The Very, Very, Very Worst, Worst, Worst Swear Word.

Tonight, after a long day of playing and churching and Chuck-E-Cheesing (in which I temporarily lost my son, only to find him dancing his brains out in front of a blue screen – shirtless – as a gaggle of cheering fans egged him on (all six years old, all girls) and my boy channeled his inner rock-and-roller), I was finally getting the boy's teeth brushed and flossed, his face washed, and his tired little self into bed.

On the way to his room, he stopped, turned, and asked very seriously, "Mom, what's the worst swear word a person can say?"

"Wait….what?" I asked.

"Swear word, mom, swear word. What's the very worst swear word a person can say?"

"The very worst one?" I asked dubiously. I'm no fool. I knew where this was going.

"Yes," he said, his face deadly serious. "The very, very, very worst, worst, worst swear word in the world." He held my gaze. "What is it?"

I paused for a moment. I regarded him. "I'm not sure I can trust you with this information," I said as I ushered him into his bed and tucked his covers around him. He propped himself up on his elbows.

"Of course you can trust me," he said. "I was born trustworthy."

"Hmmm," I said. "Because you have to promise never, ever to say this word," I said. "You have to promise as a boy scout, and -" I added, just to seal the deal, "as a gentleman."

"I promise," he said, first showing me his scout's honor sign and then shaking my hand soberly.

I sighed. "Fine. I think you can handle it." I paused. Held his hand. My son held his breath. "The worst swear word."

"Yes?" he asked.

"The very, very, very worst, worst, worst one," I said.

"YES?" he squeaked.

"Is-" I cleared my throat. "Gosh-a-mickle-pickle-gee-willy-wog-dog-my-cats-robassim."

Leo stared at me for a long time.

He continued to stare.

"Really?" he asked.

"Yup," I said.

"That's the worst one?"

"The very worst."

"And I can't say it ever?"

"Nope."

"Not even parts of it?"

"Nope."

"What about 'dog my cats'?"

"It's an awesome responsibility to have the kind of power that I'm handing you, Leo," I said. "It's not enough to know the very, very, very worst, worst, worst swear word in the world. The real power is knowing it, and still not using it. There's no greater power than that. So I could tell you to never say 'dog my cats', but in the end, if you choose to never say it, then you own the power. You see."

Leo thought about this.

He thought about it for a long time.

"What if I just say 'cats and dogs'?" he said.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why my son currently does not know any swear words, and I am counting on the lot of you to assist me in my efforts to keep this child in the dark.

Because, holy hell, does that boy want to swear.

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