I will be the first to admit that I have the mouth of a sailor. I love a good four-letter word, my most favorite of them all being "fuck." There's just so many different ways it can be used and just the slightest shift in intonation has it taking on a totally different meaning. I just fucking love it so much and that's coming from a girl who goes to church on Sundays and spent much of her formative years in a kilt and knee socks. And yes, there is absolutely nothing ladylike about it and I don't care one bit.
We all know kids are like tiny little sponges soaking up anything and everything around them and the last thing I wanted was for my innocent, angel-faced children to run around the playground or worse, pre-school, saying, "Fuck! I lost my _____."
(The answer to that blank is usually keys or wallet and as of late, my mind).
Therefore, I have always been particularly mindful when choosing my words within ear shot of my children. Have I slipped up on occasion? Sure I have. I'm no saint but I've definitely scaled back on the f-bombs since my oldest starting talking.
That's why I was recently caught off guard when, while riding in the car on his way to run some errands with my husband , a tiny voice suddenly squeaked from way, way in the back seat, "come on, you fucking kids!" followed quickly by an exasperated sigh.
Now, there were two ways to deal with this. One would be to ignore, ignore, ignore which is what I think you're supposed to do in these types of situations and two would be to instill the fear of God in him with the hopes that he'll never again mutter those words until at least high school. My husband chose the latter only after stifling a mature case of the giggles.
What is it about little kids saying terrible, horrible words that makes it so damn funny?
The good news is that after that moment, he never again uttered the word and if you're thinking he heard that from me, you've got to be out of your f*cking mind. I mean I know I have rough days here and there but I would never, ever say that to my kids no matter how much I may want to sell them to the circus at the end of the day.
Not to be showed up for a moment by his older brother, the following day, while in the kitchen whipping up a delicious lunch of PB sammies with a side of goldfish, I overheard the middle child dancing around the house singing, "Dad says shit! Dad says shit!" at the tops of his little tiny lungs.
Well, he certainly couldn't be faulted for telling the truth that's for sure.Talk about feeling like you won Parents of the Year.
Fuck. I think it's time my husband and I clean up our act or at least step outside every time we feel the urge to use a four letter word.
At this rate, does any one want to place bets on what the baby's first word will be?