I’m leaving Whole Foods with Nick. He’s been surprisingly well-behaved. He hasn’t broken anything. He hasn’t begged. He hasn’t run off and gotten lost. He hasn’t intentionally smacked or pressed his face into any stranger’s ass. As I pull out of my parking space, German engineering acts up in my nearly-ancient VW and tells me the rear passenger door on Nick’s side is open. I pull over.

“Nick, your car door isn’t closed all the way.”

“Aw shit.”

WTF?

I look in the rear view mirror. “What did you say??”

Nick fusses about with opening the door and re-closing it completely. “Mommy,” he answers, in a didactic tone that tells me he thinks I’m simple or deaf. “I said SHIT.  Shit shit shit.”

“Don’t say that, Nick.”

He giggles. “Shit shit shit shit.”

“Nick, cut it out. You’re not allowed to say that.”

“Why not? You say it.”

“Because only grown-ups and babies are allowed to have potty-mouth. Not five-year-olds.”

Nick responds to this notion concisely, plainly, in a sing-song groan. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaw.  Shit.”