I am going to have to have a talk with Conner's teacher.

Seems that my little darling has picked up some very bad language.  Today, upon coming home from school, the strap on his backpack broke and it fell to the floor, spilling its contents out.  Conner, in a fit of rage, threw his jacket down and screamed: "F ...!" (Rhymes with the word "truck".)

I was shocked.  I had never heard Conner say such language.  When I regained my composure, I asked my son, "Son, where in the world did you learn that?  We certainly do not talk like this here at home!"

Stuttering and blushing furiously, Conner hemmed and hawed as he struggled to come up with an answer.  Eventually, he piped up with, "From a friend."

"Which friend was it?" I asked.

"P-Peter", Conner said, his eyes bulging out like dinner plates.  He knew that he was in trouble and it scared him. 

"Well, we're going to have to have a talk with Peter, and not only Peter, but your teacher", I replied.  "We do not talk like that here at home, or anywhere.  Only nasty people use that kind of talk!"

Conner burst into tears.  He knew he had done something wrong, and he truly felt horrible about it, but at the time, I didn't care.  I was too angry with my son.  He also knew it was close to Christmas; he didn't need to be reminded that Santa Claus would be paying him a visit.  He was suddenly afraid that he would get "written up" and not get anything for Chriatmas.

I looked at my sobbing child and my heart melted.  He looked so miserable, so forlorn.  I then asked him to come to my arms.  He did; I then wrapped him in a huge hug and told him that he was not to use such language ever again.  I also told him that friends like Peter were not worth his time and that he had to find new friends.  Conner nodded his head as he continued to cry.