When “Yes” is not my favorite answer

“Did he just drop the F-bomb?”

He being my two-year-old child, the F-bomb being explosive with *#?!, and the answer being Yes.

Funny, he’s always had trouble with the “ck” sound before. But he’s really too young to know that poor enunciation is critical when using profanity in conversation with one’s parents.

For the first day, we were in denial. I mean, in Jackspeak,  “Grandpa” comes out sounding like “Topol,” avocado is a two-syllable word, and “swim” is unrecognizable to anyone but me. On the other hand, there is no mistaking his “Sawzall,” and his “thank you” is perfectly clear. So is his first curse, which he can put into context but, thankfully, not into a sentence. I’d like to put it into a tightly wrapped little box and return to his days as an “Oh Maaaan!” man.

Because his “fuck!” is really unbecoming. On us.

We stood around, no one pointing an accusatory finger but each shrugging, baffled. The tense provided some clues (in my mother’s vocab, the occasional use of the verb in question usually sports the -ing ending of a participle). My youngest sisters keep it clean – we all do, most of the time; my father keeps to himself; my husband keeps it quiet and calm. So who does that leave? Pardon me, but-

Oh. Fuck.

Can I really be held responsible for what I may say HARDLY EVER when driving, hammering, falling, lagging or forgetting?

Oh. Yes.