I think Big Bird has been phoning it in for years.
And when the hell is Sesame Street going to come up with some new material? The other day when Sam was watching the show, I saw a bit on the number 10 that I swear they had on when I was a kid.
And that was a long, long time ago. Back when Gordon had hair.

She’s back!

So I dropped the f-bomb in front of the baby today.
I didn’t mean to. In fact, I’ve been seriously trying to clean up my admittedly salty language ever since I was first pregnant.
Part of it is just environment: my husband curses. My parents curse (“Do not say s-h-i-t in front of the b-a-b-y,” I’ve warned them again and again). My friends curse. The characters in my books curse. Not to mention I was in a sorority in college, and everyone knows that sorority girls can out drink and out swear sailors.
The thing is, I’ve tried to improve, I have, with — I’d estimate — a success rate of approximately 85%. And I’m much more aware of other people swearing around Sam.
We were at Target the other day (how many of my stories being with, We were at Target the other day . . .? The answer: many), and there was a troglodyte standing near us in the toothpaste aisle cursing. Loudly. It was “shit this” and “fuck that.” I gave him my coldest stare, made a general comment to the air about how it was unfortunate that people feel comfortable speaking like that in front of children and then finally wheeled my cart around and stalked off.
“Did you hear him cursing right in front of Sam?” I asked George, as I readjusted Sam’s hat. “What an asshole.”
Heh.
So this morning I was talking to George — I don’t remember the general gist of the conversation, but I hadn’t had any coffee yet, and I’m never at my best pre-coffee. Anyway, I was saying something, when George stopped me.
“You just said the f-word,” he said.
“No, I didn’t,” I said.
“Yes, you did. Just now. Right in front of Sam,” George said, nodding at our son, sitting three feet away, enjoying his breakfast of peanut butter toast and blueberries.
“Really?” I asked.
And this concerns me. Because if I’m now dropping f-bombs without even realizing that I’m doing so, then I could conceivably be cursing my way through story hour and music class. Which, I’m guessing, would be frowned upon by the other moms.
To show you what I’m up against, this was my mother’s response to my f-bomb slip: “Good. Now when Sam starts cursing, you won’t blame me.”