The F Word…

Yep, you might well gasp!

So last week, my 2 year old son overheard a builder use the F word.

I know, disgusting right. What’s society coming to?

Erm, that builder might just have been me. I think it happened right after I indirectly vacuumed my own ponytail and then tripped over the cat. I know, it was a bad ‘effing’ day.

Now the kid, currently relishing in the English language and his daily expansion of it, has decided that F*** is his new favourite word. RIP ‘beautiful”.  So wonderful is his new word (despite him being aware it is so very wrong), it must be uttered at only the most important of times, in front of the very best of company.

Cue me waiting in line at the supermarket (behind a former colleague and her pristine child) as I tried to cough over my first born’s tourette like drivel, lying that yes it sounded rude but actually it was Greek for cake- or the time I was filling the car with petrol as the child witnessed me spilling the contents out of the pump and down myself, remarking exactly what I was thinking- or most recently, in the park, in front of I don’t know, maybe half a dozen mothers, as we missed out to a particular zealous one for the free swing. Oh the shame.

At least he knows when to apply the b***** word. A doctor recently commented how advanced his language skills are for his age. If only he knew quite how advanced.

So I’ve taken serious action (no, not the naughty step-not this time amigoes): the bin. No, not the child in the bin. I have my limits. The odd toy. Every time he says it, he now has to throw one of his toy cars into the bin (only to be retrieved later by me) hands squelching amongst the debris of last night’s dinner and the odd ponytail/cat’s tail. I suppose that’s a just enough punishment for me. I mean for the builder.

Luckily it seems to be working.

I’ve had prouder days…

Photograph © Peter Broadbent.