Not a week goes by that the F*bomb or s%&t or da&&*t hasn't been said in our house.
Not because anything bad has really happened, but because that's kind of a gut reaction when you drop a hammer on your foot. Or the baby figures out how to open her milk cup and throws it across the room, coming to a stop against the far wall, splattering milk all across the freshly washed floor. Or when the dog steals yet another package of hamburger buns off the counter.
And these events are a daily event in our house. Combined with others, which, when faced with, cause a few choice words to emit. Quietly. Under our breath.
Because now we have kids we have to be an example to. Blah blah blah. Mostly, though, because we have a 3 1/2 year old myna bird echoing back to us our spoken mistakes.
It was still a surprise when Bjorn walked around the house yesterday, muttering under his breath. "Screw this."
We didn't know who to put in time out. Him. Or us.
"Ummm, Bjorn? What did you say?" I asked him.
"Screw this, Mommy. I just need to screw this."
He held out his hand to me. Right there in the middle of his palm was his wooden screwdriver, toy airplane and, yes, a screw. Screw this, indeed.