Had dinner with the family tonight, and Hubby and I were doing that thing parents do when they don't want their young child to know what they are talking about: spell it out.
"Our son asked Santa for a D-U-M-P T-R-U-C-K, you know, Papa," I say. Our two-year-old son continues to smear spaghetti on his face in the process of shoveling it into his mouth, oblivious.
Hubby responds with a smug smile. "What're you going to do when he learns to S-P-L-L?"
"You mean, S-P-E-L-L?" I ask sweetly.
Hubby scowls. "Man, I hate living with an editor."
(Oh, sure. But when you need a paper proofread ...) *grin*