$#%*@#$&%?!!

"Cock," he announces proudly in the general store. I look up and find the clock on the wall. "Oh, yeah, Harley. There is a clock up there." I glance at the staff. "Gotta be careful how you say that one, buddy," I joke.
What's worse is he’s been saying "fuck", with intent, for months. The first time he said it—"faahhck...?"--it sounded so plaintive and adorable that I made the mistake of laughing while at the same time being genuinely aghast. Now where did he pick that up! I'm sure I've only sworn occasionally, like after stubbing my toe for the nineteenth time.
"No, no," I smiled in horror. "Don't say fuck!". This made it worse. He offered again, a little more assertively, "fuck!".
After he’d said it about a thousand times, I decided maybe I’d better intervene. I told him that even though Mummy didn’t mind if he said "fuck", Daddy mightn’t like it. And I'm pretty sure SuperNanny wouldn't like it.
I find it hard to be too outraged at the word though. And I don’t really mind if the child gets to know that words have different weights, that some words are special, like "fuck". Better still, "love". I guess one day he'll surprise me by telling me he loves me, too. I hope!