So I’m watching Jeopardy! at home one night and the question is about fairy tales and I know the answer, goddammit, but the buzzer goes and I’m too late. I slam my hand on the armrest of the couch. “Man!”
My five-year-old then proceeds to look up from the blocks she’s playing with and go, “Yeah, fuck that shit!”
The first thought that pops into my head is, Oh, boy. After that was, My mother is rolling in her grave.
I’d heard about this moment from friends of mine. That moment when your child drops the F-bomb in front of you for the first time.
I think mine was a bit earlier than theirs. Maybe. Just a bit.
I sit down next to her and give her my brightest smile. “Hey, baby girl, where’d you learn those words?”
“Daddy,” she says simply.
Daddy. The word is a curse in and of itself.
“Those are words only grown-ups can say, and you must never repeat them.” My voice is gentle but firm.
“Okay,” she chirps.
Just like that. Crisis averted. I smile and go back to the couch. She looks at me again, as an afterthought, it would seem.
“Are fucking Yankees grown-up words too?”
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