What a freaking mess!

Simone should have known better.

She really should.

First, she had the boy wash his hands. Then she set the grilled cheese sandwich, complete with a side of ketchup and several offerings of fruit, on a plate on the boy's table. Then she allowed the boy to pick some books to peruse while eating lunch. Library books.

"Careful," she warned as little B lined up not one but three books on his small, child-size table. "You're going to dip the library books in your ketchup."

Simone pondered briefly the problem, unable to decide which was worse: the ketchup on the books or the books in the ketchup. Nonetheless, the marriage took place no matter what reservations Simone had about the matter.

"What a freaking mess!" Simone exclaimed, grabbing a wet cloth to wash off the ketchup and a dry cloth to dry the mess.

Sadly, this phrase marked little B's developing brain. A few minutes later, as he put his fork down on the table, leaving a gargantuan trail of sticky ketchup, he shouted, beaming, "Whatta fweakin' meth!" (Little B's pronunciation may be a tad off but his intent was crystal clear.)

Unable to help herself, Simone dissolved into a fit of the giggles. Encouraged, of course, little B repeated the offensive phrase ad nauseum.

Parenting is definitely fraught with perils...