I might write about my late son once in a while. The stories may range all over the map. Some will be more about the whole experience than about him per se. This one, however, is absolutely about him.
I was driving, with my son in the back of the minivan. He was between two and three years old, probably a few months after his mother went on Jeopardy. I have a habit of talking to myself and I was either listening to the radio or simply thinking about something. Anyway, I muttered "bullshit" to myself, thinking nothing of it.
Until, a few seconds later, a high little voice pipes from the back seat:
I didn't see that coming, so I did the worst possible thing:
Do you know what happens when a little boy discovers something that makes his father laugh?
"Boosheet! Boosheet! Boosheet!" Now I've got to ("Boosheet!") keep a straight ("Boosheet!") face so he doesn't ("Boosheet!") keep saying ("Boosheet!") this because I'm ("Boosheet!") going to have ("Boosheet!") trouble ("Boosheet!") explaining to (Boosheet!) his mother ("Boosheet!") exactly how ("Boosheet!") he picked up ("Boosheet!") this new ("Boosheet!") vocabulary ("Boosheet!") word.
I kept a straight ("Boosheet!") face long enough for him to stop and forget, thank God, so his mother didn't hear it from him.
She heard it from me.
There's no way I wasn't telling her about this. If I was going to get in trouble, it was worth it.