I try to watch my language around Jackson.
I really do.
But everybody knows some things just fly from your lips before your brain can calculate the damage. Especially in the middle of an elaborate tale or heated discussion.
Who doesn't love some colorful language every now and then?
We are, and have been, pretty careful around Jackson. So much so that really the only word he catches me with is "freakin'."
I say "catches" because Jackson has declared himself The Boss of Bad Words, The BBW.
The BBW runs a strict program. His tight regimen includes checking to ensure we aren't saying "weird" or "kill" or "dead" or "shoot" and so forth. It seems our efforts to keep him from name calling or using not-so-nice phrases with his friends has started to backfire.
However, when you get down to it, a three-year-old has so little power in the household, we allow The BBW his rule.
But I'm beginning to worry there has been a coup d'état.
The BBW is overtaking the county and he is wielding a bar of soap.
While I have mostly dropped the last remnants of my salty language, the other night after a lively birthday dinner I was regaling my mother-in-law with a tale or two and let it slip. It was a quiet slip - but those little ears are like bats picking up on the tiniest echos.
Immediately, after the bat-eared BBW busted me dropping the Shirley-Temple-side-of-the-F-bomb, the boss man went to work.
Mama! We don't say freaking.
You're right Jack. I shouldn't have said that.
Mama and Daddy, I am going to have to sleep in your bed tonight just to make sure you don't say any bad words in your sleep.