Oh...f--k!

Note to self: Do not edit lesbian erotica when the nine-year-old is in the room. He can read.
 
When you're a two (almost three)-year-old boy, it's really cool when Daddy uses a shocking word when he's angry. It's even cooler when your big brother--who you idolize--uses it when Mommy's not paying attention. It's so cool, you decide to use it yourself, all the time. Especially when Mommy tells you, "It's a grown-up word," and tells you not to use it:

"F--k! F--k, f--k, f--k!"
"You are a f--k!"
"Hi, f--k!

This word makes people cringe. It makes Mommy put soap in your mouth. And when you tell her you like soap, she tries a dab of hot sauce.

Being two (almost three), you tell her you like hot sauce and ask her to do it again. She decides she's given the word too much power and decides to ignore you when you use it in the hopes it will lose its excitement. So you sing it to the tune of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star: "F--ka, f--ka, f--ka, f--k..."

You use it in the front yard where all the neighbors can hear you: "Hi, f--king mailman!"

You decide to mix it with other new words that make Mommy suck in her breath: "Look at my f--king poopy pe-nis! Penis penis pee-eee-nis! Poop. F--k."

Mommy tells you Santa will bring you rocks for Christmas and no pink Princess bike (because that's what you really want). You say, "F--k Santa," and hurry off.

Mommy is going to ask Santa for tranquilizers. They are for her, not for you. F--k.