She's a chip off the old block

My little tiny daughter, the apple of my eye, the greatest gift my wife and I could have had bestowed upon us, is an obnoxious trash talker.

She taunts, she sings songs comparing the subject to gross things, she dances in an attempt to make her trash-talk more obnoxious and simply goes out of her way to verbally tease whoever she's planning on teasing at that moment.

In short, she's just like her father.

I have to admit that over the years, I have often been a proponent of a little harmless trash talk, usually in fun or in jest. And, I must admit that tendency to verbalize things and have them resonate unpleasantly in opponents' minds has occasionally come back to bite me in the backside.

So, it's with that unfortunate idea in mind that I must rail and rail against my daughter doing exactly what it is I do to her on occasion.

Yes, it's true. I do, occasionally place a thumb on either side of my head and tease her with 'nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah, you can't have it,' 'it,' of course, being whatever it is she wants.

Nice dad I am.

It gets better. Since she discovered the word poo-poo and its many colourful, descriptive meanings, she likes to pepper her trash-talking with scatological references.

And, as a frequent target of her trash-talking – which she dispenses with unerring glee – I find myself admiring her persistence and her volume, even if her syntax is off.

'Daddy is a poo-poo head,'

'Daddy is poo-pooey,'

'Daddy can't get me, poo-poo poo poo-poo.'

That last one is my favourite. I think it's the fifth 'poo.' You know, for emphasis.

When did my daughter learn to talk trash like an NFL defensive back?

I reflect back to when she was just a year old, and I took the time to teach her how to tap her chest and say 'my house' and 'all day, baby!'

So, I guess it's my fault. It's not so bad. She usually only trash-talks me when she's in a good mood or wants me to chase her around the house and tickle her. If she's in a really foul mood, she won't talk to me at all. She'll just fall in a heap on the floor and cry.

If I'm really lucky, she'll go into her room and close the door. It's like a preview of her teenage years, a fellow dad with waaay more experience in these matters warned me the other day.

Great.

So, now, she's up in her room, crying, upset with me, with the door closed.

Oh, well.

At least it's quiet.