It's The Irish In Him
When I picked my son up from preschool today, he had a green painted, glittering paper cereal bowl on his head with a shamrock stapled in the center and a fist full of golden chocolate coins.
As he rattled on about raiding the leprechaun's stash by flashlight, the teacher asked me to step inside for a minute. *gulp*
"I just thought you should know...your son kept trying to tell us that he wanted to bring his toy helicopter to show and tell, but he didn't know where the hell the helicopter was. When we tried to tell him not to use the word hell, he just kept shaking his head and repeating 'I don't know where the hell the helicopter is."
I reassured the teacher that I would speak to him, and cringed all the way out to the car. Where the hell could he have gotten that kind of language?
Then! He said it to me. "Mommy, I wish I could have brought him. I don't know where the Harold Helicopter is."
Aha! We've solved the potty mouth mystery. I'm totally going to demand a retraction, and spend some quality time coaching my son on how to say "Harold."