At 12 years old, Emory loves dogs but doesn’t have one of her own, so she stops and pets ours when she’s heading to or from the mailboxes.
This morning, I could tell something was wrong.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she answered. “I’m jus’ in a pack-of-dildoes with my mom.”
“A what?”
“I’m in trouble with Mom.”
Okay, but that’s not what you said at first. I thought you said a pack of something or other.”
“You mean a ‘pack-of-dildoes?’”
“Yes. What does that mean?”
“I’m in trouble.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Mom and Dad say it all the time.”
“Are you sure that’s what they’re saying or are they saying ‘peccadillo?’”
“Maybe,” Emory said with a shrug of her shoulders.
“I think you should ask your mom about that word,” I said. “But I’d wait until she’s not upset with you.”
She was petting the dogs when her mother called to her. She quickly got up, rushed across the street, looked in the mailbox, and then raced for home, waving goodbye as she trotted past.
The Old Blog in the Desert 