I tend to be really blunt. Maybe to a fault. But it honestly gets my point across so I guess it works out okay.
The latest episode of my bluntness happened last week with my 11 year-old son.
Me: “I’m sorry? What did you just say?”
Me: “Hmm. Well. Do you know what a douch is?”
B: “No, it’s just something people say.”
Me: “A douch is something a woman uses to clean out her vagina.”
B: “Oh. Wow. Um. I didn’t know that. That’s not what I mean.”
Me: “Well, that’s what it means. A woman literally uses it to wash out her vagina hole. Is that what you want to call someone? Is that what you want to be called?”
Me: “The next time I hear you say that word again, I am taking you to Walgreens, making you grab it off the shelf, walk up to the register, and buy it with your own money.”
B: “Okay, Mom. I won’t say it again.”
My husband quietly walks up, puts his arm around me, and gently states, “It’s also really rude to call someone that and you shouldn’t say it.”
Right. There’s that too.