A few years ago my mom and my sister were walking over a lava field. (I really need to think of a joke for that opener.) They were picking their way toward a glowing river of magma when my sister ran ahead. Now if you’ve never walked on lava, imagine the surface of the moon, but made of the food remains that get stuck on cookware if you leave them out without soaking them and then it’s IMPOSSIBLE to get off and so you try to put it in the dishwasher but that doesn’t work so it ends up sitting on the counter until your roommate gets annoyed enough to just WASH IT ALREADY. That stuff: crumbly, rough, jagged, and a ruiner of civil relationships.
So my four-year-old sister was running in the dark, flashlight in hand, over this dried lava resembling food remains, when she suddenly stopped short. She looked back at my mom, then down in front of her, then back at mom, then down again. Then she bellowed, in a way only a four-year-old can bellow:
“That. Is a big fucking hole.”
My mom, in relaying this story to me via telephone, chuckled at this point. I asked whether she’d punished my sister for using a bad word.
“Well I started to scold,” my mom said. “But then I got up to where she was and I looked down and I'm telling you, this hole was the size of a house. I mean, she was right. It was a big fucking hole.”
Moral of the story: Proper usage justifies crude language by a preschooler.
I love my family.
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