The Unspeakable

About two blocks from our house, and on the way to Riley's school, there is a newly poured and solidified cement square of the sidewalk that some fresh, young wag decided to scratch in, in about a size 102 font, "F*CK YOU". Except it's spelled in full, without the asterisk. A couple of weeks ago, walking home from school, Riley stopped and read it out loud then said, "Oh Mum, that's not nice". I always blanche when he uses some of those four letter words. It's not like he doesn't hear them on occasion at home. But, you know. When he was two and wasn't yet talking I was afraid that the first words he was going to say to grandma was, "muthaf*cka" with a great big smile on his face. And the other night when I had him in the bath and we were comparing bruises, I told him how I got a nasty one on my knee from banging it on the side of the tub. And once again he said, "That's when you said, "M-F-er". Right. Well. I reminded him that I didn't like him saying "those kinds of words". It seems so out of place to have a small child use profanity. It's rare that he uses any of "those kinds of words" and we have a deal that when I do, he is supposed to call me on it. And he takes this job quite seriously. Sometimes it doesn't go over all that well with me when it happens and an apology becomes necessary when the heat of the moment passes. But getting back to the "F-Y" we pass each day on the way to and from school. Riley is getting a strange amount of pleasure out of saying "those kind of words" by claiming to be doing a simple reading exercise. They do say the darndest things.