It’s those chairs, I think, those little scaled down chairs that send your knees up to your ears and your dignity down to your shoes. It’s also that the only thing worse than being in trouble yourself is hearing about your kid in trouble.
But B.’s conference went well, with the possible exception of a little incident around the egg incubator. B., his teacher and some friends were gathered around, tossing out ideas for names of the chicks that will be born in a week or so. B. suggests to teacher and friends alike, “Why don’t we name one ‘Fuck’?”
Because, you know, "Fluffy" is so played.
Fortunately, Mrs. F was mostly amused and sternly explained the school’s language policy instead of referring him to the office. B. was quite apologetic, appropriately so since he’s fond of lowering the boom if a swear word escapes one of his parent’s lips. I also gave Mrs. F big credit (she’s very much a sweet primary-grade teacher type) for telling the story using the word “fuck” instead of euphemisms like “swear word” or “the f-word.” It would have lost all impact.
L. and Big E. later spent a few minutes imagining a children’s book: A Chick Named Fuck. I’m not going to go there.
Fortunately, Mrs. F was mostly amused and sternly explained the school’s language policy instead of referring him to the office. B. was quite apologetic, appropriately so since he’s fond of lowering the boom if a swear word escapes one of his parent’s lips. I also gave Mrs. F big credit (she’s very much a sweet primary-grade teacher type) for telling the story using the word “fuck” instead of euphemisms like “swear word” or “the f-word.” It would have lost all impact.
L. and Big E. later spent a few minutes imagining a children’s book: A Chick Named Fuck. I’m not going to go there.
1 comment:
Hey Kev--love this story; love your writing. Glad you've got this blog going.
Hugs to everyone,
Wendy
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