"Bloody foxes", was the first expletive I ever heard my then two-year-old mutter. As a Londoner and a keen gardener, I can curse the scourge of urban foxes with the best of them. That doesn't mean I want their country cousins hounded - literally - and torn to shreds and it definitely doesn't mean I want my toddler to hear about it on the radio over her Wednesday morning Weetabix.
Announce with great excitement that it's time to be a big boy/girl to your child. Jump up and down in the air like Tigger on speed as you whip open a Primark bag stuffed with brand new big boy/girl pants.