Bringing up a child in a foreign land has many advantages. To me, the major one is that he or she will grow up learning another language without trying to.

My child was born here, and at nearly 4 years old, speaks Chinese and English equally well. His Chinese is of course far better than mine, his tones are spot on and he has no trace of a foreign accent. Feeling slightly envious of this, and while I still have the chance to stamp my authority on him, I find myself constantly reminding him that my English is still better than his.

At the moment, my Chinese is up to understanding more or less everything he says, even the swear words he is already coming back from kindergarten shouting out to startled, kindly neighbors as we walk down the street.

But what I hadn't bargained for was a shift in the balance of power that comes with the ability not just to speak the language, but to speak it like a native.

In the depths of winter it's cold walking back from school. One afternoon, we

 stopped to speak to a neighbor I'd known since I was pregnant. She was with her toddler.

No sooner had we stopped to say hello than the conversation was simply snatched out of my mouth.

"Boy or girl?" piped up my 4-year-old.

"Boy."

"Nice and fat, isn't he? I should think he eats well. How old is he now? How's he sleeping?"

And so the conversation went on, from general chitchat about her son's well-being, to my own son's school, the food he eats there, the teachers, and so on.