Spent a while at Kate’s last night, keeping an eye on the wee fella while Shannon worked. Cian chanted.
“Tankers! Tankers! Tankers!”
“How charming,” I thought to myself. “He must have seen some tanker trucks.” Then the devilish grin spread across his face, and the chant changed.
“Wankers! Wankers! Wankers!”
My heart sank. It couldn’t have been Shannon he heard saying this, because Americans don’t have any facility with wankers, tosspots, or other fine selections from the onanistic line of verbal abuse.
The thing about three-year-olds is you can’t say anything when they develop an idée fixe like this, or they’ll just redouble their attempts to break your spirit. It’s all the more difficult not to react when you’re caught between dismay and the urge to break into gales of laughter.
Wankers! Wankers! Wankers!