My three year old strolls into the kitchen, one arm swinging, gaze forward, saying in a nonchalant tone, “My baby dolly is in time out”. She walks toward her play kitchen, looking every bit like a mother set on cooking dinner, time outs be damned.
“Why is she in time out?” I ask, dicing carrots next to her. And with a shake of her head, disappointment clear in her voice and movements, “Because she said shit”. She looked up. I laughed. And because I didn’t believe it (baby dolly has always been so well behaved), I ask again, “What did she say?” With a twinge of annoyance, body still facing forward toward her pretend sink, she looks up very casually, “Shit, Mama. Baby dolly said shit.”
I am half-grinning as I try to explain exactly how naughty of a word that is. I am not at all articulate and finally ask, “Well, where did baby dolly learn that word?” Her response? “Daddy. When he’s driving.”
So, now we have a plastic baby who has a swearing problem, a comedian of a girl who tells this story often because it gets a chuckle every time, and a dada who–with a smile–denies ever having said such a word.