Censoring the Chicken

When I explained to my sister that I was thinking about doing a blog, her immediate concern was to censor me: “It needs to be PG,” she told me.  She’s no fun and way too practical.  She also knows me way too well. 

“PG-13,” I bantered back.

“Fine,” she compromised, “but that means no F-bombs and no S-H-bombs.”

“Boo.”  This was going to be worse than Google being restricted in China.

Swearing was like my like piece de resistance, my signature to any cynical sentence I retorted.  But like any addict I realized when I had a habit, and sometimes it had to come in the form of a little four year old telling you had a problem. 

I wouldn’t be in this predicament if I had been successful at my New Year’s resolution: Less swearing, especially around children.  Yes, I see this may seem like a strange resolution to have because “less” isn’t exactly an absolute.  But me giving up swearing is like Charlie Sheen giving up hookers:  it’s never happening in this lifetime no matter how many stunts to rehab are involved, but there’s always next year. 

I’m also quite sure some of you might be doing a bit of judging for the “swearing around children” part but that’s okay because I will never be asked to babysit for anyone again and I’m totally okay with that. 

I reached this conclusion that it was time to try censoring my speech a bit one recent wintery evening when I was cuddling with the four-year-old love of my life, my friend’s son, when I decided to ask him a very important question…

“Do you think Bekah should have a baby?” 

“Uh-No!” he replied almost immediately.

Choking back the laughter I asked, “Why?”

“Because you say bad words!”

“What?! No I don’t!”

“Yes you do!”  he argued.

“What do I say?”

Completely afraid of where this conversation was going, he responded eagerly with a Grinch-like smile.  “F*** Off!” he shouted.

“What! Don’t say that or I’ll spank your butt!” I seriously tried to stifle my laughter but this was borderlined epic. 

“I don’t say that.  You do!” he told me.  Smart kid.  And for the record, I don’t think I taught him that particular phrase.  But I won’t admit any accidently slippages during the course of my road rage, which everyone knows doesn’t count. 

But, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and in this case probably a better influence.  So a few days later I was trying to remind my four-year-old friend that I was going to be leaving for a while and that he wasn’t going to be seeing me. 

So I asked him like an insecure soccer mom, “You’re going to miss me, right?” trying to feed him the answer that I wanted to hear. 

“No,” he replied way too easily.  Damn this kid was good.  Most straight up man in my life.  “You’ll be back after, right?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “Only a few months and I will be back to see you.”  Then I asked the million-dollar question.  “Do you remember where I am going?”

He paused. “Chicken.” 

Close.  Turkey.  Chicken.  I mean they are in the same food group.  Why bother correcting him when he thinks I’m being roasted in a 375-degree oven with light rosemary marinate for the next three months? 

This is the grasp of a four year olds geography skills and thus the story of why I decided to blog as “The Wandering Chicken.”