Ethan is the kid Shef learned the f-word from last spring. Ethan also says “shut up,” and, as a bonus, he’s the class biter. So, you know, we’re thrilled to have him in Shef’s room at school.

Of course, I’m not the mother of a model preschooler, but I did check with Teacher Jeanne last week and verified that Shef has not sunk his teeth into a single compatriot, even though he has bruising puncture wounds on his shoulder and his wrist, all courtesy of Ethan.

I guess mostly I’m relieved that I’m not Ethan’s mom because I was really humiliated for those two weeks when Shef was yelling “fuck” on the playground last spring. If he had continued in this vein, I think we would probably have had to move out of state.

So, today when I came to pick Shef up, he was sitting next to Ethan at snack time. I sighed internally and then decided the right thing to do would be to reach out. Ethan is, after all, supremely cute and only two years-old.

“Hi, Ethan,” I said, smiling.

“Fuck them,” Ethan said enthusiastically, raising his arms in the air.

Great.