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 four until…well…now, she can always be found carrying around a couple of these squishable, part-time dog toys. (My black Lab Riley was a huge fan.) She names them, gives them elaborate backstories and speaks in their voices. Her favorites were the sweet and gentle Mrs. Hops, who can be seen in her proof-of-life photo, and Mr. Twitches, a sassy cat with absolutely no filter.

Chloe was five when this happened. I was downstairs in the kitchen making breakfast when I heard an argument coming down the stairs.

Chloe: “No, Kitty, don’t do it. We’re going to get in trouble.”

Mr. Twitches: “I’m gonna.”

Chloe: “No, Kitty, don’t say the F-word.”

Mr. Twitches: “F***.”

Chloe: “Bad Kitty! That’s a very bad Mr. Twitches. You don’t say that!”

Shakespeare this wasn’t, but it had to be addressed. Obviously she’d heard language like that somewhere, and as a mom you never know how you’re going to handle moments like this. You hope you can turn them into a teaching opportunity.

Me: “Come on, Chloe. Mr. Twitches never said ‘that.'”

Mission accomplished.