He’s My Mini-Me In The F Bomb Department

Today is my baby’s birthday. Just like that, in the blink of an eye, he is seventeen years old.

As such, I’ve been preparing for the festivities instead of writing a blog post. Sorry.

On the plus side, though, I have this post from a while back that seems fitting for the boy’s birthday. It probably also demonstrates why I’m not a role-model Mom and possibly shouldn’t be trusted with other people’s kids.

Enjoy.

Salty With A Side Of F Bomb

Growing up, I always knew there was a part of my Dad that LOVED the fact that I inherited his smart-assery.

I don’t know if that’s a real word, but I’m declaring it to be one for the purpose of this post. Smart-assery: the act of being a constant smart ass.

Anyway, Dad came from a long line of smart asses and he must have passed that genetic trait to me because while my brother was overly sensitive and couldn’t take any kind of ribbing at his own expense, I was an expert at accepting the comment and hurling one right back. Sometimes my Dad and I would engage in what appeared to be a high stakes game of poker, only with wisecracks.

“I see your comment about my clumsiness and raise you a burn about your super white legs.”

Much to my mother’s chagrin, he also appeared to take some pride in the fact that his sweet little girl could sometimes tell a dirty joke that would make a truck driver blush, and I totally had the vocabulary to make it as colorful as possible.

Fast forward thirty years and I find myself raising a boy and trying to find that sweet balance between my mother’s very propery, lady-like way of doing things and my father’s smart-assery with a side of F bombs.

To be fair, I never heard my father use the F bomb and he never heard me use it either. My mother despised the word and forbade it in her house. Growing up, I remember my Dad being very colorful with his language but never using that particular word. It wasn’t until after he had passed away and I was well into my adulthood that I began to form a picture from family and friends of the family that the F bomb was probably his go-to word at one time.

Oh how the genetics are strong in this family.

Even without ever hearing him say the word, and despite never being allowed to say it in my home growing up, it became my favorite go-to word also.

Go figure.

Our two older kids were teens when I married their Dad. They were already ingrained with the environment they grew up in and I didn’t have any influence on that. I can’t say it enough: The Husband Dude and his ex-wife did a very good job of raising them.

But when I got pregnant, I realized that I (along with THD) was going to be fully in charge of  molding and shaping this little human being. I realized that my vocabulary would need to change a bit. After all, society kind of frowns on tots swearing up a storm.

I did a good job of it, for about three years.

Then it all kind of went to hell. I don’t think I can properly describe how mortified I am that my son’s first full sentence was, “Oh shit, motherfucker!”

It was completely by accident. THD and I did a very good job of watching our language around Shane most of the time. Honestly, I don’t think he had ever heard me cuss up until that fateful morning when I was driving him to daycare. He was three years old and somewhat delayed in his speech. He said words here and there but had not yet fully strung them together into a complete sentence.

It was one of those days we all have where everything seems to be going wrong. I had spent twenty minutes searching for Shane’s shoes. Twenty minutes! At that age, he owned maybe three pairs. How did we lose them all? After finally locating a matching pair (one in the toy box and one behind books on the bookshelf), we got in the car and I realized my gas tank was almost empty.

Already running late for work, I had to stop at the gas station, and naturally, I found the slowest pump there. After an eternity of waiting for my tank to fill, I pulled away from the pump toward the driveway to exit the station, when another car came careening in at full speed and I had to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting him.

The words escaped my mouth before I could swallow them back: “Oh shit!”

Then the dude gestured at me like it was my fault we almost collided…and that’s when my inner road rage spilled out, just a little: “Motherfucker!”

I heard Shane giggle in the back. I looked in the rearview mirror.

“Did you think that was funny?” I asked him, instantly calming down and taking on my sing-songy Mommy voice.

“Oh shit, motherfucker!” he replied.

Well, crap.

Needless to say that the ride to daycare was the longest of my life as he repeated the phrase at least twenty-five more times and I begged him to stop and told him how naughty Mommy was for using those words. I was dreading having to explain to the ladies at the daycare why this precious little boy who still didn’t fully talk yet sounded like a parrot who had been spending too much time on the high seas with a salty pirate.

I lucked out, though. Apparently seeing all his friends and teachers distracted him enough to forget his new-found vocabulary because I never heard from them. I assume he didn’t use the words and I was grateful that he didn’t teach it to a room full of three year olds.

I will admit that as he has gotten older, my vocabulary has loosened up again. I realized that there’s no fighting who I am. I’m an educated woman who studied languages in college. I have a degree in Spanish with a minor in English and I was not only raised by a teacher, but most of my female and some of my male relatives were all teachers. I was even a teacher myself for about seven years.

I also cuss. A lot.

This is who I am. I’ve accepted it. That’s why I don’t feel the need to hide it from my kids. I’ll admit too, that as Shane gets older, I don’t restrain his vocabulary, at least at home. He’s old enough now to understand that we don’t swear in school or in certain company because it does offend some people.

Hopefully, those people don’t read this blog. That would probably be a bad idea.

You always hope for your kids that they’ll be better than you. You always hope they’ll be smarter, faster, more athletic, more talented, more kind, stronger, and just an all around better person. The reality is, they often turn out more like you than you ever intended.

Just like my Dad must have recognized himself a little bit in me, I often recognize myself in Shane. Thank God, he doesn’t seem to have inherited any of my insecurities or my ability to worry about EVERYTHING.

The smart-assery and swearing, though….

Recently, I was driving him to school, thinking about that toddler in a car seat in the back. He sits next to me now, a hairy teenager with red and gold streaks in his locks and wearing a Misfits shirt. He tells me about his English class.

“We’re learning about archetypes. Heroes, villains, all that stuff. The teacher is going to show us Star Wars as an example of all the archetypes.”

I nod approvingly. I am a Star Wars geek and I have indoctrinated him. “There are lots of good examples of archetypes in Star Wars. I bet most of the kids have already seen it, though, right?”

He shrugs. “Most of them have, but some of my friends said they haven’t seen it and they think it looks like it’ll be stupid.”

I’m horrified. “Stupid?!? What the hell?”

He nods his agreement. “I know right? So I was like, ‘What in the actual fuck are your parents teaching you?'”

I whip my head around. “Shane! YOU DID NOT SAY THAT IN CLASS, DID YOU?”

He gives me the side eye, and I swear for a moment I’m looking at my Dad.

“Nah. I just thought it.” He starts laughing. Then I start laughing.

The smart-assery is strong with this one. I’m mortified and proud all at the same time. But what can I say? Sometimes our house sounds more like an episode of “The Osbournes” than “Leave It To Beaver” and I’m okay with that.

I guess you may be wondering if three-year-old Shane ever uttered his newly found phrase again after the morning car ride to daycare.

Yes. Yes he did.

I came home that afternoon only to be confronted by my mother, who was living with us at the time. Apparently, she had picked him up at daycare and he treated her to his new-found vocabulary on the way home.

“Your son learned a couple of new words today. Where do you suppose he learned them?” She asked. She already knew. She always knew.

I look over at Shane, happily eating Goldfish snacks in his high chair. “Et tu, Shane-bo?”

“You know I never allowed that word to be used in my house,” Mom reminded me.

Gee, I wonder why it became my favorite word.

“You know they’re parrots at this age. They pick up everything you say!”

“Yes, Mom. I know. It just slipped out and he caught it like a bad case of the flu. I promise it won’t happen again.”

She walked away mumbling something about my Dad and “it must be genetic”.

I sit down next to Shane. He gives me side eye, and again, I swear, I’m looking at my Dad.

“Oh shit, Mama,” he says, stuffing another Goldfish in his mouth.

I lean over and take one and pop it into my mouth. “You got that right, Bubba.”

Note to self: Never own a parrot.

Another note to self: Maybe you don’t need to be around toddlers either.

Another note to self: Who are you kidding? You just need to sequester yourself. Permanently.