We are in Halifax airport. Mary and Tigana have gone off in search of Star Bucks; Kasia and I have settled into one of the three play areas thoughtfully provided by the airport authority in the departure lounge. Kasia climbs to the top of the Fisher-Price treehouse, looks out at the vast crowd awaiting for their various flights to be announced, and cries out at the top of her lungs, "F***, Dad! F***, F*** F***."
Somewhat taken aback to discover Kasia has added the F*** word to her vocabulary, I sweep her into my arms and ask what is the matter.
"F***, Dad, F***!
"Yes, well, um, can you use another word and tell Daddy what is wrong?"
"F***, Dad! Put me down!"
Um, Kasia, I can't see that there is anything wrong, and you keep using that word--"
"F***! Put me down! I want Mommy! F***! Mommy, help! F***!"
It begins to occur to me, that to the crowd of onlookers now starring in our direction, it looks very much like some white-haired guy (clearly too old to be this child's parent) is attempting to carry off a toddler who is swearing and calling for its Mommy, and that this could easily be misconstrued; at a minimum, I am a bad parent who has taught his kid how to swear colourfully and very loudly. I put Kasia down.
She immediately treks back to the Fisher-Price Treehouse and points at its plastic roots. "F***, Daddy, F***!"
I bend over, and detect, molded into the giant plastic roots of the giant plastic tree, a plastic frog.
"Oh, FROG!" You're trying to say, FROG!" I explain to Kasia -- and every passanger within a hundred foot radius --"the word is FROG!"
"That's right Daddy, F***!"
Next time I hit my thumb with the hammer, or otherwise require an expletive, I think I'll yell out "Frooooggggy!"
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