Tell me stories about kids saying inappropriate things.

I allegedly ran down the aisle of the Mayfair Baptist Church in Jax, FL circa 1964 to show the minister my ruffled underpants. :stuck_out_tongue:

And when asked (not too long after the underpants incident) wasn’t I a darling girl and must my mother just adore me, I replied “My mommy wants to get a part-time job to get away from me!”

I ran unchecked even then :slight_smile:

VCNJ~

I was speeding to my parents for Thanksgiving, the first road-trip that my son was tall enough to see and understand the speedometer and relationship to speed limit signs. He totally busts me and I’m trying to do that adult rationalization thing when I fly past a cop.

Cop swings into traffic, I signal and go right, waiting for him to catch up and then politely pull onto the shoulder. Cop walks up and the darling child I carried in my body for 9 1/2 months immediately betrays me.

“I told her she was going too fast, she was speeding Mr.Policeman, she was! I told her to slow down, I did, and she just kept right on driving like a maniac!” On and on and on, with zero regard for the evil Mom glares I was shooting him.

Amazingly, after a record check he just gave me a warning and told me to drive safely. I think he felt sorry for me. :smiley:

As a wee one, my young bloke couldn’t say ‘tr’. It came out as ‘f’. Wonderful when he was fascinated by trucks, and would point them out loudly when we went shopping.

When I was little, apparently an old lady got on our bus, and started walking up the aisle as the bus accelerated, forcing her hold the overhead bars as she went. I said, loudly, clearly, and piercingly, “VERY LIKE A MONKEY!” My mother was wishing for that hole to open up in the floor and swallow her. Heh. Sorry mum.

My mom used to tell me this story about my brother:

He was about 3 years old when she took him to visit some people who had a bird. My brother apparently lived to see this bird. One day, when my mom took him to visit this couple, their bird had escaped from the house and had flown away. My mom explained to my brother that “Sam” had flown away to live somewhere else.

Without skipping a beat, my brother started singing a song he made up…it went a little somethin’ like this:

overheard in my ex-hometown in the local Canadian Tire:

Dad:…now it’s only going to take a few minutes, and then we can go home.

Kid: (4 or 5 years old) but I wanna go home now! I don’t care about spark plugs!

Dad: Just a few minutes.

Kid: you’re such…such a FUCKER!

Dad yanked his kid out of the aisle after that. I don’t remember seeing the kid’s feet touch the floor 'till they were out of the store.

Of course, I was literally lying on the floor howling, but I’m like that.

Oh, there are some great ones here . . .

When I was a kid, our next-door-neighbor’s youngest, Ben (about four or so) came over to visit. He looked around admiringly and said, “This is a nice house . . . Our house is a real shit house!”

And my high school friend Becky’s mother used to read her kids Greek and Roman myths from Bullfinch as bedtime stories. Becky got very attached to Sisyphus, but couldn’t pronounce it. When people asked her what her name was, she would bellow, “Syphillis!

This type of incident is particularly embarrassing, when the visitor doesn’t have far to look for where the child must have picked up the word. And then they start making furious inferences about the context in which that must have occurred.

Oh, that’s priceless!

My mother used to tell one one me: when I was about 8 one of our neighbors came over in a new shirt she had just bought. She did a twirl to show it off and asked “What to you think?” Moma of course said something complimentary, when I piped up with “When I liked it in the store you said it was tacky!”

Sometimes I’m suprised she let me live to grow up.

Once when I was young my grandparents came for a visit and I was all dirty and sweaty from playing outside. My mother made me take a bath, and I thought it would be a good time to clean my whiffle balls while I was in there. So I’m carefully scrubbing the grass stains off these plastic baseballs when my mother calls out from the living room: “What’s taking so long in there?” I yelled back “I’M WASHING MY BALLS!”

Strawberry Point, Iowa, 1944.

Papa Doug, age nine, has been hanging out at Grampa Doug’s newspaper office to see how he can help out. This particular day he’s been watching the linotypist. Linotypists in small towns in the 1940s are itinerants, working at one weekly one day, another the next. They have a reputation as low characters, given to drink and neat-sounding expressions.

That evening at the supper table, Papa Doug in all innocence refers to someone or another as a “cocksucker.”

Gramma Doug nearly passes out. Grampa Doug just about bites through his fork into his tongue.

Needless to say, soap ensues.

Reminds me of a couple of stories:

My oldest child was around three or four years old and we were in the checkout line at K-Mart. Right behind us is a lady with a couple of kids. This woman was white–I mean, really white, with platinum blond hair, blue eyes, and very fair-skinned. The children with her were black. DD says innocently, “Are you their mother?” to which the woman replies in the affirmative. There was a slight pause, and then DD says in a puzzled voice, “But they’re kinda black!” I am mortified, but the nice lady just smiles and says that their father is black. Another pause. “MY daddy’s not black!” Why, oh WHY will the floor not open up and swallow me? Here I finally get in a word–“But it would be OK if he were! No, your Daddy’s not black–he’s a redneck!*” The cashier and the lady burst into laughter and I am saved!
(*in the NON-pejorative sense. My husband is a good man and I love and respect him a great deal.)
I grew up in Texas, about 85 miles north along the coast from Corpus Christi. Needless to say, there was a large Mexican population. Now, one of these families owned the local store of the very small town we lived in. We’d had some hard times financially and the owner of the store had graciously extended us a great deal of credit, never complaining about how high the debt was, nor how long it was taking to pay it back. And I also must mention that to use racial slurs in our home was to risk having Mom rip out our tongues and nailing them to the floor. So one day, Mom took my younger brother to be registered for kindergarten and it just so happened that they were lined up behind the wife and son of the store owner. Out of nowhere, and for some unfathomable reason, my brother loudly proclaimed, “Well, I ain’t sittin’ next to no Mexican!!” Mom wanted to just DIE, but the other woman, apparently understanding children, just laughed and reassured her. But it’s a wonder DB made it all the way to adulthood!

We had completed nine of the required ten foster parent training classes and were attended a pot luck meal which served as the last class. Many scrumptious dishes were shared, and my youngest daughter was plowing her way through her plate when I got up to get a refill. I’m all the way across the room of 50+ people, when she says at the top of her voice “Mom, can I have some more VAGINA please?”

Yes, she’d had a recent lesson in the correct name for her nether regions and somehow got lasagna and vagina confused in her itty bitty brain. We let her live.

Snort. I couldn’t help but giggle out loud when I read that.

-foxy

My then 2 1/2-year-old son was just learning to talk and fascinated - typically - by heavy machinery.

We were getting our driveway repaired and the Repair Guy came in a big truck. Repair Guy got out, and he was a big man. My son, who had been playing in the back yard, comes tearing into the front yard and points in the direction of the man and shouts:

“Dumbfuck, Daddy, Dumbfuck!!!”

Repair Guy stops. Looks at me. Is debating whether I need to be pummeled or something. I quietly turn to my son and say:

“Why yes, son, that it is a dump truck.”

Repair Guy just about died laughing.

Oh! I wish i could remember mine, but they’re probably all in Hindi anyway. :frowning: I love the “dumbfuck/dump truck” one.

I’ve told this story before, but I like it.

When I was two, my mom took me to the grocery store with her. Walking down an aisle, for some reason, I wrestled away from her and went FLYING down the aisle…

Straight into the legs of a tall black man, screaming “Daddy!”. I three my arms around his legs and hugged him tightly.

I was a little blond-haired, green-eyed German girl.

Thank God the guy had a sense of humor because my mother was embarrassed as hell.

E.

A few:

Until I was three or so, my Dad was in the Navy. We did not live on base, and most of our neighbors were civilians. My mom would sometimes go on to the base to take care of business, see Dad, etc. She dreaded having to take me with her, because upon seeing *any * man in uniform, I would yell, “Daddy!” and start running for him.

My aunt married a man who was posted to an Army base in Germany. They lived in base housing. They had German friends, who had a young son, who visited them at their home. This being an American Army base, it’s populated by a reasonable cross section of American society - no big deal to my aunt, but a culture shock for the kid, who had never seen a Black person. When he started pointing and yelling, “Eiener Schwartzmann! Einer Schwartzmann!” she just wanted to die right there.

I had a British coworker with a rather foul mouth. Last winter, his three-year-old daughter was getting out of the car and dropped one of her mittens in the slush between the edge of the car and the curb. Her reaction: “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

Mom was not amused.

My little cousin David has… an incredible sense of humor, and he uses it to get into all sorts of trouble. He has been this way from day one. He was an early talker (especially for a boy!).

One evening, my aunt had her inlaws staying over. The three kids had been put to bed and all was well… everyone hit the hay, but around 1am, David woke up and started crying and wailing for his mom. His older sister got my aunt, who calmed David down, and things were fine again.

The following morning, gramma asks David, at breakfast. “David, why were you crying in the middle of the night?”

In his great one and a half year old wisdom, David gives her this “DUH!” look, raises an eyebrow and says, “I’m the baby. It’s what I DO.”

I love this kid. He’s an adult trapped in a first grader body now… This was the same kid who, at around 10 months, was in my arms (yay for that “hip hold” one develops when hanging out with young kids) as I was making coffee and while I was pouring the water into the coffee maker, he pointed to the water and said, “Look! FISH!” and laughed as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever though or heard. I have to admit, it was pretty darn funny :wink: