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I just called Hugh a little prick. I'm no expert, but something tells me that Good Parents do not call their sons pricks. Oh, of course they do, but not out loud and in front of them. One might think it, one might even mutter it, one explodes and says it to friends on a night out over drinks. . . but one does not call one's son a prick to his face.

One does not, but evidently I do.

I've never called him a prick before, but I'll confess I have called him a colossal shit on, well, not numerous occasions, but certainly more than once. But that doesn't seem as bad. I'm of Dutch descent, and in Dutch "shit" is not a swear word. Or so I've been told--I don't know any Dutch. I do, however, know with total certainty that Dutch Americans say "shit" all the time. Even my mother, who to my knowledge has never ever used words such as damn or hell or "God/Jesus/Christ" in any but a sacred sense, and whose lips probably wouldn't even form the sounds for "fuck," even my mom says "shit." Usually in the phrase, "Oh for shit's sake"--with the result that it is not uncommon to hear toddlers in our extended family mutter, "Oh for shit's sake" when they drop a sippy cup or can't get a puzzle piece to stay put.

So anyway. Calling my son a colossal shit (or, for lesser offences, a little shit) never seemed to me to be poor parenting. Just accurate labeling.

But, "you little prick"--definitely more problematic. Accurate, yes, but still, perhaps not the best word choice.

And the really awful thing is just a few hours earlier, with said son being, well, a total prick, I turned to the Countertop Guy (our kitchen redecorating is proceeding, if at a glacial pace) and said, "Um, any chance you'd like a teenager? I'll sell him at a discount price." And he first laughed and said no, no, he'd already done that. He turned away, then suddenly swiveled, hesitated, looked at me, seemed to make a hard decision, and said, "You know, I could tell you something that might help. It's just that, umm, it will make you sad." I thought, oh geez, now even the Countertop Guy is going to point out my complete failure as a parent. But instead, he said, "My 18-year-old son. We lost him. He was killed in a car accident." I stammered out, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." And he smiled and admitted that teenagers were hell, but maybe in the midst of the hellish times, if I could just think about his son, well, maybe that might help, you know, put it into perspective.

And an hour or so later I'm telling my kid he's a little prick.

And now I have to figure out a way to make sure he knows that it doesn't matter. That he can be a little prick, a little shit of a prick, even a fucking colossal prick, and I will still absolutely completely utterly love him. I might not want to be in the same room with him for awhile, but dear God, sweet Jesus, holy Christ, I will always, without condition, without control, love him. The little shit.