My mom came and helped out in my fourth grade class one day. I have no idea what we were doing but there were cardboard tubes involved. I placed one of them over my groin area and started swinging it around pretending it was a sword or something. My mom could have just died on the spot 
Hehehe, I’m sorry, mom.
Sexcalibur?
Caricci
Were you farting?
I just remembered something a cute kid I used to babysit did. It was in the days before you could pay for gas at the pump, so I pumped the gas and then hauled her into the station with me to pay. I set her up on the counter while I was digging through my purse for money. The attendant was admiring her, talking about what a pretty little girl she was. Then she looked him square in the eye and said, “I don’t yikes you! Yeave me yone!” And then she blew him a bronx cheer.
I doubt this was the most embarrassing thing I did, but it’s one that I remember my mom telling me about. I was a little kid out with my mom shopping somewhere. I saw a black man and piped up with “Who’s that cat?” Now this was the '70s, so that was very “hip” lingo, but it wasn’t something my parents really said - I probably picked it up from TV. Mom was embarrassed, but I guess the guy got a big kick out of it and laughed.
My husband, at about age two, picked up the word “fuck” from listening to his rather older sisters, and began to spout that word off at inopportune times.
Five-year-old auntie em marches proudly through the living room, where her mother’s bridge club has assembled, and begins to sing:
“Frosteeeeee, the Sunnuva BITCH!”
. . . of course, the other part of the story is that the gals in the bridge club were so busy gossiping and cackling amongst themselves that they didn’t even hear my song (which I’d learned on the playground the day before, from a 6th grade boy named Brett) . . .
. . . my brother (who DID hear it) had to actually tell on me before anyone took notice. :rolleyes:
Well, since one or two people asked…
Okay. Picture a 4-year-old version of me (slightly younger than http://angelfire.com/va2/iampunha1/twoofme1.jpg or http://angelfire.com/va2/iampunha1/turtleneck.jpg) at church with my parents and my (at the time, only) younger sister, who might have been two and consequently might have been in the downstairs nursery.
Picture us sitting all of ten or twenty feet from where the priest was, at that point, doing his whole homily thing. Now, my parents had, since I could understand what they were saying, been telling me gradually more and more involved stories about where babies come from (partly because I was interested and partly because they didn’t see the logic in not telling kids things like that about life). But they had mostly done this in private (i.e. where we lived) confines so as not to offend other people (and because the questions I asked would probably have made a lot of people blush. Somewhat conservative community back in the mid 80s).
But, being a child, it was all about MEEEEEEE! So I whispered, not too loudly, to my mother, “Mama, where do babies come from?” and she told The Shortest True Baby Origin Story in History.
Being (as ever;)) curious as to the, oh, 9 months and wet stickiness she left out, I was unsatisfied and asked my father, who proceeded to tell The Second-Shortest True Baby Origin Story in History.
Having been thusly frustrated in my efforts to gain valuable insight into just what the hell happens when a man and a woman get together in a special way (and knowing that there was this white stuff involved … what was its name again?), I decided that if I asked more loudly and pointedly I might get my answer.
Turn away now if you’re at work or anyone where you are is sleeping or has a headache.
Okay, you asked for it.
“But MAAAAAAA-MAAAAA, I wanna hear about the SPERM!”
I am told that everyone in that church who had a child nodded or sympathized or something “knowingly”, and that everyone who did not turned fifteen shades of red.
We were at my husband’s grandmother’s funeral. My long winded attention whore of a brother-in-law, was giving a eulogy. About 5 mins. into it my 5 yr old son yelled “the end”! And was very disappointed that it wasn’t the end. So he kept saying it.
We were in the toy aisle at Wal-Mart. There was a plastic critter toy that was held together with recessed screws. My 2 yr old son was poking his finger into the recesses and mumbling. Then he looked at his Dad, pointed at a strategicaly placed screw and said “dis is de butthole”.
A few corrections.
Younger sister was with us.
…So I whispered, not too loudly, to my mother, “Mama, how did the baby get in there?” At this point my mother is seven months pregnant.
Suffice to say The Shortest True Baby Origin Story in History waaaaaaaaaaa! not good enough for yours truly. So I asked again and nothing much changed. As she didn’t see me being appeased by her (funny thing about the patience of women in their third trimester … never will understand that… “and I was trying to concentrate on the mass … hoping you would shut up, which was pretty stupid of me”), she referred me to my nursedaddy.
Being (as ever;)) curious as to the, oh, 9 months and wet stickiness she left out, I was unsatisfied and asked my father, who proceeded to tell The Second-Shortest True Baby Origin Story in History.
Having been thusly frustrated in my efforts to gain valuable insight into just what the hell happens when a man and a woman get together in a special way (and knowing that there was this white stuff involved … what was its name again?), I decided that if I asked more loudly and pointedly I might get my answer.
Picture us sitting all of ten or twenty feet from where the priest was, at that point, doing his whole CONSECRATION thing. “This is my body” and such.
Turn away now if you’re at work or anyone where you are is sleeping or has a headache.
Okay, you asked for it.
“But DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-DDEEEEE, I wanna hear about the SPERM!”
I am told that everyone in that church who had a child nodded or sympathized or something “knowingly”, and that everyone who did not turned fifteen shades of red. “I am told” because I of course don’t remember. This would be why half of this has been corrected by pd, who is graciously
CHEWING IN MY EAR! AAAUGH!
"Oh, and the best part is that you said this right after the priest had elevated the host … the most solemn part of the mass. 800+ people looking at this priest and what they hear is not “Amen” but “Daddy, I wanna hear about the sperm!”
She’s stopped chewing in my ear now. Blasted woman … for years I wondered why my ear had a crumb problem.
When I was about three years old, my hero was Robin Hood (as in the disney version, with the cartoon animals) and my dad and I were in the lobby of an auto repair shop. I guess I must have been prattling on and on about robin hood or some such, because somehow I asked my dad whether or not RH was still alive, to which my dad replied that RH had died a long time ago. I stopped dead, then threw myself on the floor and had a screaming, sobbing, fit. We couldn’t leave until we had gotten the car back, either.
WARNING, BAD WORD AHEAD!
Another time, when I was about four, I was in a restaurant with my mom and dad, and for some reason I was really really mad about something. Nnot even knowing what the word meant I said loudly FUCK!
BAD WORD ALERT IS OVER!
And I wondered why I am an only child.
~L
Sorry to drag this up again, but the night after T’giving, my parents, Mr. Rilch and I were sharing stories like this.
My mom’s story: Grandma was hugely pregnant with Kid 5, and somewhat restricted in her movements. My mom, as the oldest, had to pick up some of the slack. Mostly dusting and like that, but there was kind of an unusual chore. At school, the teacher asked the students to volunteer ways in which they helped out their parents.
Kid A: “I bring in the milk.”
Kid B: “I dry the dishes.”
Mom: “I tie Mommy’s shoes.”
Mr. Rilch’s story: He was ~3, and this was the very early '70s, when child abuse was just becoming a hot topic. He despised his kiddie car-seat (as well he might; those prototypes were torture devices, not like the ones they have now!). In a crowded parking lot, his mom starts wedging him into it. Suddenly, everyone hears a high-pitched shriek of “Don’t belt me, Mommy! Don’t belt me! Don’t belt me!” His mom finishes the task, hurls herself into the drivers seat, and takes off, with her face the same color as the burgundy uphostery.
My story: Not really embarrassing, but here goes. When I was a kid, my mom was Madame Chairperson. She had to take me with her when she was visiting someone whom she hoped would make a generous donation to whatever group she was representing. On the drive over, she waxed poetic about how beautiful Mrs. Gotbux’s house was. Well, we got there, and it was everything she said. It could have been in Architectural Digest; perhaps it has been by now. Besides being a dream mansion, it was also set on acres of flawlessly landscaped grounds. I was to play outside while the two women conferred.
En route to the back entrance, we had to go through an anteroom that was being painted. Ladder, dropcloths, paint cans: it was a jarring sight amidst such luxury. In all innocence, I looked up and said, “Mommy, you said everything in this house was perfect!”
I like to think that I had a hand in securing that donation. 
This thread is HILARIOUS!
When i was about 4 i was at the grocery store with my mom helping her unload the cart. While i was trying to put the can of jelly up on the counter i dropped it on the floor and yelled “DON"T BEAT ME.” I am the oldest child and i was spoiled BADLY i don’t think i had my first spanking until i was 6. Anyways the cashier gave my mom a mean look while she soothed me telling me my mother was not going to beat me.
My niece was 2 or so and just started to talk. Not that she didn’t know english, but it took a while for it to come out. One she started talking it was Niagara Falls.
So, I’m taking her for a walk around our aunt’s neighborhood. We get to the corner and she sees our aunt’s neighbors sitting on their porch. So she loudly informed them “I don’t have a penis, but Brian does!” Um, Brian was her 4 year old brother.
My three year old son and I were at the grocery store when he decided it was time to play the Gender Identification Game. He’d point to a man and say “that’s a man, he has a penis”, he’d point to a woman and say “that’s a lady, she has a magina” (that “B” sound was troublesome to him back then.) Most people were very understanding and didn’t seem offended by this–until we got to the aisle where he pointed to someone and said very loudly “mommy, what’s that?” Yep, you guessed it–it was Pat! I don’t think anyone else has done a 180 with a shopping cart as quickly as I did that day!
How about a young cousin embarassing her older cousin? And a little blasphemy to boot?
I was a teenager, little cousin was about one year old. We were at church for a another little one’s baptism, and I was holding her on my lap.
Just as the priest proclaimed, “God loves us all,” little cousin let go with a big, loud Bronx Cheer. I tried to slink under the pew while the priest looked around for the source of the editorial commment.
Now, I can’t tell this story in it’s best form. Only my mother can do that. And please excuse the language.
It was Passover, I was roughly 2. We were picking up my great-aunt on the way to the big family dinner, with many many relatives. As my aunt closed the door, she caught her foot or something, and yelled out a resounding “FUCK!”
I loved my new word. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” you could hear me say, ALL the way to the party. My parents desperately tried to make me stop, but it seems it didn’t help.
So we walk in, me saying: “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” all the time.
Here’s where my mom’s telling comes in, she does these great impressions:
My (very Jewish) paternal grandmother: “Vaat? Vatt is the child saying?”
My uncle’s very British mother: “What IS that child saying?”
My poor parents
These are hysterical.
I was generally a good kid:D, but I had my moments. My mother took me to the grocery store when I was two. We’re going down an aisle, when out of the blue, I scream “Daddy!” and run down the aisle, where I hurl my arms around the legs of a very tall black man and hug him tightly. I’m a blond-haired, green eyed girl of German descent.
My favorite story (and the one my father loves to tell) is the day my parents, baby brother and I were out on the boat with my grandmother. My grandmother is berating my father over his cigarette smoking and telling him he needs to quit. “You don’t need to be smoking! You shouldn’t smoke around the kids! Besides, Karen (my mom) doesn’t smoke!”.
That’s when they hear this small voice pipe up with “Nah-ah! Mommy smokes! Last night, she and Daddy and Uncle Dean were all smoking this funny little cigarette in the living room!”
Apparently, my grandmother didn’t press the issue again:D.
Ava
Not my kid, but when I nannied, the youngest boy was about 18 mos. and just learning to talk. He was a pretty loud kid (though adorable); smart; and he looooved trucks. But he couldn’t say “truck,” so he said “fuck.” Constantly. Every time we saw one. Over and over. In a very loud voice.
Him, loudly, and pointing: “Ook, Joey [couldn’t pronounce “Jodi” either], fuck!”
Me, also loudly, and brightly: “Yes! That is a truck!”
Him, “reading” his favorite book, about different kinds of trucks, while pointing at the pictures: “Fuck! Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck!”
Me: “Yes, those are lots of trucks!”
Him, on the street: “Oooh! BIG BIG FUCK!”
Me: “Yes, that’s a great big TRUCK, isn’t it?”
I got a lot of looks, but I think most people were more amused than outraged. I hope.
Just last week I overheard a little girl being led of to the restroom. She say loud eonough for tose nearby to hear:
"I don’t ear ka-ka…
any more"
I missed the parents face she moved so fast.
