Isabella and I took a quick trip to the supermarket after Mass today to buy some necessities. (I know, we try not to shop Sundays, but sometimes it’s an emergency.) I like going on the short trips with just one of the girls, having some one-on-one time with them, especially Isabella, who’s growing up so fast.
As we got in the car and were driving home, I heard my sweet little 3-year-old girl exclaim from the back, in her car seat, “Damage! My shoe!”
I wasn’t sure what she’d said, so I asked her to tell me what she said and she repeated it: ” I said, ‘Damage, my shoe.’ I was frustrated.”
Now I know what she meant to say was: “Dammit, my shoe!” I’m ashamed to admit she might have learned it from me. [That’s right, I was having my very own Rodney Atkins moment (http://tr.im/w5kB
): “So I said son now where’d you learn to talk like that. He said I’ve been watching you dad. Ain’t that cool?”]
So I hastily explained to her that she shouldn’t say “Damage”. But that didn’t sound right—I didn’t want her growing up thinking she couldn’t use the word “damage”—so I tried to explain that she shouldn’t say “damage” when she’s frustrated; that it’s a mommy-and-daddy word and that mommy and daddy shouldn’t say it either.
Then we tried on some other words like “shoot” and settled on ‘D’oh!” as perfectly acceptable.
Little ears are listening. I need to watch what I say. D’oh!
Posted via email from Domenico’s posterous