It is a family tradition that on the eve of my daughter's birthday I tell her the story of her birth.
We savour this time together and look forward to it more each year.

This year, as Rowan and I snuggled up in the bottom bunk and I told her all her favourite bits (like Daddy snoring on the couch in the labour room), she really wanted to hear more about the mechanics of the thing. 
I was treading carefully through the details suitable for a six year old with a tendency to re-tell everyone these types of stories.

When I told her about the moment when they used the forceps to pull her out, she smiled sweetly and said,
"They f@#^ed me out!".
Pardon?
"I was f____d".
Um..... not quite.
This bore some exploration.

What word did you say?
F.
Oh. Where did you hear that?
It's my word for how they pull a baby out!

Oh my.
You see, we have been down this road before.
Rowan making up words and getting 'lucky'.
{{ Which always reminds me of my friend who drew a fish/duck combo in grade school and had to name her new creation... which she did. She called it a Du-ish. }}

So on the eve of her 6th birthday, my daughter and I had a candid discussion, liberally peppered with the F word, about why she can't use the F word. It was rather surreal...
It is already a word for something.
Something I am not going to explain to you by beginning with the F word.
Words are not good or bad, but it is a word that people say when they are being mean or hurtful.
It is not an alternate word for forceps delivery.

I think (hope!) my point was made.
We finished the story without any further creative vulgarity.
I can hardly wait until next year, because I am pretty sure the question about how the baby got *in* there is on its way! ♥♥