I realized the other day that although my daughter counts "1-2-3-5," she has no problem with "11-12-13-14." I posted this on Facebook, and several other parents said that their children had trouble with four as well. Coincidence, or gap between the language and the way our brains are wired?
A few nights ago, while I was giving her a bath, our daughter said what sounded like "fungicide." I was startled not only because it's a big word for a little girl but also because, well, when the heck would she have heard "fungicide" from any of the adults she's around or during the limited TV she's exposed to? When I asked her to repeat what she said, it definitely sounded like "fungicide." She repeated it a few times, but it wasn't until she said "cumicide" that it clicked: "It's the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Come inside it's fun inside!"
She's not just a sponge for things she hears on TV, however. Ever since she was traveling in the car with mama and saw someone making an illegal turn, our daughter has been saying "What the deuce?" This sometimes causes confusion when her grandmother turns to chastising Lauren for the language her granddaughter has learned instead of getting her some juice ("want juice").
On a toy boat she has, there's a captain who she spontaneously named "Captain Pete." She carries Pete around almost as much as Mickey, Minnie, or Donald. Lauren did not appreciate my serenade of our daughter with "Captain Pete will get you high tonight!" especially when Thea started chanting "Captain Pete get high!" Lauren wasn't happy with me, so I determined to correct my error: "No, no, Thea. It's Captain Jack who gets you high." So I think we're all good.
We are, fortunately, still ahead of a friend of mine. When his children were young, the family had some sheep (he'd grown up with farm animals and wanted his kids to as well). They had five good sheep and one nasty one, which is how farm animals often come to you, I understand. A neighbor guy did their shearing, a real down-to-earth back-woods type who grew an unkempt beard, rarely showered, and frequently used colorful language. He also frequently struggled with that big, nasty sheep. He'd get the sheep ready to shear and then the thing would violently extract itself from him and he'd yell at it: "Fine! Go your own way, you son of a bitch!" One Sunday after church--oh, did I mention this friend was a minister?--they had some people over to dinner. After eating, they went out to see the animals, and that big, nasty sheep came running at them, at which point his 3-year-old daughter yelled "Get away you son of a bitch!"
So yeah. We haven't had anything like that yet. So I think we're all good.