Words we don’t say
The other day DS gets whacked by a football while playing with DD in the garden.
‘Ow, my balls!’ he yells.
‘What did you say?’ I can’t quite believe my ears. He was in my tummy five years ago.
‘Ow, my balls?’ says DS, the picture of innocence.
It’s not a word he’s heard at home. I ask DS where he heard this word and what he thinks it means: he knows what it means; he’s learned it from friends at school.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘There are some words that we just don’t say, okay? At least not when we’re only five years old. It doesn’t sound nice coming from little children.’
‘Oh,’ says DS,’ you mean like the F word?’
‘How do you know about the F word?’ I ask, my world suddenly a darker place.
‘I know all about the F word. Miss X has told us about it at school. I even know what it means.’ DS is wobbling his head with pride.
‘What does it mean?’ I’m feeling faint, to be honest.
‘Fat,’ whispers DS. ‘Miss X says you must never call someone fat.’