“Don’t be an ass.”
I probably say this phrase ten times a day, mostly to my dear husband. (To my defense the man really can be a giant asshat.) Sometimes I say it jokingly, sometimes (a lot of times) not so jokingly. Regardless of the circumstances it’s one of my go-to curse phrases. I have lots of sweary go-to phrases. (Growing up my dad’s favorite go-to was “God-damn-son-of-a-bitch.) We always knew when it was coming too. My brother would call out, “Look out! He’ gonna swear!” It really was only a matter of time before one of my own spawn picked up my bad-parenting-cursing habits like I clearly picked up my dad’s.
Yesterday the twins discovered the wonders of Barbie shoes. I kid you not no one loves fancy shoes more than the little trolls, so when they found my middle daughter’s box of Barbie hooker shoes they about died and went straight to Hooker-heel heaven. All was glorious and blissful for sometime there as the twins happily shoved doll feet into 4 centimeter stilettos and fuck-me boots of all colors. Then, as it always does, the twinnie-sweetness took a sharp right and we were right back at toddler fight club. E found a sparkling, red Barbie shoe…just like Dorthy’s shoe in the Wizard of Oz. In fact I think it might have belonged to a Dorthy Barbie at some point. Given the twins obsession with the Wizard of Oz this particular Barbie shoe was the jackpot, the golden nugget, the big kahuna.
But there was only one shoe…
Of course this posed a problem for a number of reasons and I am sure you can all picture the chaos that ensued. Screaming, sobbing, pinching, tiny toddler hands trying to pry the shoe from the other’s grip. No amount of consoling, bartering, or begging could quell their anguish. Fair is fair and I let the old rule of “Finders Keepers” do it’s dirty work. So at least one twin was satisfied. Poor H though….she cried big, ugly tears as she prostrated herself on the bedroom floor. No sparkly Dorthy shoe for her. Her life was clearly over.
Total and utter toddler devastation. It really is a sad sight no matter how deserving it may be.
So I let it be hoping the shoe would be forgotten in a matter of minutes as most of their momentarily prized possessions are these days. Then I heard it…
“H, don’t be an ass.”
Oh yeah. Clear as day, and with such syntactic precision little L told her twin not to be an ass, just like her mother tells her father probably every other day. How can something so entirely inappropriate and naughty be so stinking cute? Her tiny voice swearing away, pronouncing “ass” more like “osss.” She made swearing sound sweet and dainty. She also made me feel like shit. This was my sailor’s tongue’s doing. Right there in the kitchen I made a vow. Stop swearing in front of the
“L! Come here!”
“L, you can not say ass. It is a bad word. A naughty word. Don’t say it.”
“But I like the word ass. I like to say it.”
Sigh. Me too kid. Me too.