When Cassandre was 2 ½ I was spying on her as she skipped around on the back porch in circles, singing a little song. It was too cute for words. Photo-opp time. In fact, I should have a video camera. Then I realized to my horror, that the word she was singing, over and over again was f*ck.
Over and over again. In her sweet little singsong voice. Skipping.
I wonder where she learned that? (Um, ok. I might have an idea)
She and I immediately had a simplified version of the “that’s a grown-up word, and very rude” talk. After several reminders she gave it up.
Flash forward six years later and she is singing the lyrics to Gwen Stefani’s Hollaback Girl. Now she and I have talked about this song, and my problem is not so much that she says the word shit, but that she understands what a Hollaback girl is. Nonetheless, Cassandre independently substituted “shhhh” for shit. Good girl.
A few weeks later she was singing the Black Eyed Peas song “My Hump.” (I know, I’m supposed to be sheltering her from this kind of music, but hey we live in the real world and we might as well listen to it together.) So Cassandre is singing “What you gonna do with all that junk, all that junk inside that trunk?” And then she sings “What you gonna do with all that a-word, all that a-word, inside them jeans?” And I know I should be proud. And mostly I was. But I was also laughing myself silly and thinking, damn, that song flows so much better when you just say “ass.”