Word Play

Tracy's delicious vegetarian yakisoba noodles whisk away from the bottom of the wok with ease.  My hands are enveloped in the warm water in the sink as I wash the dishes.  This is a regular routine in my house.  Tracy cooks and I do the dishes.  Tracy's still moving around the kitchen, fidgeting with one thing or another, talking to me as I work.  Shea dances in the kitchen behind me.  Shea's singing to herself as we work, "Doo dat, doo dat," and dancing around on the linoleum floor.

In the natural pause of Tracy and I's conversation, I'm able to pick up a little of what Shea's singing.  The "doo dat, doo dat," isn't as innocent as I first thought and I turn my head to listen more closely to what she's saying.  As I get past the melody of her song, I become aware of the words.  "Fuck that, fuck that."  Tracy catches the look on my face and asks, "What?"  I say, "Listen."  It takes Tracy a while before she picks up on what's going on.

I turn to Shea and tell her, "Shea, that is a very bad word.  It's a grownup word and one you are NOT to use."  She looks at me a little disconcerted.  She hadn't even noticed that I was paying attention to her as she sang.  Her brow wrinkles and she gives me her death stare for which she's recently becoming famous.  I reiterate that the word is not something she should be using and I tell her I'll swat her bottom if I catch her using it again.

She's immediately in tears and streaking up to her room.  This is the moment that's hard.  It would be really easy for me to follow her up to her room, comfort her, tell her everything is okay, and try to wash away the "hardness" of the lesson.  I don't.  I let her have a moment upstairs to think about what's happened.  When Tracy hears her crying upstairs, she goes to her.  I continue washing dishes and making coffee for the morning.

A couple of minutes later, Tracy and Shea emerge from upstairs.  Shea holds her mother's hand as she crosses the kitchen to me and she's got her little head bowed.  Again, this is the hard moment.  The moment where I want to scoop her up, kiss her face, and tell her I'm sorry I was stern.  I don't.  Instead, I get down on the floor with her, sit her in my lap and talk.  I ask her if she understands why I got upset.  She does.

She asks if I want to play with her.  I do.  I ask her if she wants to go on the boat again (we'd been playing imaginary boat on her bed earlier that afternoon).  She does.  I ask her where she wants to go.

"New Orleans," she says.  I seriously don't know where she comes up with these things.