My day started like any other day cursing the literary Gods for not publishing my brilliant novel while standing in the kitchen adding sweetener to my morning coffee. Knocking the jar over, the delicious whiteness spilled onto the counter. Before I could fret over the sudden delay in my morning fix or over the rising cost of sugar, the baby said, “Oh shit.”
The child looked at me and smiled.
The thought “don’t laugh” echoed in my skull like an obnoxious car alarm screeching in the freakin’ middle of the night. Where did she learn such an appropriate phrase? And I say appropriate only because she used it in all its contextual glory with perfect pronunciation and intonation; all this from a two year old who to this day won’t say her own name.
Did she learn this language watching Peppa Pig? Or has SpongeBob gotten his Square Pants in a bunch? Where in the world could she haven’t learned this language?
Taking the low road as any respectful male adult would do, I chose to ignore her choice of words as if this mere act could strike the phrase from her memory. After making a mental note to advise my wife of the baby’s newest vocabulary word, I started cleaning up the mess.
As fate would have it, I stubbed my big toe and a thousand thunder bolts attacked my aching appendage like Walmart shoppers on Black Friday. Before I could bite my lip I uttered, “Oh shit.”
Baby looked at me. She raised her thick brows and smiled.
The Lonely Author 