When my son was first learning to talk, I remember placing him in his high chair one morning and putting a plate of bananas covered in peanut butter on his tray. He looked up at me with his little pinkies extended, and clearly, as one might say, “Hi,” or “Bye,” he said, “Fuk.”
Yes, I said, “Fuk.”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“Fuk,” he said. And once again with more emphasis, in case I didn’t hear him the first time. “Fuk!”
It was the third time he’d used that word this week, and every time he did, I thought, “Dammit. The fact that I have a foul mouth has finally come home to roost.”
Friends had warned me if I didn’t clean up my language, it was going to rub off on my son. Until now, Eddie wasn’t old enough to understand what I was saying. It appears that’s now changing.
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