I was babysitting my 5-year-old grandson, Cadan, this week and found myself shocked at a particular word that came out of his mouth.
After picking him up from Kindergarten, we went to his house and settled into the usual tug-of-war joint activities. He wanted to play with action figures, of which he has many, including Batman, Superman, a couple of scuba/soldier guys in camo with swim fins, a frog-like humanoid, a pirate, and several unnamable mechanical creatures. I suggested they have a birthday party and dance together. He liked this, as long as the dances involved two figures smacking each other and flying through the air. At his urging, I spent maybe 10 minutes searching high and low for Spiderman, who simply could not be found. The party had to go on without him.
Finally, I told him it was my turn to sit quietly with my puzzles, a magazine of “logic” games that I find relaxing. Cadan noticed my cup of tea and asked if he could have some. He explained that he is allowed to drink English Breakfast tea, which has some caffeine, the substance that I just objected to him imbibing, and this convinced me that a quarter cup of Earl Gray might be an allowable treat for him. Cadan, after all, has a grandfather who is a bona fide Englishman, and therefore, it must be acceptable to carry on the tradition.
After the tea, Cadan asked me where the saltshaker was. He explained that he had a sore in his mouth, and that his other grandma had advised him to rinse his mouth every day with saltwater. So while he was busy with this, I went into the living room and sat down again. After hearing him clattering about and spitting (in the sink, presumably), I heard him say, “This tastes kinda like crap.”
“What did you say?” I asked.
His voice came from the kitchen. “It tastes like crap.”
I’m sure my tone got serious. I said, “Cadan, that’s a coarse word.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not a very nice word,” I explained.
“Then why do people say it?”
“Well, I guess some grownups think it’s funny, but it’s a coarse word.”
“It’s NOT funny, and you are WRONG as well,” he said to me. (Those were his exact words. I wrote them down on page 10 of my PennyPress special edition.) The interchange with Cadan had reached a crescendo, and I let it slide into silence. Enough said, I thought. But he was obviously still mulling it over. He came into the living room and said, “I still think it tastes like crab.”
“Oh!” I said. “Crab.”
“Yeah, you know, in the ocean.” He paused a moment. “Did you think I said crap?”
“Yes.”
He’s learning to spell. “Crab,” he said. “It ends with a D.”
