“Can I have breakfast fucker?” Miss3 asked me and I nearly fell over.
I should be clear that the Miss3 in this blog post is actually now Miss5. I went looking for this story on the weekend and discovered, through the wonder of Google, that I’ve never written it up. Well, that would be a super shame because I predict my children, together with their therapists, will be referencing this blog for years.
“What?” I stammered.
“Breakfast fucker,” repeated Miss3. “I want breakfast fucker.”
“What?” I stammered again. Despite knowing there was no one in the house except me, Tracey and the kids I still looked around guiltily to make sure my gutter-mouthed little cherub wasn’t being overheard by anyone.
This time Miss3 pronounced every syllable, like you would if you were trying to tell the listener they were an idiot for not getting what you were saying.
“I. Want. Break. Fast. Fuck. Er.”
That was it. I’d had just about enough of this. I swung into action.
“Tracey!” I yelled. “You’re needed in the kitchen!”
Hearing the urgency in my voice, my wife raced in.
“Go on,” I said to Miss3. “Ask your mother.” If you dare, I was thinking.
Miss3 looked her mother in straight in the eye and asked her, “Can I have a breakfast fucker?”
While I confess I’ve used the F word in times of great necessity, I have never referred to anyone as a fucker in my life. I predicted one of two things happening here. One, Tracey was going to burst into a fit of giggles or, two, she was going to burst into flames.
“Of course,” said Tracey, and she reached into the pantry. Then she handed our daughter a corn thin and explained to me, “She’s asking you if she can have a breakfast cracker.”
Little speech impediments can be such fun, can’t they?
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“Raising a family on little more than laughs”