The first time your child swears, you think that surely you misheard. I mean, yes, it was clear. And yes, the context was dead on. But where on earth could my cherub have learned such language?
And then, you giggle. Because although it’s wrong and bad and naughty and all that stuff we say to make ourselves seem like legit, on-the-level parents, it’s still f***ing funny.
BabyGirl picked up a bowl of chips the other day, and realised it was empty.
“Oh, bugger. All the chips are gone” she mumbled.
And then the dog ran through the room. “F*** it, dog, you nearly spilled my drink!”
I don’t swear in front of my children. I certainly don’t say it enough for them to pick it up.
It must be their dad.
Or their preschool.
Oh! Maybe it’s the neighbour.
It’s everyone but me, that’s for damn sure.
Goddammit, it’s occurred to me that maybe I say f***ing swearwords more than I bloody realise. Bugger it.
Swearing doesn’t have the stigma it used to, that’s for sure. I distinctly remember my sister telling me, when she was 13 and I was 11, that when I got to high school, I would learn that dick isn’t even a swear word. When she said it, I gasped, whispered, “don’t let mum hear you say that word!” and looked around furiously for mum to appear at the door in a way that Mums tend to do (it’s a sixth sense, you just know when your kids are misbehaving). My uber cool, 13 year old sister rolled her eyes at me. Children.
And then I went to high school and, well, I’ll be damned. Dick wasn’t a swear word.
And today, I say the occasional “shit” or “feck” in front of my mum, and she doesn’t seem too phased by it.
But that’s enough about me – back to my darling children.
I don’t know who taught them to swear, but shit, when I find that person, I will give them the Mum Glare to end all Mum Glares.
Because it’s not me, that’s for f***ing certain.
*shines parenting halo*