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,