My precocious Kindergartener asked me one morning as we climbed into the car for school, "Hey, Mom? What's that one bad word?" I looked back at him from the driver's seat, eyeing him cautiously.
He looked back with his little eyebrows raised. "Well?"
We have a fairly strict language policy in our house. Words like stupid and freaking are off limits, and I'm confident that he's never heard me utter a single curse in his entire six years. With this reasoning in mind, I wasn't overly concerned at his curiosity on this particular morning.
Still, I chose my words carefully. Hoping that redirection might allow me to deflect the subject entirely, I replied, "I'm not sure, honey. What's on the schedule today at school? Do you have P.E. or Music?"
He scoffed. "Moooooom-uh. Just TELL me. You know which word. It starts with a C."
I quickly turned back around and put the key in the ignition, fighting back a giggle. I knew from experience that his level of curiosity would raise in triple proportion to the emotion behind my response . My diversion tactics were not lost on him, not even for a moment. Smart little bugger. And I would certainly have a bone to pick with my husband, who will admit he is much more loose-lipped than I in the way of curse words. Great, I mused. He's taught our son the word Crap, and I am left to clean up the mess.
I had to think fast. Pulling out of the garage, I assessed that I had exactly two and a half blocks to either buy myself some time, or dissolve the issue. Only one idea came to mind: Play dumb.
"I'm sorry, buddy, but I really don't know which word you're referring to. You'll have to ask your dad tonight. Somehow, I'm sure he knows."
It was perfect. Not only did I wiggle my way out of an answer, but my husband would feel like a total shmuck as we sat down to dinner that evening and I opened with, "So, honey. Our son has something to ask you." Two birds, one stone.*
And that is where things went terribly wrong.
"I already asked Dad yesterday! He told me I had to ask YOU, because you're the smarter one and you always have the answers. C'mon, Mom. You know the bad word. It starts with a C, and it's something only girls have."
In that moment, my heart dropped. Not into my stomach. Not onto the floor. It dropped straight through the earth, came out the other side (presumably somewhere in China), and kept right on going into oblivion. Something only girls have?! Oh, God! How could my sweet, innocent little boy have been subjected to this vile word? And what could I say to him?
My pulse was racing. Sweat was prickling at my temples. The school was nearly in view, and I knew that if I didn't have a suitable answer for him, he'd ask his teacher. Probably in the only volume he knows how to use at six years old (LOUD), and probably in front of the entire class. A wave of nausea overtook me as I imagined the phone call I'd get from the principal shortly after dropping him off. My son's walk of shame to the front office would surely be the catalyst for a string of offenses to come. Soon he'd be beating kids up in the hallways, smoking in the boys room, skipping school. My firstborn son would be a delinquent. A gangbanger. An Irish mafia member. He'd be in prison for petty crimes by the time he's 17. So this is it, I thought. This is the beginning of the end.
As we entered the circular drive at the front of the school, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, I searched desperately for the right parting words: Please don't mention the "C" word to your teacher today? That would only result in a long round of the Why Game, which we obviously had no time for with the morning bell only two minutes away, and he would still end up asking her anyway. I glanced in the rear view mirror to see his little brow furrowed with the strain of trying to remember the terrible word, trapped somewhere in his recent memory. I was resigned. Defeated. I pulled up to the curb and took one last lingering look back at my son, the future inmate.
"I love you, bub. I hope you have a wonderful day at school."
"I love you, too, Mommy. OH!! I remembered the word!"
The blood drained from my lips, and I squeaked through clenched teeth, "Oh?"
"Yep! COOTIES!"
* Yes, we are normal parents and play those twisted games, just like the rest of you.
