At the risk of making The Kid sound like the worst longshoreman alive, I have to add this second, final, incident of salty language from our little cherub:

Toddlers have no respect for time. Getting one out the door in the morning is a daily adventure. Just when you think you are ready, you will turn around and find that your  darling has removed her shoes,  smeared something on her clothing, or just disappeared.

After one particularly fraught morning, when I had finally wrangled her downstairs and out the door, she slipped past me into our tiny, crammed, one car garage to the front of the car where countless hazards awaited. Burdened with her diaper bag, my briefcase, and our jackets, I could not quickly follow her into the narrow space. I eventually managed to coax her to me, and began to load our things into my car. As I calculated just how late I was going to be, I managed to upend one of our bags, sending its contents under the car. That was it. I’d had enough. Acutely aware of the impressionable  creature standing next to me, I let out a pained, “Oh….Shoot!”

I looked down at The Kid. Big blue eyes wide open. “Not “shit?”  she asked.

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