My husband is a great whistler. He has a variety of whistling styles, including a couple that involve fingers-to-mouth and a couple that do not. I have tried to improve my whistling for years now, but apparently, I'm missing the whistler's gene. I think I'm more of a snapper and clapper, but that's another blog.

His whistling comes in handy for all sorts of things, like dog herding and cab hailing, but most of all, for rounding up the family. Without discussion, he's invented a distinct, low whistle for when he cannot find me at, say, Target. And another whistle -- higher-pitched and longer -- that's perfect for trying to get my attention from, say, across a waterpark.

Honestly, before I had kids, I don't think I would have been OK with being whistled at like this, but since we became parents, so much of our yammering is completely condensed because with the responsiblities of two little people, there's no time for excess language. A few extra adjectives and someone could end up electrocuted.

Hence, a 10-minute discussion about finances is now settled with a few sentences, chatty phone conversations are three-worded texts and the word-free whistle tops the efficient communicado list.

It's like we're playing a version of the old game show "Name That Tune" where two people competed against each other to name a song on the piano in the least number of notes. We need to communicate volumes in the least possible words. I might be able to plan a vacation in two e-mails, but he can unite the family from the far corners of Wal-Mart with a single mouth tweet.

Until I master telepathic communication, the whistler wins.