I was blushing by the time we went through the check out line. I had handed Fiona to my husband as we walked through Safe-way because she’d been struggling to get down and run. We only needed a couple of things, and we had other perishables in the car, so I handed her off so we could make it a quick run through.
He slung her over his shoulder. Head down. She giggled wildly. He pretended to drop her. She screamed, “Holy Crap!”
Okay, I don’t say it that often. Still, I know where she heard it, and if I tried to cast stones I’d only give myself a concussion.
“Where’d she hear that?”I ask my husband in my best accusing voice. Yes, I know. Still, if you get out in front in the accusation game it makes the spouses accusations stick less.
“Mama. Mama. Mama!” She chants. I knew teaching her to talk was a bad plan.
He grins at me. A perfect match for his daughters wicked grin and bounces her on his shoulder again. “Holy Crap!”
Her beautiful little toddler voice is nearly unintelligible for so many people most of the time, but not now. When it would be great if no one could make her out she’s fit for TV. He bounces her down the aisle to a nice bouncing monologue, “Holy Crap! Holy Crap! Holy Crap!”
“Honey,” I call over my shoulder, “you may want to turn her right-side-up. She’s a little on the red side.”
He flips her upright. “Holy Crap!” They laugh together.
She looks at me and flashes her wicked grin. It looks just like the one on his face. “Holy Crap.”
“Fiona, honey. That’s not such a good word to use.” I try to keep my tone mild. I try to have nothing in my voice that would inflame her to continue this.
She reads me like a book, reads my discomfort, my unwillingness to do anything about the what are really just words.They’re mild words, even. They just aren’t the right words for a two-year-old. She sees all of this in my face.
So does my husband. He laughs. It’s all over.
“Holy Crap. Holy crap. Holy crap. Holy crap!” She cries joyously.
“I don’t know where she gets these things.” I say to the cashier, blushing.
She’s an older woman. So is the woman behind us in line. Their faces are filled with disapproval. She looks so stern that I start laughing too. They glare at me.
I can’t keep hold of my embarrassment in the face of that. It’s not as if we were teaching her to say something truly offensive. We’ve tried; she’s just not understandable when she says, “Down with the bourgeoisies.”
‘Holy Crap’ is a fairly innocuous curse. And, yes, I confess I’ve said it in front of her. I don’t think that it’s worth losing your sense of humor over and glaring at a young family that is clearly happy and in love with each other.
Holy Crap, Ladies. Holy Crap, Indeed.