My 'babies' climbed in my lap this morning - all 100+ pounds of child - to snuggle with me while I petted their bedhead and talked up breakfast. I was busy yesterday with meetings and another doctor's appointment, soccer and coffee with a friend at night. It was nice to start the day together. Until we had to talk about the F* word. Again.
Zack has intuited that there is something magical about the middle finger. We have explained that while saying 'heck' and 'dang' may not embraced by all, gesturing with Mr. Middle could land him in Mr. H's office. I must have done a bang-up job, because mid-snuggle Zack cried out that he touched Lexi's finger, front and center. Like it was a private place. Like they were both dirty and guilty with their nasty, nasty hand brushing.
Once I explained that the mere touching of tallman was not in fact principal-visiting behavior, he calmed down and Lexi whispered in my ear that she knew what it meant. Always curious, I asked her to tell me more.
She whispered, salaciously, "F-U-L-C-H-E-N. It's very bad."
I looked at the clock. It wasn't even 7 am and here I was, defending digits and dispelling made-up curse words.
This is what I get for taking my 'kids to work with me' today. I am never bored.
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