The babiest Baby C could best be described as a curmudgeon- he's a surly, grumpy little guy disguised as a charming little guy with wild curly hair, dimples, and the bluest of blue eyes (at my house, they're referred to as 'Connery Blue'). When he's not busy being charming, he's busy as hell being a demon. Seriously. Sometimes I think his sole purpose in life is to fuck with me.
Last week, as I was driving Corbin to preschool I pissed him off by refusing his request for a trip to Chick Fil A to eat breakfast (all he really wanted to do was play in that germ infested play area or as I've been known to call it, hepatitis with a ball pit). He gave me the stink eye, mouth in a grim, determined line and growled 'FINE! Then I'm gonna...say a BAD WORD!'
I braced myself. I cuss like a sailor. A sailor who never has any intention of kissing his momma with that mouth. My kids are familiar with the f, s, a, b, and d words. And if there isn't a swear word to fit the occassion, sometimes, I make them up. Not that my kids have heard any heard any of that shit directly from me- Frank needs his mouth washed out with soap. Anyway, I looked at him and said "go ahead. If it will make you feel better, let it rip."
"Chicken. Chicken fat. Chicken butt. Chicken butt fat chocolate ding dong. Chocolate ding dong fat butt crack. Chocolate...butt crack HOLE!" This was followed by a very quiet, almost whispered "chocolate ding dong...tea bagging!" He glared at me..
I tried my best to act offended. I didn't laugh and I'm incredibly proud because inside I went straight to the ugly, noiseless laugh that makes me pee. Inside, I was dying. But outside? I was the picture of horrified motherly composure. I appeared to be mortified and contrite. He was, of course, thrilled.
I dropped him off at preschool (Christian preschool- pretty sure they would frown at my creative manipulation of the English language) feeling satisfied and a little, I'll admit, like I had won this battle. Of course, my friends, this means I've yet to fight the war...