On a business trip in Chicago this week I received an *urgent* call from my sister:
"I thought you would want to know what your son did today at Mimi's."
"He dropped the f-bomb."
It hit me like a punch. A confirmation that little ears were indeed listening, absorbing. (Dad's potty mouth, of course. Not mine.) He had been trying to open a stubborn window when the bomb hit. Mimi advised him that "we don't use that word at Mimi's house." And then went on to get to the root of the evil, of course: "Where did you hear that word?"
My son's reply? "In the car." Hmmm...well, that explains it.