What do you get when one and three go to war? Lot’s of flying fists, hurt feelings and exhausted referees.
Into every new year a little profanity must fall and who better to give it to you than Il Duce? The shock value of naughty words spilling forth from tiny lips never lessens, but even I drew a sharp breath upon hearing his newly acquired profane utterance.
If you want an extreme reaction, make sure to call me a bitch.
If you want to make me cry watch my five-year old learn and use that word.
Number one and number three are forces of nature that suck the air out of every room they enter creating a vacuum that few escape. Sandwiched between these two is my gentle sweet heart who has learned to weather the storm and keep his head down.
Today I listened to all three call each other that word and waited for the piss poor parenting paddy wagon to pull up and cart me off.
Good work mom.
One too many viewings of the housewives of whatever county happen to be on and the word became legend over here where potty mouth is far too prevalent and three bars of lye soap are in demand now.