(Warning: Post Contains Explicit Language)
Yesterday morning in the car, Dylan blurted out, “Racecar is a compound word!”
“Yes it is, “ I said proudly, and then I remembered Dylan had an oral test at school this past week that measures academic benchmarks set by the state of Florida for kids in Pre-Kindergarten. It assesses them on things like recognizing letters and numbers, knowing the sounds letters make, counting and doing simple math and identifying compound words.
“Dylan, did Miss N sit down with you at school this week and ask you if racecar was a compound word?” He said yes, but then he clarified that Miss N didn’t ask him if racecar was a compound word; rather, Miss N asked him to tell her a compound word. Any compound word he could think of. Any compound word he wanted to say. Any compound word at all. Out loud. To the director of our preschool.
Mike, who was in the car, too, and I looked at each other and had the same thought: Thank god he said racecar and not something gross and inappropriate like poopbutt. Then we cracked ourselves up thinking of all the compound words we were grateful Dylan didn’t say, like stinkybutt, scumbag, asshole, shithead, douchebag and poopypants (Riley’s compound contribution from the back seat).
It wasn’t our proudest parenting moment. We did our best to curse quietly in the front seat, but it gave us a good laugh (a great laugh, actually), and moms and dads deserve a good laugh every now and then.