First [Bad] Words

Sophie and I were putting together a truly phenomenal feat of engineering, the Lego Friends Dolphin Cruiser, when her hand slipped as she was pushing down hard on a piece.  She scraped her hand as the piece dropped to the floor.

“Dammit,” Sophie said.

Let me add, that it was said with the cool confidence of someone who has uttered these words a thousand times.  There was no sidelong glance my way, to see how I would react. 

Thus, it was immediately clear to me that she thought it was fine to say Dammit.  That this is something someone would naturally say when sustaining a lego injury.  It was also clear that this was me.  All me.  The intonation.  The word choice.  I, of course, say dammit. 

I think of it as the softer side of “fuck.” 

So, now I was faced with a choice.  Do I bring the profane nature of the word to her attention, risking making a big deal of it and thus reinforcing future use of the word.  Or do I ignore it, and, perhaps in doing so, am complicit in allowing such behavior, increasing the likelihood that it will occur again, however innocently. 

Always one to make a stink when there is an opportunity to do so, I went with option A.

“Sophie!”  I exclaimed.  “That’s a bad word.  It’s like stupid.  I realize that I may say it from time to time, but that doesn’t make it right.  I will try not to say it, and I don’t want you to say it again either, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll try my very best” she said, not taking her eyes off her careful assembly of a tiny brick oven.  Not convincing. 

Just then, Kevin walked in.  His eyes said, “Are you kidding me?” He had heard everything.  My eyes wearily replied, “Yeah, I know.” 

I imagined the deluge of bad language to follow.  All the tiny words that slip in moments of frustration and pain.

Just days away from her 6^th birthday, she said her very first swear.  There’s another one for the baby books.   One that marks the beginning of a decent?  Up until this point, all the milestones have been steps in the right direction:  walking, talking, toilet training….  And now the first bad word…what other naughtiness is destined to follow? 

Swearing for Beginners

I am a recovering cuss-a-holic.  It’s true.  I once had a potty mouth that rivaled that of any four-year-old. 

And worse. 

I still hold that profanity is one of the most useful tools we have in language.  There are times where only certain naughty, nasty, dirty words will do.  Words that are full of emotion and intensity.  Saying them yields a deep satisfaction that, “rats!” and “Gosh” or even “F-that” cannot.  And, heck, it feels good to be in touch with that dark corner of myself. 

I took this vow of restraint early on in motherhood, when Sophia was just an infant, at my husband’s urging.  He wanted me to get out of the habit ASAP.  Before it was Too Late, and we had a baby whose first words were “mama f’er.”  Much to my surprise, after years of using language that might have made Sophia’s tender ears bleed, I stopped, cold turkey.

It was a cinch. 

Perhaps it had to do with an identity shift—from a woman who had a whole closetful of words of mass destruction, to somebody’s mother, responsible for nurturance and healthy development.  Or maybe it was just fear that other parents would be appalled by my daughter’s vulgar vocabulary, innocently repeating what she had heard at home on the playground.  Creating a whole cohort of profanity-lovin’ preschoolers:

“These chicken nuggests are f’in awesome!”

“Screw time out!”

“I just pooped on your head. “  Oh wait.  They already say that…stuff.  

If I’m being honest with myself, it was probably the latter.  Shame is a powerful motivator. 

So I cleansed my lexicon, exchanging acerbic, emotion-laden words for sanitized, toddler-friendly ones:  

"F!  G, H, I, J and K!"  “Aw buggers!”  “Rats and cats!”  Shit like that. 

And, gee-whiz, life was just swell for a while. 

But eventually, like all children, Sophie developed an ear for words-that-should-not-be-mentioned.  Words that I would venture are much worse than any swearword I used to utter, because, rather than shout them into the ether (as I would), they are commonly hurled at others and meant to hurt.

“Shut up!”

“Jerk!”

“Idiot!”

She didn’t say them herself, but I watched a fire come into her eyes every time she heard someone else say them.  A delight in their wrongness.  And these words are everywhere.  TV.  Books.  Songs.  I might be able to shield her from four-letter vulgarities, but these cruel and wounding words are much harder to avoid.  

When Sophie says, scandalized, “Mommy, she just said the s-word!” she’s referring to the invective “stupid,” one of my least favorite words in the English language. 

“I know, Soph.  And that’s not right.  It’s a word that hurts other people and we do not say it,” I reply. 

“I know mama, “ and she does.  Even in her angriest moments, she manages to keep it clean.  Yet, I watch her struggle with wanting language that describes her sour moments.  She’s taken a cue from me, watching me generate g-rated expletives to sub-in for their r-rated counterparts. 

“Mom?”

“What?”

“I came up with a new word?”

“Yeah?  What is it?”

“Stupungous.”

“Stupungous?  What does that mean?”

“The s-word you won’t let me say.”  It is stupid with sugar on top.  A hybrid of stupendous and the forbidden. 

Just then, it hits me: how am I to tell her that…no…who am I to tell her that she has to limit her expression to just nice words? To bleach her speech? 

As long as she is using them to articulate her feelings—not to attack others—but to air her frustrations and her fury, I see no need for censorship. 

I believe there is such a thing as swearing responsibly. 

“Hmmm.”  I tell her.  “I kinda like it.  Can you use it in a sentence?”

“You don’t use it in a sentence, mom.  You just say it:  Stupungous!”

Fucking-A.