Mr. Twitches

So my younger daughter Chloe is the Beanie Baby daughter. I would say she was the mayor of beanie town, but she would probably be more of a Toronto-Rob Ford type of mayor so I don’t think politics are in her future. From about age 4 to now (7 going on bitchy 17) she can always be found carrying around a couple of these squishable part-time dog toys (My Black Lab Riley in particular is a huge fan). She names them, gives them back stories, and speaks in their voice. Her go-to beanies were the innocent and gentle Mrs. Hops (who can be seen in her proof-of-life photo) and Mr. Twitches, that sassy foul-mouthed cat who may end up earning us a visit from child services.

Chloe is 5 when this happened, I was downstairs in the kitchen making breakfast so odds have it I hadn’t opened the wine yet. Apparently her and Mr Twitches (affectionaly referred to as Kitty) are having an argument and I hear this as they are coming down the stairs.

Chloe (my daughter): “No, Kitty don’t do it. We’re going to get in trouble”
Chloe (speaking as Kitty): “I’m gonna”
Chloe (my daughter): “No, Kitty don’t say the F word”
Chloe (speaking as Kitty): “Fuck”
Chloe: “Bad Kitty, that’s a very bad Mr. Twitches. You don’t say fucking dammit.”

Shakespeare this wasn’t, and it had to be addressed. Obviously she heard this sort of language at grandmas house and I wanted to be sure I handled this correctly. As a mom, you never know how you’re going to handle something like this, you hope you can turn this into a teaching lesson.

Me: “Come on Chloe, Mr. Twitches never said dammit.”
Mission accomplished!