“SHIT!” the word was out of my mouth the second I realized I’d spilled coffee all over my work station and had doused my iPod, mousepad, ear buds, some papers, etc. Not to mention the mess.
“Oh no! What’d you do, mom?” asked a tiny, earnest voice*.
(All the while I was furiously mopping up my mess, cursing an unintelligible blue streak under my breath)
“Are you cleaning it up, mom? Can I help?”
(more quiet cursing)
I couldn’t just spill my coffee elegantly. Oh no. I splattered it all over the damn place.
I was so irritated with myself.
“Shit!” XC exclaimed.
“XC, honey. I’m sorry. Mommy shouldn’t have said that. We don’t say ‘shit’, okay buddy?”
“Oh. Dammit?” he asked.
I’ve spent the last six weeks trying to not say “dammit” as it was becoming XC’s word of choice when he was frustrated.
“Dammit!” he exclaimed with a grin. “This is a mess!”
“XC, babe, please don’t say ‘dammit’.
“Oh dammit,” he grumbled wandering away.
*What he sounded like:
“Ah, naw. Wha’d yoo do, mum?”
“Are you teanin’? Tan I heylp?”
“Dis is a mesh!”
“SHIT!” (said perfectly, of course)
“Aw dammit!” (said perfectly, of course)