At a friend’s house recently. There were other guests, including a half a dozen people whose age doesn’t total 17. Ross is 4, and learning his ABCs. He knows C is for Cat, and D is for Dog.
“What’s Q foah?” (Ross hasn’t mastered Rs yet.)
“Q is for words that start with the kwuh sound.”
Thoughtful pause. Brightens. “I know a wo’d that stah’ts with kwuh!! –CWAP!”
My sister became very aware of her language when her toddler daughter dropped the F-bomb. I heard the story second hand and still almost choked from laughing…
I once witnessed a ~4-year-old trying to beat up on her teenage sister and calling her a bitch and a fucker. We all know that she picked up that language from her mother. Quite a show.
Well, my 6 year just told Santa that he learned to say the F word from me and the S word from his mom. He also told Santa that I make faces at him when I’m pumping gas. When I asked him later why he did that, he said because he wanted to make sure Santa knew about the naughty things his dad does. I’m guessing he was hoping to establish a grading curve. That kid is bound to end up practicing law or in politics.
My nephew once called his sister a “Bee eye tee see aitch.” Had no idea what it meant; just thought it was a five-syllable word his dad used when he was mad at his mom.
Then there was the time I was in a Saturday matinee audience to see “The Lion King.” Big opening number, “The Circle of Life,” builds to a crashing climax, followed by a beat of silence. Into which was interjected, from a few rows down and to the left of me, a tiny–but bell-clear–toddler voice: “What the f__k was THAT?”
Last month, my two year old dropped a cup of juice on the floor, slapped his forehead and exclaimed “Godamnit!” The Mrs. and I about died. It wasn’t so much the vocabulary choice (although that was hilarious as well), but rather how completely situationally appropriate it was.
About three years ago, I was driving with my then two-year-old riding in his carseat in the back. Someone pulled out in front of me (a very frequent occurence in the driving-and-manners-challenged DC metro area) and from the back an angelic voice chimed…
“Fucker”
…just like his old man…geez, I’m getting all misty…
Same nephew came into the kitchen, flustered. Looks under the table, heaves a defeated sigh. Looks behind the refrigerator, scratches his head. Starts looking in each of the shoes piled by the door, muttering in frustration. His mom goes, “Christopher, what’s wrong?”
Sigh, slaps his thigh in pique. Laments: “I can’t find my fuckin’ rocket.”
Mom snorts, says to me, “Well, at least he’s using the word right.”
We told the story to my sister-in-law and she asked if we had punished him. I answered “How can we punish him when he’s just repeating Daddy’s favorite word?”