It happens. We say things we shouldn’t within earshot of little sponges. We try to censor ourselves, substituting one word for a lesser evil. My husband has even taken to muting himself on certain words, a vast improvement. What caused the extreme personal censorship? You guessed it. Max.
Max was gathering up toys she wanted to take on the ride to the grocery store. In one hand was a toy princess video camera that played a short movie of Cinderella dancing at the ball. On a good day. Sometimes, it was just a black screen and lots of ticking noises as it struggled to work. In the other hand was her purple sippy cup.
“Come on, Squirt. Time to go,” announced Daddy.
“Gotta close da door,” she said coming out of her room with her hands full.
She tried to grab the knob with the hand holding the video camera. It just pushed further open. She walked around the door, scooted it closed some, came around to the outside and tried to grab the knob again. Same result. Round and round she went, scooting to the door, trying to close it, pushing it back open.
Then she had a flash of inspiration. She woould switch the two items around. So now, she has each thing in the opposite hands, but still actually in her hands. No better. She huffed and puffed.
Daddy and I stood patiently at the end of the hallway waiting on her to work her way out of the pickle or give up entirely. No, we didn’t help. It was too much fun to watch her try and she didn’t ask.
She worked a little longer. Finally, she stopped. She threw the princess camera and the sippy cup to the floor, grabbed the doorknob, yanked the door shut and growled, “Freakin’ door!”
And then there was the night of a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party. (A story in itself. Watch for it.) Before we even made it inside, we met up with other family members in the parking lot. Everyone was getting presents out of the cars. Daddy carried her over to a grassy island next to Aunt Terry’s car.
He set her down and she looked at all the stuff and said, “Hey! What the hell is going on?”
Aunt Terry lost it.
Then, there was the afternoon we worked in my mom’s garden. Some bugs had eaten up her roses. Max was playing by the rocking chairs out of earshot from my mom. Or so she thought. Turns out Max is never out of earshot.
“Look at these roses. They used to be so pretty and pink. Now they just look like shit. I’m cutting them to the ground,” Mom said wielding her pruning sheers and chopping at the sticks and eaten up leaves.
Max wandered over to see. “Look at dat pink shit.” Oy vey.
Do they make Parental Advisory stickers for toddlers?