My kid has finally cussed in school.
At least it was the GD word and not the f-word.
Which, you know, being as she is my kid....
It was also Latin class, and not some more dangerous class, so she didn't get in serious trouble.
While we're here, I will share a little story about my kid I ran across in my journal, while hunting for some information I needed (we are signing up for a new insurance plan [THANKS, OBAMA!] and I needed the exact date I started working at the university, which, you know, who remembers that?).
This is from when the kid was tiny, about three and a half or maybe four. We had just moved to the Fort, and I was not yet actually working at the university -- it's about six weeks before I started -- so I had lots of time to hang with her, taking walks and such:
The kid and I walked down to cemetery the other night, so I could read headstones, one of my favorite hobbies.
She had many questions (not the least of which was probably why have you brought me here?), wanting to know if people were still dead here, if they had turned to fossils or whether they might be rotting, and whether Grandpa Marvin was buried here. She also wanted to know what would happen if I died.
“We would bury you here,” she said, “and then draw some words in stone and put it by your grave, and Daddy and I would come to visit, and Daddy would say, there’s my wife.”
“And how would you feel?” I asked.
“I would be very sad. You shouldn’t die.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You should live forever, like me.”
“I’ll live as long as I can,” I told her, which was what Charlotte said to Wilbur, so it satisfied her.