So, last night, the kids were squabbling. I wasn’t paying too much attention since it was one of those fights that eventually wears itself out, but apparently it was about which one of them was the bigger tattletale.
At one point, Andrew told Kyra: “You’re a snitch!”
She responded with, “Well, you’re a bitch!”
Cue the sound of brakes squealing. I’m pretty sure Andrew and my facial expressions were mirror images of each other.
“What did you say?” I asked Kyra.
Here’s the thing: She didn’t know and given our shocked reactions, didn’t remember. She was going for the rhyme. She could have easily called Andrew a ditch, or a witch, or some guy named Mitch.
She just went with the letter B.
Now, we’re not lax about language in our house, but we are open about it, at an age-appropriate level. So, naturally, the sort of conversation I have with Andrew about language (and I think it’s important to talk about such things) is much different from the conversation I’d have with poor Miss B.
We had a quick talk about why we don’t use that word. She’s aware of other words we don’t use, but I’m pretty sure this is one she hasn’t heard before, at least not in our house.
Then, very inappropriately, Andrew and I started to laugh. And had a hard time stopping. We probably should’ve left the room, since poor Miss B was so chagrined.
But then we cooked some scrambled eggs and pizza for dinner and all was forgotten.
Still, I’m eternally grateful they weren’t having the sort of conversation where Andrew might have called her a duck.
Writing Wrongs 