There are many things my children have said over the years that make me smile.

“Mommy, your belly is really big and squishy.”

“Mama, your food is icky. I want McDonald’s.”

“Mom, your phone is a good swimmer!”

You know, really cute things that every mother would quickly write in the baby book.

If she had one.

Which I don’t.

But last night, to my complete horror and to the detriment of my respect for my husband and his ability to watch what he says, Katie took the cake.  She sent me stomping out to the garage to get my husband and have her repeat it to him.  Expecting him to be shocked and disappointed in himself, I braced for the all important, “I told you so!”.

I am making dinner.  Steaks that were requested a week ago.  I am preparing side dishes when Katie comes in and asks – orders – me to stop what I am doing and make her a bubble bath.  She has stripped down naked in the middle of my kitchen  – except for the permanent crown attached to her head – and despite my very clear “after dinner”, continues to badger me for a bath.

I am getting frustrated.

“Can’t you see I am working here?”

Apparently, she did not care.  For the next thing that comes out of my innocent, beautiful, sweet mouth of my eldest child is:

“I am so tired of this sh*t!”

Ummm…  no.  No, I did not just hear that.

I ask her what she said.

“I am so tired of this sh*t, Mommy.”

Still innocent, still sweet, not at all aware of what she has said, she repeats it once more.  For good measure, I am sure.

I am L I V I D!

I know exactly where she got it, I know we have had this conversation in detail before, and I know he knows better!

I storm out of the kitchen, trying to remain somewhat calm, glad that at least she said it for the first time for only me to hear, and ask Katie to repeat what she just told me to her Father.

Sensing that she might just have done something wrong, she clams up.  I prod her along with “I am so tired….”

And she finishes the sentence.

Boisterous laughter echo’s through the garage.  For a moment, I think a TV is on.  For surely my educated, intelligent, child loving husband is not laughing at what my four year old daughter has just announced.  Surely he values manners and proper speech as much as I do.  I know he would discourage any bad mouthed language from his princesses.


But no, he is laughing.

Until he looks at me.

We women have these looks.  You know what I am talking about, right?  Those looks reserved for the naughty child, the about to be naughty child and the frustrating husband who seems to not get it.  I threw one of those at him with precise accuracy and marveled in its effect.

He immediately bent down and told Katie that we don’t use words like that.

She starts to cry.


By the time I get her calmed down, scold her Father once more – who is now acting appropriately remorseful,  and get her into the bubble bath, the steaks are overdone, the sides ruined and the wine not opening fast enough!

I am still in shock later that evening when I am cuddling with her on the couch.

“Mommy, I am sorry I said freaking sh*t.”

I take a deep breath, look down into her big blue, unaware eyes, and smile.

“It’s OK honey.  Just don’t say it again.”

“OK Mommy, I won’t say freaking sh*t again.”

Now I laugh.

Such is my life’s work.

To keep cleaning up the sh*t.

Especially when it is out of the mouths of babes.