Remember a while back when Stella discovered the F word? Well, all has been right with the world since then. Until yesterday morning.I really really really thought we were out of the woods with this, y’all, at least for a while. It was morning, a telecommute morning for me, meaning I was home throwing breakfast together before the kids and their father departed. The kids were playing “music,” which consists of dragging out every musical toy in the house, assembling it in the living room, and then fighting over who is playing the piano vs the ukulele vs trumpet vs the drum vs the broken toy violin.
As I buttered the toast, I thought I heard that word again.
“My ukulele string is fucked up.”My head spun around like Linda Blair’s. “What did you say?”
“Tell me what you said.” (Note: the bold-faced font here = my mom voice)
“I said my ukulele string is fucked up. Look at it.”“You must NOT use that word. Do you understand me? That is a grown-up word. Only grown-ups can use it. If you get caught saying that at school, you will be sent to the principal’s office and be in BIG TROUBLE.”
“But my ukulele string IS fucked up. Look at it.”
Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.
Y’all know I’m not a prude, and yes, I do occasionally dabble in four letter words. Sometimes I do feel they are necessary. And yes, I know LOTS of other words. It’s just that sometimes the four letter varieties express things in ways that more mundane words cannot. So I’m not offended, per se. It’s more guilt and shame. I do try to mind myself around my kids. But slips happen. Andholycrapwhatifherteacherhearsthis? I’ll be labeled the potty-mouth mom.
(Is it ok that part of me is secretly impressed that she used the f word correctly? The first incident involved the f word as a noun. This time, she transitioned it to an adjective. A true language master, my daughter.)