Happy Friday all!
I fully recognize that it’s been what feels like ages since I’ve posted, but, believe it or not, things have been a tad bit harried around this house. We’ve had last-minute cardboard beauty parlors to build (thank you very much for the head’s up on that one, Avery), teacher’s gifts to purchase, allergies to fight, stomach aches to heal, fevers to lower and one very odd morning during which I spent believing my son’s spirit had been taken over by some poltergeist whose past-life career had definitely been of the sailor-variety.
Allow me to explain…
The other morning, after Avery had departed for school and Jack had gotten dressed for the day, I was standing at the couch folding laundry. Loads of it. Unnatural amounts of bath towels and washcloths (which I have recently discovered Jack has been using as kleenex…one for each nose wipe…which would explain their sudden multiplication in my laundry room). Jack pranced into the room, looked me in the face and said…
(warning: I am about to use profanity. Thus far I have managed to avoid such language, for the most part, but in order to maintain the integrity of this blog I have decided to reiterate the story exactly as it happened. Plus, I’ve always thought this particular word is kind of funny.)
So….Jack pranced into the room and said, “Bullshit.”
After I successfully dislodged my tongue from the back of my throat I asked, “What did you say?”
Oh. That’s what I thought he said. Well, crap.
“Jackson…that’s not a nice word to say.”
“”Bullshit…bullshit…bullshit,” he answered with conviction.
“Jack! I said that’s not nice. I don’t want to hear you say that again,” I admonished, running through my mental rolodex of parental wrongs and coming up empty. I could not remember a single time I’d used that word in front of him. A few others? Most definitely. I’m not proud of that. But to this offense, I was most certainly innocent.
Diverting my attention back to my son who had obviously been possessed by a poltergeist/sailor I watched the confusion etch across his tiny face. “But, I got bullshit,” he said. “See?”
He began pointing to his shirt emphatically, my eyes drawn to the image smack dab in the middle of his chest.
On his shirt.
Ah. Bull+shirt+slight speech impediment = profanity. Thank God.
And, I leave you with that.
p.s. I will most likely be MIA for a week or so. Don’t forget about me. Please. I’ll be back (but not in a terrifying Terminator kind-of-way.)