Once, when my son Will was about four, we were out in the car together, and I almost ran a red light. I caught myself at the last second though, and said, "Oh, shit!" as I hit the brakes. I immediately regretted swearing in front of my son. I decided I had better not let the incident go without comment, because I didn't want my son to pick up any bad habits.

I said, "You know, I said a bad word back there."

"You did? What was it?"

"You mean you didn't hear it? Oh, well, then, never mind."

"No, I want to know what you said."

"I'd rather not repeat it."

"No, tell me. I want to know.... Did you say, 'stupid'?"

(I should explain—in day care, my son had been taught that it's not nice to call other kids stupid—a rule I endorse.)

I had to smile. "No, I didn't say 'stupid'."

"Did you say, 'fucker'?"

I nearly choked. "Will! I didn't know you knew that word!"

"I know tons of 'em. I hear 'em in day care."

I can't remember the rest of the conversation, but after I got over the shock, I was generally pleased. My son knew what the bad words were, but he didn't use them—the ideal situation. He's 16 now, and still a well-mannered kid. We're proud of him.