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.
