Buckey

Every morning, when I come into my office, I visit a list of websites. One of them is TomatoNation.com. I was rolling when I read the comments to this post this morning.

When I was a child, growing up about a block from Lake Erie in Cleveland, my parents used to walk me around the block for hours and hours. I knew every inch of that block. The neighbors' house next door with the two sisters and one of their husbands, all incredibly elderly, all of whom adored little girls. The golden retriever next door, the reason for which my first word was "dog." The rock on the other side of the block, that I'd insist on climbing, only to jump off with great fanfare, every single time we passed.

One day, while walking with my mother, a woman was walking, heading toward us. She was, to put it mildly, huge.

To preface this story, I should tell you that, in our house, the preferred toddler word for butt was "bucket" or "buckey."

So this woman was walking toward us. And I was probably 3. And had no filter.

"Mommy," I said, as the woman got closer and closer, and certainly within hearing distance. "That woman sure has a big belly!"

I'm sure my mother just clenched my hand and smiled at the woman, willing the words to disappear in thin air.

We passed her and I turned to look at her retreat. She made it about four steps away.

"And a big buckey!"