Let’s face it. You curse. And you’re goddamn good at it. It’s not woodworking or problem-solving or technological savvy. But it’s satisfying, emphatic, and riotously funny in the right company and context. Now you’re a mom, though--and that window where cursing is ok has gotten increasingly slim. As a skilled purveyor of profanity, you yearn to be you in all your vulgar adult glory. Nevertheless, you gradually censor your output for the sake of your kids, in the hopes that Junior won’t make an ass of himself at the next preschool birthday party by dropping an F-bomb like a giant turd in the punch bowl. For the foul-mouthed mamas among us, the evolution from person to parent is a painful progression...and it looks a little something like this…
Drunken Sailor. Your brand of potty mouth pairs well with an anchor tattoo, a fifth of Aristocrat rum, and a bent cigarette with a 2-inch cherry. You’re the favorite for Most Likely To Succeed At Inserting The F-Word Into Unsuspecting Adjectives, as in "ri-fucking-diculous" and "unbe-fucking-lievable". No swear jar on Earth could contain the fines you’d be capable of incurring. That is, if you gave a fuck. You have no kids yet, so all the haters can either grow a pair or kiss your fat ass.
Speakeasy Patron. You have a baby now, so you’re trying to look and sound like a good influence, at least in public. But once you get home, it’s like whispering a secret password through a keyhole in 1923 and doing the Charleston into a clandestine hideaway where cursing is your contraband. Babies don’t judge and aren’t likely to repeat anything you say for another 9 to 12 months. Besides. If baby’s first word is “fuck”, you can always blame it on Daddy.
Spelling Bee Contestant. There’s a baby parrot in your house now and he hears everyfuckingthing. But he can’t spell for shit. So for now, the game has changed to "How fast can you spell your expletive mid-sentence?" You wonder out loud what the F happened to your GD life that you’ve been reduced to this S.H. But for F sake, a mom’s gotta do what a mom’s gotta do.
Closet Curser. Your kids have multiplied like Gremlins and one is now old enough to spell. Your foul mouth is on permanent lock-down, so you generally try to keep your discourse rated “E” for “everyone” by screaming muffled obscenities into your pillow or swallowing the bitter pill of your own F-bombs before they bubble to the surface. But lately the path of restraint is beset with too much bullshit to maintain your composure. Like when fights break out in the car en route from school to home and a good, loud “GODDAMMIT!!!” is the only response that can stun them into silence. You feel guilty immediately and vow to do better...but you know in your heart that winter is coming...and it’s full of four-letter words.
Switzerland. You overhear one son telling the other to “close the damn drawer” and realize the cat is out of the bag. You explain to them that “damn” belongs to a family of adult words they’re not old enough to use. That some people are deeply offended by those words and may think less of you for using them. Your explanation is weak and unconvincing. You sigh deeply at the sound of your hypocrisy, exhausted by your attempt to act like you give a fuck about cursing.
Liam Neeson in "Taken". Your older son is pissed at you because everything is your fault. Like when it rains and soccer is cancelled. Or when it’s Sunday and homework has to be done. He’s been hoarding a handful of bad words, just waiting for the right time to debut them--and tonight’s the night. When he mutters something unsavory in response to your directive, you remain eerily calm, but your voice drops two octaves lower. You raspily explain that you have “a very particular set of skills. Skills that [you’ve] acquired over a very long career. Skills that could be a nightmare” for a kid like him if he decides he wants to disrespect his mother by using words she’s better at than him. He is confused. And clearly doesn’t believe you. But there will be a reckoning. Oh yes. There will...
Moana’s Lava Monster. Today it finally happens. Your ‘tween calls you a bitch. The gentle goddess you always hoped to be erupts into a seething lava demon, melting your son’s ears with a molten deluge of language so fiery and foul that angels weep from the heavens and butterflies turn to ash in mid-air. When it’s all over, your son’s bravado is a quivering cinder and Mommy’s true nature has been laid bare. There’s no cramming this fucking genie back in the bottle.
Ok, so maybe that last part hasn’t actually happened yet… But some days, it takes everything you’ve got to keep that inner foul-mouthed monstrosity at bay. Nobody wants to be the crazy-eyed cuss-fit who barks her kid into therapy with bad words. But there’s bound to be the occasional “son-of-a-B%*CH!” when someone spills milk all over your freshly mopped hardwoods 5 minutes before you need to leave for work… For the most part, though, you fight the good fight and try to take the high road whenever your patience can stand it. You’re no June Cleaver, after all. But potty-mouth or not, you’re still pretty fanfuckingtastic.
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