose up on the horizon like an American flag waving me home. Except, of course, Tim Horton’s is a Canadian chain. But its ubiquity in Maine has made it a familiar sight for me.

We pulled into the Tim Horton’s, and after I asked one man, “Are y’all waiting in line?” and got funny looks (he was prepared for English, but not “y’all”), I was next up to order.

“Hi,” I said to the cashier.

And she said exactly this: “Oh, boy. English.”

We mimed with each other and laughed nervously across the counter until my oldest son came to help. It’s a strange feeling to be face-to-face with another human being and have no way to communicate effectively. Luckily, as we got closer to Quebec City, more people spoke both languages and I could test my very limited vocabulary. My accent, however, still drew smiles.

I have a ways to go before I catch up to my husband’s and sons’ abilities, and even further still until I ever try to speak to Francois Hollande should the opportunity arise again. But after a beautiful weekend in Quebec, I’m happy to be able to say, “j’aime le francais.”