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 proper, 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 Dad being very colorful with his language but never using that specific word. It wasn’t until after he had passed away and I was well into my adulthood that I began to form a picture of him 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.

When I got pregnant, I realized that The Dude and I were going to be fully in charge of molding and shaping this little human being. Our two older children were well into their teens when I came into the picture, so their vocabularies were already baked in. I realized for the sake of this new little one that my vocabulary needed to change a bit.

Okay, a lot.

After all, society kind of frowns on tots swearing up a storm, and I did a good job of policing my mouth.

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. 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 when everything seems to be going wrong. I spent twenty minutes searching for The Kid’s shoes. Twenty minutes! At that age, he owned maybe three pairs. How did we lose them all? After finally finding 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 waiting for what felt like an eternity for my tank to fill, I pulled away from the pump toward the driveway to exit the station. 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 guy gestured at me like it was my fault we almost collided and that’s when my inner road-rage spilled out.

“Motherfucker!”

I heard The Kid giggle in the back. I looked in the rearview mirror.

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

“Oh shit, motherfucker!” he replied, rather proudly.

Well, crap.

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 newfound 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 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. The Kid is 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 that 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 The Kid. 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 sat next to me now, a hairy teenager with red and gold streaks in his locks and wearing a Misfits shirt. He was telling 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 nodded 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 shrugged. “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 was horrified. “Stupid?!? What the hell?”

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

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

He gave me the side-eye, and I swore for a Moment I was looking at my Dad.

“Nah. I just thought it.” He started laughing. Then I started laughing.

The smart-assery is strong with this one. I’m mortified and proud 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 the three-year-old Kid 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 newfound 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 looked over at The Kid, happily eating Goldfish snacks in his high chair.

“Et tu, Kiddo?”

“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 sat down next to The Kid. He was giving me side-eye, and again, I swear, I was looking at Dad.

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

I leaned over, took one and popped it into my mouth.

“You got that right, Bubba.”