$#@*!

“Daddy, I’m just going to say ‘damn’ and ‘it.’ I’m not going to say ‘damn it.’”

“No, Berdey, you can’t say that.”

“But Mommy does.” (Pause.) “Mommy also says—”

Ahem, you see where this is going. While I’ve been worrying about the bad grammar and poopie talk coming from school, three-year-old Berdey has been watching me, in all my glory. He is a quick study, and if I’m not careful, he’ll soon have enough material to hit the comedy club circuit.

In my defense, I haven’t let slip anything truly heinous yet. (The f-word comes courtesy of the neighborhood goodfellas, the b-word from the tweens at the park.) Blasphemy, yes. Charming idioms like “you’re killing me,” of course. The occasional “I hate my life,” perhaps. I mean, what else comes to mind when your six-month-old kicks the big bowl of homemade baby food you spent two hours and 20 bucks preparing all over the one pair of pants that fit you? What else can you say when you try your best and everything turns to shit—I mean, spit?

It’s only a momentary outburst, and then it’s gone. I laugh and shake my head. I teach my son that whatever stupid thing I say is “just an expression.” And then I quietly hope he doesn’t file my choice words away in that spongy brain of his.

He’s not a baby anymore. The sponge is solidifying into the whole ball of wax. If he’s anything like me, he’ll be a bad-memory prodigy: he’ll record every bad behavior around him in case he needs street cred one day. He may remember the bad in spite of the good. He may hold it against me.

I’d be a fool to think I can change much. Mark often tells me I haven’t changed since I was 17, and he’s not talking about my youthful glow. He means I am very rooted within myself and hard to win over, principled and stubborn. I will always try to do better, but I may not always get far. In other words, I’m still going to yell and say things I wish Berdey didn’t hear. So since I can’t totally erase my bad behavior, my new plan is to offset it. Kind of like a polluter that buys a carbon credit.

Berdey and I have been going on dates. These are nice memories, at least as influential as a few “damn it”s. Our latest date was to get hot chocolate together. It felt special and dare I say, bad, to be out after dinner on a school night. He should have been in the bath or learning to read or at least exerting his own bad influence over his sister. Instead, we braved the icy weather and the stream of commuters trying to rush us along. Berdey hadn’t had hot chocolate before, or whipped cream. This was an event.

We sat and talked for close to an hour, and when the whipped cream was done, we asked for more. Berdey really made the hot chocolate last. 

“This is a nice date, right, Mommy?” he said. 

“Damn straight,” I said, and gave him a high-five.

Originally posted on Berdey.com