Kid swears. He's picked up "damn" from Indiana Jones, and he and his little cabal mutter it under their breath when they drop crackers on the floor, break a pencil tip, or miss the sink when spitting toothpaste. I've decided neither to crack the hell up nor to overtly comment on it one way or the other and hope the thing clears itself up before school starts. Speaking of hell, Kid has also learned--probably from one of those damed 7-year-olds--that there is a swear word that starts with the letter "h," and he is trying like anything to figure out what it could possibly be.
Laur, halibabby.
That's not it, Lief.
Hostinfeffer.
That's "hasenpfeffer," and no, that's not it.
Hambiltung.
Nope.
Hunkomore.
Cute, but no. Drop it.
Hoochalordy. Hink. Horrible-toilet-tongue-sandwich.
He got up in the middle of last night, stumbled into our room and pronounced "Halibut." As I scooted him back down the hallway, his eyes only half open and the rest of him almost completely asleep, he kept trying. "Hello. Helium. Hi. Huge. Henry."
"Go the hell to sleep," I whispered lovingly, as he drifted back to dreamland.
