Fun With Play-Dough

We continue to struggle with the dirty words. “Poop” is the favorite right now; I’ve told my daughter that it’s okay to say it once a month or so, but every five minutes, I can’t handle. I promised that if she doesn’t stop, I’m washing her mouth out with soap. Does anybody know if that is still legal? And is there a kind of soap that’s filthier than all the others? Or are we talking child abuse here?

I think what bothers me the most is not necessarily the language itself (although fart and poop can soon lead to worse) but the fact that I honestly don’t remember being six, and therefore cannot understand why this is so much fun. And trust me on this: she’s enjoying herself immensely. Of course, there’s also the three-year-old brother who eggs her on by laughing loudly at every transgression. He now substitutes Poopy-doo for verbs and nouns at will.

“Did you make a nice drawing for mommy? Oh, you even drew the sun!”

“No. It’s a Poopy-doo.” (That’s a lie; I can recognize a sun when I see one, even when drawn by a three-year-old without the slightest artistic ability)

My Rebbetzin says God does not perform unnecessary miracles; if we can fix things ourselves, there’s no need for Him to split the sea. Since I have not heard any booming voice lately telling my daughter to shape up, I’m going to have to come up with a solution myself.

I try discussing it politely, and ask her if she wants to sound like a trashcan.

“Trashcans don’t talk,” she says.

“I thought that too, but apparently there’s one dressed in pink jammies sitting on my couch right now,” I tell her. If she thinks she can get cute with me, she’s got another thing coming. Meantime, I’m having nightmares that involve being out in public while my children yell naughty words at each and every stranger. Is this a battle I’ve already lost, or is there still hope?

I ask her if she thinks she’s smart; she answers yes, she’s a bright child with a great future.

“When you say those words, you don’t sound smart.”
“Well, I am.”

“They don’t take potty-mouths at Yale, Princeton, or Harvard.”

She is intimidated, I can tell, because her eyes get wide. While the iron is hot, I tell myself, and administer the final blow: “They won’t even take you at NYU.”

Bingo. My daughter has absolutely no idea what I just said; which is why this works so well. Nothing intimidates her more than people talking about things she can’t put into context. It distracts her immediately; it causes her to wonder whether there’s a smallish chance she is not the smartest person in the room. She suspects, from time to time, that I have a bit more education than she does; often she needs to be reminded that finishing Kindergarten isn’t all that impressive. So; Mommy is smart, mommy says don’t say “poop”, problem solved, thank you very much.

See? This parenting thing isn’t all that hard.