A writer never knows what’s going to connect. If you did, you wouldn’t bother writing all the shit that doesn’t. Which means, you wouldn’t write much.

Since unboxing Writing Boots in 2008, I’ve written 4,199 posts.

Many of them, I’ve written to get a rise out of readers. Others, I hoped would draw traffic to the site. And some, I’ve written mostly for my own amusement, and that of a few likeminded grumps. I don’t ever cry when I write, but sometimes I giggle.

A post from 2022 was one of the giggling kind, and it has turned out to be the most resonant Boots post ever, at least if measured by the fiery comments I still receive about it, all from strangers. It was a takedown of the use of the term “kiddos,” and it included a deeply unflattering selfie.

It went like this:

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My wife does the laundry, I do the dishes. My wife waters the flowers, I mow the lawn. My wife generally finds new Netflix shows for us to watch. And I generally decide which words and phrases we’re going to ban in this house. 

We don’t go for euphemisms around here, and you’ll never hear us say under this roof that someone “passed.” It’s “died.” (When my daughter was about four, she said to me that our goldfish “passed away.” I said, “Honey, in this family, we don’t say ‘passed away.’ We say, ‘died.’” I realized she understood the concept the next morning as I lay on the couch. “What are you doing, Dad?” “I’m snoozing.” “Dad, in this house we don’t ‘snooze.’ We ‘sleep.’”)

We don’t say “bless you” when we sneeze, because it’s not the Bubonic Plague anymore and we don’t think words are for wasting. You sneezed. Let’s move on.

When we order food or booze in restaurants, we don’t say we’re going to “do the turkey club” or “do a merlot.” Why? Because it’s just unnecessarily precious, when the single-syllabic “have” works just as well. “Do” is short for “douchy,” we feel.

As I say, most of these preferences come from the linguistically sensitive ear of Writer Guy.

But there’s one other word you won’t hear out of our mouths, and this one’s on my wife: “kiddos.”

My wife is a school teacher, who is professionally attuned to the rhetoric surrounding children, most of which is bullshit. Every staff meeting of schoolteachers and administrators is a form of liar’s poker in which the winning hand is always, “It’s about the children.” 

Delivered with approximately this unctuous expression:

Once you’ve claimed that moral ground, all other considerations—budget cost, logistical practicality, teachers’ mental health, intellectual integrity—are out the window. Because, after all, “It’s about the children.” Issue settled. No more need be said. It’s all over but the pouting.

And so my wife, who has taught many (many) thousands of children in her 25-year career on Chicago’s West Side, is always suspicious when anyone claims to love children more than she does. Or, more to the point, to “like” them more than she does.

And that’s her beef with “kiddo,” she says. The term is used by “people who think kids are some precious little things. They think it makes them seem like they like kids more than you.”

That’s it! Why else would you use such a term-o, if not to signal your special smarmy-cutesy-totes-adorbs-cuddly-wuddly wuv for the children you’re raising, the kindergarten class you teach, or for that matter, the entire Graduating Class of 2022. 

Kids are not bunnies, folks. They are human beings—beautiful and lovable we hope, but also, self-centered, dangerous little fools, with the self-control and judgment of your average meth addict. As anyone who has had any prolonged exposure to any of them well knows. Being their parents, their teachers, even their aunts and their uncles in any kind of an authentic way means not thinking of them, and not pretending to others to think of them, as “kiddos.” 

Just kids. Kids will do just fine.

(All this came up the other day when I told my wife that I saw someone on Facebook refer to a “doggo.” “Who said ‘doggo’?!” she demanded to know.)

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A sample of the comments I’ve received over the last few years:

Rob writes: “I couldn’t seem to put this hatred for the term ‘kiddo’ into words. I am sitting in a data analysis meeting for middle school students counting the number of times our principal refers to helping these “kiddos” reach their potential.”

Kim comments, “Ditto. For some reason, the word feels disrespectful to me. From my perspective, the word minimizes who our students are.”

Caitlin contributes, “Thank you so much for writing this; the use of ‘kiddo’ in ‘pediatric care settings’ has stood out to me and left a really negative impression on me—and I thought I was the only one.”

JT testifies: “I keep getting Facebook banned for the vomit that comes up every time someone says Kiddos, or worse, Littles.”

Suzan sez: “In our state, foster children are identified by staff of agencies who provide services to them as “kiddos”. It immediately identifies them as different from non foster children. I’m a foster parent and I hate the word kiddo. When I call an agency or clinic to make an appointment for my foster child the response is almost invariably “what’s the kiddo’s name” or birthdate or whatever. It is demeaning.”

Victoria vituperates: “THANK YOU! I cannot STAND this word. Its usage today destroyed the older endearing usage of it, and now it’s incredibly annoying. I came here because I needed somewhere to vent about it. DRIVES ME INSANE!”

Laura lays it out: “What a relief to find I am not the only one! After 30 years in private schools, I was surprised to find the widespread usage of ‘kiddo’ in reference to our students. I find it disrespectful and demeaning. I was just looking for some research to make a case to our admin to abolish the usage school-wide and came across your blog. Wish me luck!”

Brenda barks, “Oh my gosh….thank you for this. It’s nice to know I’m not alone. I absolutely HATE the work kiddo, especially when it is referred to me! IE. ‘How ya doin kiddo?’ Good night! I’m 65! Sooo condescending.”

And finally, Dawn delivered just this week: “I hate this word with a deep and unbridled passion—nearly as much as I detested it when, all across the land, servers began asking ‘How’s everything TASTING?!’ ‘My food is fine but we’re missing a Junior meal for the kiddo here!’ Seriously—in what other world do use our pet names in public? As in: ‘I’m leaving early today—I have to pick ‘Honeypie’ up from the airport.”

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What gives me the most pleasure from those cries from the darkness is, “It’s nice to know I’m not alone.” Of course, that’s ultimately why readers read.

And also, I can admit it, why writers write.