I live in a sweet little Bible Belt southern town. In some ways this is great (friendly neighbors, low crime rate)... and in others... well, maybe not so much. (I have a list, but today is not the day). Sometimes small-town living has crashed headlong into some of my more "unconventional" parenting approaches. One of these subject areas is my children's language.
My seven-year-old came inside from a raucous night of playing with his sister and some of their friends who live on either side of us and announced that one of his friends, a six-year-old girl in kindergarten, was called the F-word four times at school.
"The F-word. I don't even know what it means," he scrunched up his eyes.
"Well, that's something we'll discuss when you're a little older," I said, hoping I had defused the situation and we could move along.
"F-U-C-K. Fuck. What does it even mean?"
Yesterday, while on the phone with a friend, I forgot that I had a kid and let the word “b#$^*” slip out. Babyface was quietly playing with her Polly Pockets in the dining room. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
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