A few weeks ago, on a Thursday morning at precisely 8:23 am, my daughter stuck her head into the bathroom where I was taking a late shower. The kids have learned over the years not to ever, ever bother me in the shower unless there is a fire or blood. She timidly asked, "Mama?" I growled back. She then reminded me we were to be at her school in 7 minutes for her weekly math tutoring session with her teacher.
A rapid stream of four words, all of which were on George Carlin's list of seven dirty words and which cannot be printed here, flew out of my mouth before I even turned off the shower tap. All I can say is that the first three began with the letter "s" and the last one with an even more satisfying "f." My eight-year-old and ten-year-old were nonplussed, and hopefully realized that the tirade was not directed at them.
It was in sixth grade that I learned the beauty of curse words. We were all enthralled with the acrostic "sugar honey iced tea" and used it with glee in front of our parents. My parents, who tried nobly to keep my mouth relatively clean until about that age, were no role models. My mother cursed like a sailor, and being in a car in traffic with my father was one explosive string of epithets after another. It's no wonder, according to one of my therapists over the years, that I have an inordinate fear of driving. My sister's in-car vocabulary today makes mine look like a kindergarten coloring book.
My husband finds very little use for cursing. When he lets one rip, watch out – you know he means it. I, on the other hand, find cursing useful in oh-so-many ways and on a daily basis. He does not find this pretty or amusing and calls me on it. I have to admit he's right, although it's tough to control.
I don't think it would have ever occurred to me that cursing was office-appropriate behavior until I worked for a boss who found it to be particularly apt. He opened the floodgates for me – from that point on, I realized that the office was a great place to express myself in particularly florid language. It was cathartic. I could get it all out of my system and then go home and be more appropriate. Once I started having babies, it was all the more important that I watch my mouth at home and use the office as the repository for my cursing.
Well, one of those babies is now 14, and during the blizzard season this winter he and I shared a particularly harrowing car ride home in the snow. I was screaming and cursing and swearing that we were going to die before we got home. He remained calm, well used to my tirades by this point (and with a lovely collection of his own colorful words by now.) When we walked in the door, safely I might add, my daughter looked at my wild face, looked at his calm one, and directed her question to him, "Did Mommy curse?" Not missing a beat, he replied, "I learned a few new words."
I have been working at home for the past eight years, and I no longer have an office where I can safely express myself. As a result, my language at home has gotten saltier, and my children are no longer shielded from the vulgar words I use whenever something goes wrong … with the computer, with the car, with the phone, with plans, with just about anything and everything. I admit, it's not pretty, but it's me.
My name is Karen and I am a Potty Mouth Mama.
Hi Karen, my name is Linda and I am a Potty Mouth Mama. WTF.
Posted by: Linda | Saturday, April 24, 2010 at 07:16 PM
Needless to say, I love this. And yes, I sound exactly like our father did thirty-five years ago. It is the Brooklyn in me. And my kids hear it, and know the words are "bad" and tell me so every time. I'm believe that while there is a fine line to walk, sometimes when you make things taboo, they become more powerful. Once in a while one of my kids will say a curse word, or even ask to say a curse word. I respond that they aren't pretty words, and while it's not great for me to speak them either, they sound particularly disturbing out of a child's mouth. So at least for now, it is not on their agenda to use them freely. At least for now...
Posted by: Rachel | Saturday, April 24, 2010 at 09:57 PM
See, I'm from NJ. I thought it was just my dialect . . .
Posted by: Hope Doyle | Saturday, April 24, 2010 at 10:45 PM