Spring 1989, DD is not quite 3, principal's office of the local Catholic elementary school. DD is blue-eyed, long blonde hair, cute little pink and white Oshkosk outfit - amusing herself with books, toys, and the pet parakeet in a cage. Dad and I are "interviewing" for a spot in the coming Fall pre-school. Suddenly DD comes over to Daddy, lays her little hands on his arm, looks at him earnestly and says, "Daddy, I don't say God****it." We both sputter and say, "What!?" And DD repeats her assertion. We envision principal writing Immediate Remedial Admission in her notes. We regain our composure enough to say, "That's right, sweetie, you don't." After a moment of nervous amusement, the interview continues, and we head for home. Dad and I can't quite figure out where the phrase came from as, although we have been known to use some "language", this particular epithet is not in our usual repertoire.
The next day I'm relating the episode with her Mom's Day Out teacher, who laughs uproariously, and tells me "the rest of the story". Evidently a little boy in the class had burst out with the term -- and was sent straight to the Time Out Chair. DD was simply sharing. Why she chose there and then . . . ?
BTW -- DD got in, and stayed through high school. As far as I know, that's the only time she cursed in front of the principal.
I just have one thing to say.
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