Tie and Cuss

Poor Eitan, who hates anything fussy. We battle over his suit, his tie and tucking in his shirt. He whines. He cries "life is so unfair" and et cetera &c. My forced discipline nets about two hours of
obedience or enough to get us through the wedding - Eitan handing out programs, you see. Shortly after the ceremony I spot him running around jacket gone, shirt crumpled and tie lost forever. Sigh. He does clean up pretty good though and this the first time in a month hair combed (Sonnet, pre-wedding: "I am going to scrub you to within an inch of your life"). He, as most boys I observe, really most happy in muddy football gear, black knees and dirt behind the ear.

The kids track my language charging me £1 for words like damn and hell and £2 for fuck, shit and crap. We debate 'bitch' and 'bastard' while the youngsters avoid stating same using the first letter like "you said the 'F' word!" So far the pot up to £26. On occasion I let them cuss with abandon -after all, these things on the tip of their tongue (Sonnet BTW does not really go with this program). The kids have their ears open for anything new and Gracie gives them "mother fucker" which we all agree: this one bad. I am reasonably confident they have no idea what it means but somehow having Grandma involved makes it a three-pounder.

Madeleine: "Dad, whistling is no way to make me hurry up."