Today my daughter boomed her first F.
She didn’t just boom it… she sounded it out.
With her fingers tightly wrapped around a marker, arm high in the air, her little girl face looked back and forth between her fathers’ and mine.
Her lips curled around the sounds the F and the K made and I watched in slow motion as her fathers’ fists tightened into balls and his face turned the perfect shade of purple.
His little girl turned trucker.
The reaction I had planned; calmly telling her that we don’t say that word, asking where she might have heard it, explaining why it’s not nice, discussing other words we might say – didn’t come naturally (or at all). Instead her mature, responsible mother; hid her head behind the newspaper and giggled uncontrollably at the sight of an (almost) 3 year old molding her mouth over a word she was so unsure of.
I wanted to tell her that intelligent people do not say that word (ahem), but I couldn’t see out of my tightly closed eyes, or hear out of my plugged ears, both done to keep from looking at, and laughing at, a furious father who was demanding to know who “Sousa” was; the person my daughter told him had taught her this “filthy” word.
There was no “Sousa.”
There was just an (almost) three-year old learning a word we had shielded her from for this long, and a father with a heavy heart.
Oh and a mother.
A mother laughing hysterically behind a newspaper.
There was that.