IN my last column I casually joked about the oft-offensive act that southerners call cussin' and oil riggers call talkin'.
Yup, swearing. Using curse words is fun, I argued, and the only reason I don't do it more is that there are impressionable young toddler ears attached to my son's impressionable young toddler noggin and I don't ever want some impressionable young family services agent to have to write my name on some impressionable young court order.
Last week, however, I wondered if I should just throw caution to the wind and let loose a little more colourful language from time to time, consequences be durned.
Well, it didn't take very long for those words to come back to bite me. I guess karma can be, as they say, a real bi- . . . a real big wiseguy.
It turns out that my two year old doesn't need me to teach him any naughty words because he can, seemingly through an incredible process of trial and error, figure them out all on his own.
Prepare yourself now, because I'm about to write the offending word that started all the trouble. It is, in fact, a word that's only slightly vulgar, very juvenile but, I've come to realize, incredibly funny.
The word is "dink." If you're not sitting in the middle of a crowded bus or having lunch with Al Gore or whatever at this very moment, I encourage you to try saying the word out loud right now. Dink.
Funny, isn't it?
Now, I'd like to add a few notes if you yourself happen to be an impressionable youngster who loves to read the North Shore News. First of all, shouldn't you be playing Angry Birds or something right now? Second, please don't tell mommy or daddy that the silly man in the paper told you to say that naughty word. Third, congratulations on being a little newspaper reading genius! I'm sure all the knowledge you'll glean about the dangers of out-of-bounds skiing, high density zoning and Real Housewives will far outweigh the damage done by my dink talk.
Anyway, it's a funny word. Mel Brooks knew it, and that's why he invented an entire race of little munchkins for his film Spaceballs who can say only one word: Gingrich.
Just kidding, it's dink. As funny as the word is, I've never used it around my son. All the experts say you should be very straightforward when teaching the names of body parts to your children, and so far my wife and I have stuck to that plan. As far as my little boy knows he doesn't have a pee-pee or a wee-wee or a Captain Winkie or a Ringo Starr - he has a penis.
That's why the following incident came as a bit of a shock. Last week I was getting my son ready for bed by applying a little cream to a patch of dry skin on his face when I asked him if he wanted the cream to go anywhere else.
"On my dink!" he said. This brought up a few questions. Firstly, where did he learn that word and how to use it so perfectly? He doesn't go to daycare or hang out with any naughty six year olds. Maybe it was that notorious potty mouth, Bram. I can't get a read on Sharon or Lois but I'm certain that Skinnamarinky dinky dink was Bram's way of asserting his masculinity into the group by inserting a 12-year-old's humour into a five-year-old's song.
Another question brought up by the outburst was how in the world was I going to stop laughing? One of the great challenges of being a father is learning to not laugh at things that are obviously hilarious but inappropriate. And by inappropriate I mean, of course, that mama doesn't approve.
This was my biggest test. The next day my mother-in-law was coming into town - the one relative who could possibly take offence to such a thing. This was the woman who insisted on perfect table manners for her own children at all times, "in case you're ever having tea with the Queen."
I needed to make it clear to my boy that he had not stumbled upon anything of interest and that what he said was in no way worth repeating, ever. I was failing.
"On my dink, on my dink, on my dink!" he screamed.
I stopped laughing almost immediately. It was five, 10 minutes tops. OK, maybe 15. When Nana showed up my son was on his best behaviour all day. As we waited for dinner, bedtime and a dink-free day within sight, my son broke into song.
"Head and shoulders, knees and dink."
I wasn't laughing this time - stunned silent, I suppose - and neither was Nana. In fact she played it perfectly cool, carrying right on without missing a beat. Amazingly, there hasn't been a dink since. Nana knows best, I guess.
If it does ever return, I think I'll be OK with it. What I remember most about my son's initial slip is that my laughing made him laugh which made me laugh even more. My son's laugh is, by far, my favourite sound in the world.
So I'm sorry, Queen, but in my kingdom there will always be exceptions made for a little dink.
