My youngest, Beckham, is honest to a fault. I can read him like a book. My middle child, Cale, is a completely different story. He stumps me. Half the time he’s being serious, I laugh because I think he’s joking. When he’s making a joke, my heart stops because I think he’s serious. You would think this means I don’t “get” Cale’s sense of humor, but it’s quite the opposite. I think we are so completely alike, that I find it hard to believe that an eight-year-old can be on the same level with me. Maybe that says something about me. My oldest, Levi, is completely and utterly straight-forward. Sarcasm is a waste of time to him. He puts me in my place a little more often than a child should.
Back to Beckham. This morning he comes out of his bedroom and marches up to my husband and says, “Daddy, can I say bastard or is bastard a bad word?”
Okay, before I tell you my husband’s response, you must first know my views on cursing. Kiersten’s views? Totally mine. They’re just words. My children could damn and shit and hell their vocabulary to death, and I honestly wouldn’t care. Unfortunately, society does…so they don’t. Damn the man!
My husband is a little more conventional. He looks at Beckham and says, “Well, bastard isn’t really a cussword, but you shouldn’t say it.”
“What does bastard mean?” Beckham asks. All the while, I’m trying not to laugh. I’m sorry, but hearing the word come out of his seven-year-old mouth is just disturbingly cute.
“It’s what some people call it when a child doesn’t have a dad,” my husband explains. “But lots of kids don’t have dad’s and it isn’t their fault, so that’s why you shouldn’t say it.”
“Huh,” Beckham says, still obviously confused. He walks back into the bedroom and says to his brothers. “Hey, guys, we can say it. Daddy said bastard isn’t really a bad word.”
Ahh, the way children interpret our responses is amusing.