Now you can put on your Judgment Hats BEFORE I tell this story, which I would surmise, look as awesome as this:
Whatever, don’t act like you’re not jealous of my hat.
It’s my THINKING Cap, y’all (no it is. I wear it when I need to think of stuff-n-things).
So, Pranksters, you know and love me and my foul mouth, just like my children do. If I wanted to be all Blame Game about it, I could pin it on my mother, who taught me my first word: “FUCK,” and say that’s where it all began, but really, I’m kind of over the Blame Game.
I know these things to be true: I have a *ahem* colorful mouth, a dirty mind, and I’m the kind of person you don’t want to live with because I’m prone to warble Rod Stewart (love, love LOVE him!) and microwave marshmallows.
I’ve toned down most of my more awesome pairings of words in front of the kids (meat curtains, anyone?) because that’s what I needed to do, but I’ve never managed to stop swearing entirely. I know that I should and I know that it’s bad and I know that I should also grow my own organic food and stop drinking Diet Coke and probably live a life devoted to something more than polluting the Internet with my dim-witted drivel.
A couple of months ago, I was feeling masochistic and started watching 24, until I realized that I was more stressed out AFTER watching it than I was before (which is saying a lot, considering my stress level is always very high) and could no longer suspend my disbelief that Jack Bauer could hold his bladder for 24 hours a day.
That’s fucking BULLSHIT.
But I picked up Jack Bauer’s, “DAMMIT!” which I would say with precisely that inflection every single time I dropped something (read: every 2 minutes), stubbed my toe (read: every 10 minutes), or tripped over something (read: every 15 minutes).
So Alex, my three-year old picked up, “DAMMIT!” just the way Jack Bauer says it. When he dropped something, “DAMMIT!” When he fell down, “DAMMIT!” When something didn’t go his way, “DAMMIT!”
Which, when I found out it was a college drinking game, made it all the more hilarious.
I mean, okay, dammit is like the least offensive swear, and while I could have done better, IT COULD HAVE BEEN SO MUCH WORSE HOLY FUCKING SHIT, this is MY kid we’re talking about.
So, really, my speaking kids, the ones that whose minds I am responsible for shaping (don’t call CPS now) are 9 and 3 and somehow neither of them run around yelling, “WELL FUCKING SHIT, MOMMA, YOU GET YER DAMN WHORE ASS BACK IN THE KITCHEN AND MAKE ME SOME MOTHERFUCKING PIE!”
It means I’m doing okay.
Well, then you have The Daver, who is much more mild mannered than Your Aunt Becky. He’s quieter and more thoughtful and swears much less. No one would ever describe him as outrageous or colorful or obnoxious or brash or annoying or really anything negative.
Sunday, Alex was working on this gigantic marble contraption that he’d conned The Daver into buying:
And he dropped a handful of marbles onto the floor, which upset him very much, because Alex is a very focused and determined ickle guy.
Window open, neighbors right outside my son, clear as a motherfucking bell yells…
Something I can’t even repeat because it’s that offensive.
The pairing, however, of the two words he used together exonerated me, just as the pairing of the swear words that our FIRST son used. When I swear, it’s background noise. When Dave swears, the kids pay attention.
Turns out that The DAVER has taught both of our children to swear. Alex has given him a nice choice phrase–easily something to offend everyone*–just in time for his 32nd birthday, which is today!
Happy Birthday, Daver!
*I cannot wait for Alex to use this one around Dave’s parents. No, really, this will be EPIC.