The other day Josie and I were driving around, and I found myself following behind a dump truck. Josie loves big trucks. She got excited.
“Dada! Dumb f#@k! Dumb f#@k Dada!”
It’s terribly hard to not to laugh at times like these. And you don’t laugh, because if you do the next day you will be pushing her in the grocery cart and you’ll be that dad whose kid is calling everyone in the produce aisle a dumb f#@k. And she’ll be laughing like the devil as she says it. So I stared into the rear view and said, as calmly as I could, “Yes Josie that’s a Dump Truck.”
“Guy. Guy in drive dumb f#@k. Guy dumb f#@k. Guy dumb f#@k.”
Apparently she doesn’t think too highly of drivers of dump trucks.
She also curses like a sailor when she tries to say “Sit.” God help me if I am ever walking by a church full of Sunday school children on a nice day with the windows open and Josie should see a dump truck driver climb into his rig and sit down. Especially if she thinks he sat down just a “bit.”
You start to conjure up wildly unlikely scenarios in your mind that could ignite a sitstorm of inadvertent swear words from your child. I haven’t had the chance to use the word “lasso” yet, given that where we live the chance of seeing a cowboy throw a rope around a bull is pretty small. Josie can sometimes mix up the order of sounds in some of her words, so I’m pretty sure that if she ever saw a mother jump out of a dump truck to lasso a bull until it sat down a bit, there would be an clustertruck of obscenities worthy of landing her a bit in any Quentin Tarantino movie, whose role in the credits would simply read “Swearing girl: Josephine Axling.”
And I would excitedly point out her name and declare to strangers in the theater, “There she is, that’s my girl!”