So I was discussing the Emmy results with Kathleen while Caroline contentedly played with her new plush unicorns she’d gotten at the Renfaire yesterday. And, commenting on the fact that Stephen Colbert got beaten for best performance in a variety show by Tony Bennett, I said, “Twice in a year he got beat out by a singer in a one-shot special. Son of a–” And then I caught myself in deference to our four year old’s presence.
And apparently thinking that I had simply suffered a memory lapse, Caroline piped up, “Bìŧçh.”
I said, “Aw no.”
Given all the incentive she needed, Caroline cheerfully said, “Son of a bìŧçh. Son of a bìŧçh.”
Kathleen said, “Caroline, those are grown-up words. Don’t say that.”
“Don’t say that?” she said.
“No,” I reinforced. “Don’t say that.”
“Ðámņ it,” she muttered and went back to her toys. “Dammit dammit dammit.”
Oh yeah. That Father of the Year award’s looking pretty shakey.
PAD
• 
No big deal, PAD, I have too many examples of my potty mouth children to give right now, but here are two of my favorites
1. My son, now 11, then 2, screaming at his great-grandfather that not being allowed to get cookies at the grocery store was “Bûllšhìŧ, Paw-Paw!”. The little old ladies were aghast.
2. My 5 year old, who is in kindergarden, and learning her letter sounds, and beginning to read, was sitting in our living room sounding out the name of a book we keep on our coffee table. The book is about Uga, The bulldog amscot of the University of Georgia. The title of the book? Oh, it is called “Ðámņ Good Dog”. The bad part came when my wife explained the silent N. I’m so proud.