This morning I was making Sylvia's lunch from some left over fried chicken. The chicken was a little bland, so I thought I'd add some mustard, since Sylvia seems to like mustard and definitely likes anything she can dip.
The mustard bottle was nearly empty and, in spite of being stored upside down, most of the mustard was coating the walls of the bottle. I tried shaking the bottle gently, but that didn't do much, so I grabbed the bottle as tightly as I could and swung it with all my might, intending to smack it against my leg to force the mustard to the side, after which it would slide down under its own weight. In theory, anyway.
It never made it to my leg.
My hand was still slightly wet from washing after cutting the chicken so, at probably 2/3 of the way through its arc, the mustard bottle slipped from my hands, smashing against the floor, breaking the top and spreading a big glop of mustard probably three feet across my kitchen.
So I said, "s&@#%!"
For those of you who know my husband, you may also know he has a bit of a potty mouth. If you don't know this, it's probably because he avoids swearing around you for one reason or another. Sylvia has grown up hearing daddy swear, knowing that those words were just part of daddy's vocabulary. I, on the other hand, don't swear all that often, typically just in response to, say, smashing a mustard bottle against the kitchen floor and breaking it. So if you were to guess, strictly based on the probability of Sylvia hearing a swear word from one of us who would be the first person to teach Sylvia a swear word, you'd probably pick Derrick.
Immediately after my outburst, in perfect imitation of my tone, I heard a small, high-pitched voice say, "s&@#%!"
She is her mommy's daughter.