I am sitting at an intersection on Long Island in rush hour traffic and someone inconveniences me by not signaling.

“Nice using your blinker, asshole,” I say in my voice reserved for tri-state driving.

From the backseat Miles recognizes my tone and instantly asks:
“Fucking drivers, Ma?”

At least that’s what I hear him say, and I choke on my laughter because he’s done it again: He has dispelled my anger by imitating me at my ugliest. It’s my favorite kind of comedy.

There is no time for me to respond to his query. My three-year-old hardly takes a breath before uttering a list of trucks, such as dump trucks and back hoes, and I wonder for a second if I am off the hook, if maybe he didn't use the F word, and so aptly.

But I am pretty sure his expletive skills are somewhere near a 14-year-old's.