An exchange between my youngest and myself last week as I put both boys to bed:
Me: Seeing that West is hoarding ALL of the Ben 10 guys in his bed and correctly assuming that it's the cause of Walker's wailing in the crib behind me. "Buddy, what are you doing? Absolutely not! Half of those guys are Walky's from Santa..." I step forward and begin to "help" Westie sort action figures into two piles.
Walker: "West, you give me my fuckin' guys"
Me: Momentarily stunned, I don't turn around, telling myself that I definitely misunderstood that. I mean, we still have to ask him to repeat himself occasionally, his speech isn't always clear and there's NO WAY that my baby just said the f-word, right? Right!? "No, West. Gimme Jet Ray. That one's Walker's..."
Walker: Clear. As. Day. "WEST, I SAID, 'YOU GIVE ME MY FUCKIN' GUYS!!!'"
Me: Clapping hand to mouth to keep from laughing and walking to the doorway to see Jesse sitting in the living room, "Jesse! Did you hear what your son just said?!" I tell him, and even as he shakes with silent laughter it's not lost on me that I didn't have to spell out for him which son I'm talking about. "Oh God, and I can't even blame this on you, can I?!" He shakes his head no. "This is all me." I square my shoulders and put my mom-face back on. I walk back to the crib and use my sternest voice: "Walker Cash, you don't say that word, that's a grown-up word!"
Walker: All innocence and big blue eyes, "What word?"
Me: Oh. My. God. I'm going to have to say it. How do I say it without reinforcing it?! Jesus, take me now. "You don't say 'fucking'!"
Walker: "I didn't say 'fucking'."
My head explodes, The End.