Everything was perfect as I was driving my daughter to Mother’s Day Out this morning. The air was brisk, the sun was out, I had a hot coffee in hand (the new Starbuck’s has a drive-thru…hooray!), and my sweet little daughter was babbling and giggling in the back seat.

Then a man who was apparently scared of his accelerator pulls out in front of me, and insists on going very, very, VERY slooooooowwwwly. Several blocks go by, before I just totally lose it. I like to call this side of my personality Rhonda the Rage Rover.

Me: “DUDE, MOVE YOUR F*CKING CAR!!!!”

From the carseat: “DUUUUUDE!”

Of course I burst out laughing. It was like having a little Keanu Reeves back there. And while I love it when she adds a new word to her repertoire, clearly I have not come to terms with the fact that she is not only a sponge, but also a parrot. Shame on me and my potty mouth. Shame!

So it’s just a matter of time before she pulls out the f-bomb. With my luck, it will probably be at my in-laws house over Christmas.