Stuff is definitely being absorbed
I swear a lot. Sam and I both do. But for whatever reason—probably because she’s an actual angel with an invisible halo and an agenda to deliver world peace and boundless love over the whole planet—Ruby hasn’t yet repeated any of our favorite expletives. And believe me, I’ve made every effort (including slow-talking, enunciation and bribery with sweets) to teach her how to make “asshat” and “fucktard” come out with just the right oomph.
When I asked her recently to say “crock-of-shit,” as in, what the President continues to feed the American public, she sharply blurted out “CHOColateCHIP!” and then waited with a huge smile on her face for my praise and a sticker. I decided at that moment that the child simply isn’t absorbing most of what Sam and I say around here, which is slightly disheartening. Then again, it’s both an advantage and a relief since we speak freely about things like gay porn and our Mullet-sporting neighbors.
However.
Yesterday morning, Ruby refused to get up. “My want keep sleeping, mama. Tickle my back.” It was a work day and I knew we’d be late. But once she rolled to her tummy, tucked her knees beneath her and stuck her butt in the air, and once she wrapped an arm around my neck to secure me in her tight wrestler’s grip, I figured that nothing was as important as complying with her directives.
“Okay,” I said. “You want to keep sleeping? We’ll keep sleeping then. Twist my arm, kid.”
I ran my hand under her shirt, over her warm back. I kissed her cheek. Then she opened her eyes and said to me, “Poor little bunny.” She didn’t stroke my forehead but she did stroke my cheek! She even had a twinge of the British accent. Then she closed her eyes and enjoyed another twenty minutes of sleeping.
Thinking back, it makes perfect sense. As I was caring for Sam following his “procedure”—when he kept desperately calling for me as a whispered “LauuuuRAH...” and ringing his little bell, eliciting from me the appropriate response—Ruby repeatedly insisted on putting the frozen peas on her father’s boo-boo. I should have known that she was, and is, most definitely paying attention. It’s not that she doesn’t get it. It’s that she’s selective; the child uses discretion.
So yeah. This realization has effectively limited the topics of conversation around these parts. Porn: Fair game. People we know and interact with everyday: Not in front of the B-A-B-Y.
What a dear!
I did a photo of her to demonstrate …
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