Learning to Watch My Mouth Around My F’ing Kids

If you read my blog then you are likely my mom or my husband, which means you know that at some point in my life I was overtaken by the conviction that my car is powered by curse words and not gasoline. While it is in my children’s best interest that I not drive anywhere within 100-yards of any person they have or will meet, that means I couldn’t go to Target – a veritable Mecca for bad drivers, and for people who want to buy wine and yoga pants. It’s the place where my people congregate. So, children, I apologize now.

In my daily travels, as a steady stream of foul language courses over my lips, I also find it necessary to not just honk my horn, but punish my steering wheel with a good pounding when someone even glances at the lane I have determined is mine. (This determination encompasses all lanes I may be considering changing into at any given point in time, as well.) Clearly, young children should not be in the car with me. Ever.

It should come as no surprise that one fine summer afternoon, as I was walking Boogie down a foot path along a busy street in our “downtown” area, a horn honked and my then 18-month-old child said, ever so nonchalantly, “oh, f*ck.” I thought surely I’d heard her wrong, so I ignored her itty bitty f-bomb like the parenting books say I should. Pausing only the briefest of moments to wonder if maybe I should tone down my own language before realizing then my car wouldn’t be able to drive to Target for yoga pants and wine, I continued on with my day.

A couple of fine summer days later we were walking, and again a tiny horn blasts over my shoulder. And again my tiny person drops the bomb, “oh, f*ck,” with no more inflection than if she were saying hello to a friend in passing. I suppose I should have been shocked, so I’ll feign surprise for you dear reader… oh, my!

That evening while driving to dinner with my in-laws, husband in the passenger seat and our little angel bundled in the backseat, I lightly tapped the horn to see if there was a connection between her newly minted potty mouth and the horn honking, or if I was missing some really important flag for Tourettes Syndrome. Sure enough, F-bombs started dropping like mad, every press of my horn was met with a little voice in the backseat saying, “oh, f*ck” in her, now signature, nonchalant way. And because we are the standard to which all parents must live up to, I laughed until I cried as my husband captured it on video.

Cleaning up my potty mouth since 2011,

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Go Home 2013. You’re Drunk.

You see, 2013, it’s not me, it’s you.

Things have been pretty shitastic between the two of us. Our sordid relationship is going into it’s fourth month, and you’ve had more opportunity for a turn around than reasonably afforded most, yet you haven’t wavered in your shitasticness.

If it weren’t for chronology, I would have dumped you long ago and drunk dialed 2008 for a pick-me-up.

To be fair, it has been since early 2012 since I’ve had a full night’s sleep. (And that wasn’t your fault, it was a natural consequence of unprotected sex.) So, perhaps, I am not seeing you as clearly as I should. I mean, there was that amazing, toasted ham sandwich I had a couple of weeks ago, and I did my come to The Walking Dead experience.

Actually, if I were to start writing down things in your favor: You aren’t 1993 so I’m not in junior high anymore, Boogie stopped peeing in her pants and on my furniture, The Sequel is no longer occupying the space between my ribs and hips, and Nickleback hasn’t released anything new. That’s hardly enough to inspire a long love affair.

So, we’re just going to leave it at this: I can do better. Trust me. And if you think I’m going to put up with your craptastic attitude for another eight months…while I technically have to just put up with it, I am going to make you eventually leave me. You have until December 31st to shape up or ship out, buster or else…

I'm going to sick my attack basset hound on you. Scary, isn't he?
I’m going to sick my attack basset hound on you. Scary, isn’t he?

you’re officially on notice,

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