I’ve just reread Warren’s post about his racist preschooler, and it brings a couple things to mind.

First: what the fuck, Warren? I’ve never met you, but you are clearly ignoring the first rule of guest-blogging: do not write better than the regular bloggers. Seriously, it’s the same reason women don’t wear white to someone else’s wedding. You’re like one of those parents who, when taking their daughter to some else’s birthday party, dresses them like a débutante in a princess gown and tiara, as if was THEIR birthday, which, of course, it is not. This is not your cotillion, Warren. It’s ours.

This is all particularly galling because, as our About Page makes clear, the four of us regulars at DadWagon actually write for a living (although I’m twinging with shame to even say it now). Warren does not. I think he used to write for money, but now he is apparently something of a code monkey who makes websites or Facebook apps or whatnot. Let me just say that I were to build a web page on Warren’s site, I would make sure that it was a suitably deranged Drudge-Report shitpile of static HTML. Not just because I stopped evolving as a web designer in 1994, but also because I would would want Warren to look good on his home turf.

We’ve been extended no such courtesy, and it’s making our readers think. The estimable @wrath66 commented that he hopes Warren keeps writing for DadWagon. It was good of him at least to not publicly suggest which one of us four sadsack original DadWagoners should be let go in order to make room for this wunderkind from Los Angeles.

I am, of course, kidding. We are beyond pleased that, in a week where Matt is walking through the Slovak woods and Theodore is trying to score coke in San Juan (just a guess), we have found someone to do all our work for us, and do it better.

On to my second thought about his post: my daughter is actually having the opposite problem as Warren’s son. As you’ll recall, Warren’s impish bairn was trying to say Snickers, but just ended up sounding like Kramer at the Laugh Factory. There were other examples of the boy trying to communicate something harmless but instead sounding quite potty-mouthed. My 4-year-old daughter, on the other hand, is actually trying to swear but can’t quite get the words right.

I should say here that I suspect my girl is not that great with language. I mean, she’s probably brilliant or whatever, and will undoubtedly be appointed President of the Global Federation that will take over the United States after the Second Amendment is repealed in 2038, but language is not a natural strength of hers. She started speaking late and seems to still be catching up at times, particularly in Spanish (one babysitter was basically mocking Dalia for speaking Spanish like a gringa, which seemed strangely judgmental for a preschooler who can’t speak English so good either). But Dalia’s never been good at repeating words or sounds; the essential mimicry that is the basis for speaking other languages, and your own, well are missing.

What she lacks in a musical ear, though, she more than makes up for in exposure to profanity. OK, the ‘what the fuck?’ she said apropos of just about nothing when she was two and a half was pretty well-formed. But more typical was last month’s failed attempt to curse. We were playing in the living room when her little brother walked by, his diaper bringing the smell of Canal Street into our delicately scented Upper West Side abode.

“Nico split his pants,” said Dalia.

“He what?” we asked her.

“Nico split in his pants. That’s why it smells bad.”

We realized immediately what a gift of decorum this could be. While many parents struggle pointlessly to get their kids to say darn instead of damn, Dalia will probably just say lamb because that’s how bad she is at repeating words. And everyone will continue to think she’s cute, even though she’s got filth on the mind.

OK, let’s all go back to eagerly awaiting Warren’s next post now.