The damn bus is late again.

I wait.

I wait some more.

I wait until I see the big yellow school bus make a wide turn around the corner at the end of the block. It’s headed for our stop.

When Lola, my nine-year-old, gets off the bus, she heaves her backpack at me. It might seem rude to a casual observer, but it’s part of our routine. I like trying to catch it while also avoiding getting hit in the head. There are a lot of books in there. Lola carries her cello, and we head to the house.

“I know five bad words,” she says.

“Great,” I say, not knowing how to respond. I know a lot of bad words. And the thought of my daughter saying any one of them is horrifying. “What are they?”