Curses
One of the kids’ favorite TV shows these days is Phineus and Ferb, a show about two super-geniuses who spend every day of their summer break building fantastic inventions. It’s really clever, especially with the character of Perry, a platypus who turns into a super spy when no one is looking. Each episode flips back and forth between the boys building their invention, and Perry fighting his arch-nemesis, Doofenschmirtz.
Each time Doofenschmirtz is defeated, he calls out “Curse You, Perry the Platypus!”
The boys, naturally, have latched on to this catch phrase. When we’re driving, for example, if a light turns red just as we’re pulling up, they’ll call out “curse you, red traffic light!”
It seems harmless enough.
The other day, it reached a new and rather strange level.
The boys and their mom were going to meet some friends at the neighborhood pool, and were having a terrible time getting out the door. Finally, the only one missing was the 6-year old.
Feeling clever, I called out “bye” to him and closed the front door, with all of the rest of us on the outside. I helped his brother and mom get their stuff into the car, and then went back to see what was going on.
He was standing in the front hall, his arms too full of towels and pool toys to open the door.
I smiled at him. “You going?”
He walked past me without making eye contact. “Curse you, Daddy.”
I suppose I should have been upset, but it was just too darned cute. And I was, after all, the one who had closed the door on him.
Oh man, I understand. I have tried to curb my cursing when Little G is in the vicinity. I found out how well I had done that when I dropped an egg on the floor, and commenced with various frustrated grunts. I like to think of this as the sounds those bad works make when they find they are locked behind your teeth. But Little G was helping me cook, as she likes to do. And she just looked over and let me know, “Omah, now you say crap.”