25 Days of Memories, Day 6

So apparently I’m slacking in consistency, but at least I’m consistent in not being consistent…there’s something to be said for that, I feel.  lol

I’ve gone back and forth debating what I should talk about for my next memory.  I certainly have more than 25 childhood memories.  It’s more of a question of which to choose, so I’m just going for it.

Lesson: Bad words get your mouth washed out with soap, but only by the babysitter. Growing up, my parents were youth pastors at a regional level.  That’s a fancy way of saying they traveled a lot.  We moved from Kentucky to Washington, DC with a live in babysitter to help my parents in their many absences.  I was 2 at the time, so arguably, I don’t remember too much and what I do remember is in bits and pieces.  At any rate, during a time that my parents were away, I distinctly remember the babysitter washing my mouth out with soap and her friends in the living room laughing at me for not finding it an appealing experience.

What I’ve pieced together in my 23-year investigation is that my babysitter taught me every bad word I knew by that age.  Not intentionally, of course, but slips here and there will certainly rub off on an impressionable mind.  So there I was, 2 years old learning words that would make grown men blush (ok, maybe that’s an exaggeration).  I guess I cussed in front of her friends, and while I’m sure they merely all laughed at me, she probably found it amusing to keep the festivities rolling by cleaning out my mouth with good ole’ Saint Ives, or whatever bar soap we had on hand.

However, when I was angry with my baby doll a few months later, hitting her head against the bed post and saying the “D” word three times, my dad simply came in and laughed at me.  It’s hard after all for a parent to discipline a 2-year-old for saying words they couldn’t help but learning.

Moral: Babysitter—don’t cuss around.  Dad—perfectly acceptable.  And for the record, I loved my babysitter! So don’t go around thinking my parents left me in poor hands.  But I was a klutz at that age, and there may be one or two more babysitter stories to tell.  Doesn’t mean I had a bad babysitter, just means I had poor balance.  More on that as well.

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