My parents couldn’t recall exactly what my first word was, but they did say “shit” was one of the first five. They thought it was way too cute to correct the curly blond-haired, bright-blue-eyed little girl, so instead, they let me continue to use it. It’s not so cute when your fourth grader brings home a letter of reprimand and a detention slip because she used it for everything.
By the time I was a teenager, children who swore irritated me. I thought it was trashy. I vowed never, ever, under any circumstance, to let my future children talk that way, regardless of my own potty mouth.
Somewhere along the way, my mouth got dirtier. I graduated to “fuck,” using “shit” only when I was annoyed. My mother was appalled. Apparently, well-educated and professional women do not say “fuck.” Ever. And certainly not in every other sentence.
Fuck it. I didn’t have kids. It was fucking fine.
When Benjamin came along, I had a plan. I tried, Lord knew I tried, to remove all vulgar language from my vocabulary. I found creative phrases to say in their place so my son would never hear things he shouldn’t. For a while, it seemed like it was going to work. The new G-rated version of me could do everything the NC-17 model did.
Then, in the middle of a very stressful meeting, I realized all my employees had stopped talking and were staring at me. Some of them were gaping in horror, others tried to hide amused smiles. Apparently, “God Bless America! Are you fudge-nutting me? Son of a monkey! How in the freedom trail did we let that happen?” didn’t have the same impact that my adult words did.
I’d gotten out of control. I’d tried so hard to be the mom who never swore that I’d become obnoxious. And annoying.
Ben was a great kid. He’d never attempted to use my mom cusses. And he hadn’t picked up any of the profanity his dad used regularly. I decided that I didn’t have to keep using the alternate cusses, that I could go back to the ones I missed so much, but I just needed to scale them back a bit.
I vowed that if Ben started to swear, I would make it clear there were adult words and kid words and that he was never allowed to use the adult words. Thankfully, he never did.
When Sebastian was born eight years after his brother, I thought I had it all figured out. Full of piss and vinegar, the polar opposite of Ben, I knew he was going to be loud and opinionated from the day he was born.
My mini-me, in every single way, started talking at six months and never stopped. A year later, he tossed his favorite teddy across the room in frustration, threw his hands in the air, and yelled, “Fuck it!” While impressed that he’d used the term in the correct context, I was sure it had been a fluke.
It wasn’t.
Over the next few years, Bas and I had more than one discussion about what was acceptable language for children and what definitely wasn’t. Together we’d created a list of words he could use instead—kid words that were perfectly acceptable in any situation. However, while he remembered the swear just fine, he could never quite recall the word he should use to replace it.
“Momma, what’s the kid word for fuck?” a little voice called from far away, pulling me from sleep.
I lifted one heavy eyelid. Then the other. I could just make out the small blond-haired boy leaning over me. The soft early morning light of dawn had begun to seep in through the windows, and I knew it was far too early to be awake.
I pushed myself up onto my elbows and forced my eyes open. “What’s up, baby?” I mumbled.
“What’s the kid word for fuck?”
Sleep was forgotten as I sat up and stared at my five-year-old son. “Fudge,” I answered without thinking. Then, quickly added, “You know you aren’t supposed to use that word.”
“Oh! Sorry, Mom!” He gave me the sweet smile he used whenever he did something he knew he wasn’t allowed to do. Before I could ask why he needed to know what the kid word was, Bas twisted his lips in thought. His sky blues bore into mine, his hands flew to his hips, and he stomped one foot. “Well, fudge!”
He was so serious, visibly upset about something, yet it took every ounce of strength I had not to giggle at his actions. I swallowed and pushed a strand of hair from my face. “What’s wrong, bud?”
“I lost Sir Hoppy!” His chin quivered as he explained. “He was there when I went to bed. He’s not there now. I looked everywhere!” He threw his arms in the air in pure exasperation. “I can’t find the fudging bunny! He’s gone.”
Oh, boy.
I glanced at the clock. Only four. I was too tired to be awake let alone suggest another way he could express his frustration.
“It's okay, bud.” I lifted the blankets and slid from the bed, holding out my hand. “Let’s go find him.”
Mr. Hoppy was hiding under the bed. I got down on my knees, using the flashlight on my phone to see, and pulled the fluffy bunny out by his ears. “Here he is!”
Bas snatched him from my hands and hugged the plush creature to his chest. “Jesus! I thought he was gone forever!”
“Sebastian!” I chastised as I crossed my arms over my chest and scowled down.
“What? I didn’t know where he was.”
I pursed my lips. “You’re not supposed to use that word.”
The little boy snapped his head back, looking at me, his eyes wide in surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry! Is Jesus a swear? I didn’t know!”
The hell he hadn’t.
“Well, now you do!” I braced my hands on my hips.
He shrugged. “It’s a name. They say it at church.”
I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. He had a valid argument. And no one was around to hear him. “They do. But, we do not say it anywhere except at church.” Knowing there was no way either of us would go back to sleep now, I reached for his hand again. “Come on, let’s go get breakfast.”
As I eased myself into a chair at my kitchen table, Bas gave me a toothy grin and waved excitedly as if he hadn’t seen me in weeks. I smiled back, took a long sip from my almost black coffee, and contemplated our day ahead.
“Let’s go fishing.”
Bas dropped his spoon in surprise. “Now?”
I nodded. “Now.”
He beamed and jumped down, ran into the living room and screeched at the top of his lungs for his brother. They’d been begging me to take them fishing for weeks. Early morning was the perfect time to go—the fish would be biting, our favorite spot wouldn’t be crowded, and we could get back before the air turned too humid.
After we quickly got dressed and Ben ate breakfast, we rounded up all our gear and loaded it in the car. I quickly stopped at the store to grab bait and then we sang along to the radio as we drove. When we pulled into the secluded spot by the lake, I was surprised to see that we weren’t the only ones there despite the fact that it was only a little after six.
“Let’s grab an empty picnic table for all our stuff,” I told the boys as I parked. “Then we can spread out.”
We loaded what we could carry and headed toward the table closest to the water.
“What’s that?” Sebastian asked, as he dropped his tackle box and watched closely as his brother slid two containers onto the tabletop.
Ben gave him an odd look. “Worms.”
“Worms? Why do we have worms?” Bas eyed the containers suspiciously, turning an odd shade of green. “We’re not going to eat them, right?”
Before I could answer, Ben laughed. “No,” he dragged out the word. “That’s what we fish with.”
“What?” Bas screeched, causing a bird in a nearby tree to caw loudly and fly away.
His brother nodded. “We put the worm on the hook. The fish bites the worm. We catch the fish.”
“Cheese and rice! You murder the worm?” Sebastian shook his head vigorously, clearly horrified. “You kill a defenseless worm just so you can catch a fish?”
I glanced around, completely dismayed when I realized we had an audience. One elderly woman seemed more interested in my son than she did the line bobbing in the water in front of her. From the d
eep scowl she was giving me, I assumed she didn’t approve of his choice of expletive.
I shook my head, trying to figure out what to say. It wasn’t the first time he’d gone fishing, and certainly not the first time he’d used worms as bait. However, it was the first time we’d come since he’d begun to figure out things on his own.
“No, bud.” I stepped closer and rubbed his back. “These worms were farmed to use for fish.”
Bas scowled. “You can’t farm worms.”
Jesus. I hadn’t had nearly enough sleep or coffee to figure out what to say. “Actually…” I started slow, making sure I kept my words clean. I didn’t want to give the spying granny a heart attack. “You can. People do it all the time. They’re raised to use specifically for fishing.”
His face fell into a frown, and he crossed his little arms over his chest. “That’s horse hockey!” He reached into the tackle box and pulled out a tray full of lures. “Why can’t we use plastic worms?”
“Because the fish here don’t bite plastic worms,” I explained. “It’ll be okay.”
“It won’t be okay. You’re a murderer!”
I tried not to take offence as the pint-sized Tasmanian devil accused me of viciously stealing the life from an earthworm.
I sighed and slid the wiggly brown thing on his hook anyway. As I led him to the water a few minutes later, he continued, “Mommy, how would you feel if I put you on a hook and threw you into the water?”
I rolled my eyes. I really, really needed to stop using comparisons when trying to make a point. The damn kid mimicked everything I said.
“If I was created to be used as bait, I’m sure I’d feel pretty fucking happy about it,” I mumbled.
I shook my head as I cast his line and realized what I’d just said. Obviously, someone had messed up. I wasn’t nearly mature enough to have one child, let alone two. And certainly not one as inquisitive as the one scowling at me right now.
“That’s my pole.”
I nodded. “It is. I thought you didn’t want to fish with worms.”
Sebastian’s features twisted in thought, and I could tell how torn he was. “Since you’ve already slaughtered the poor fuckin’ thing, it would be silly to kill it senselessly. Next time, can we use a fake worm?”
I barely resisted the urge to smack a hand over my eyes in frustration. “Bas,” I warned. “Language.”
“You said it,” he grumbled as he took the pole.
Within seconds, he had a bite and was reeling his first fish in. It was just a little one, and it hadn’t taken any of the worm. After congratulating him and taking pictures, I released the perch back into the water and let him cast again.
“Mom!” Ben called from his spot a few feet away. “Mom! I caught one.”
“You okay here for a minute?” I asked Bas. He nodded so I ran over to see what his brother had caught.
I glanced at Bas over my shoulder more than once to make sure he was safe and that he was staying out of the water. It took me only a moment to help Benjamin remove his catch, but when I turned around, Sebastian wasn’t in his spot. Panic crawled up my spine as I spun around, ready to leap into the lake to search for him.
He was at the picnic table, belly on the bench seat, leaning over so his face and hands were on the ground. As I neared him, I could hear him talking. It took another step before I realized he had a container of worms and was lifting one after another out.
“Go, little worms. Be free!” he whispered to each as he pushed them into the dirt and leaves.
“Sebastian!” I gasped. “Shit! Don’t let them all go.”
He looked over his shoulder and beamed. “They’re free now. I rescued them,” he informed me proudly.
“Oh, no! No. Dammit! We needed them!” I snatched the second container before he could dump it out as well. “These are to fish with. Do not let them go!”
He nodded, but I was half convinced he’d rush over and instigate another jailbreak as soon as I turned my back. Brat. Then, with a sweet smile, he held up a wriggly brown worm. “Will you put this on my hook please?”
“What?” I was utterly confused.
He shrugged. “A fish ate my worm.”
“Why in the hell did you let them all go if you needed one?” I demanded.
“The others wanted to go home. This one volunteered.”
“It volunteered?” I shook my head. “To be murdered?”
Bas nodded, his face solemn. “Yep.”
“Makes sense.” It didn’t. Not at all. I rolled with it anyway and attached his volunteer into place on the hook.
“Thanks!”
Before I could say a word, he was running toward the water. Minutes later, he was yelling in delight as he reeled in another catch.
I watched, bobbing back and forth between each of my sons, as they caught and released numerous fish. Not trusting Bas, I kept the worms with me. Apparently, I couldn’t be too safe.
When it was time to leave, Sebastian and I put his gear in the car and went to find Ben. Another teenager had joined him on the dock, and the boys were chatting easily. Excited to have someone to talk to, Bas ran to the stranger.
“Where are all your fish?” the boy asked, looking at us like we were complete and utter losers.
“We don’t keep what we catch,” Ben explained.
The boy’s eyes bugged out of his head. “What?” He looked at me. “No offense, but that’s just stupid.”
I shrugged. “We don’t eat fish. And all the ones we caught were too little to keep.”
“They’re never too little,” he insisted. “You can use the small ones to catch bigger ones.”
I started to herd Sebastian away before the teen’s words could sink in, but his mouth fell open in shock anyway.
“You use the small fish as bait?” my little man exclaimed just as I slapped a hand over his mouth and pushed him forward. “What in the frog toggle would you do that for?” The words were muffled, and no one but me heard them, but I was impressed with his creativity.
“No talking to strangers!” I cried out in desperation, trying to figure out how to keep my very vocal and outspoken child from getting into an ethical debate with this teenager.
Sebastian just shook his head and pulled away from my hand. “I have something to say! Excuse me! Excuse me!” he hollered, trying to get the boy’s attention. I picked him up and practically ran to the car while he yelled, “You can’t do that! That will kill them! They’re babies! You’re a murderer!”
Once I got him in the car and buckled into his seat, I got serious. I bent my knees and leaned down to his level. “You can’t talk to someone like that.”
He crossed his arms. “That’s bullshit!” Then his eyes grew wide in surprise. “What’s the kid word for bullshit, Mommy?”
“Crap. Crap is the kid word for shit,” I replied automatically. “But, you aren’t allowed to say adult words.”
“Fine,” he scoffed. “It’s bullcrap. That guy is a fudging murderer!”
“Sebastian,” I started, slowly rubbing my temples. “How would you feel if I called you a murderer every time you ate a piece of bacon?”
Well, fuck. I cursed at myself. I’d done it again. Another one of those damn “how would you feel” comparisons.
He lifted his chin. “I’m not murdering them. Bacon comes from the fur on pigs’ backs.”
I gaped at him. Ben snorted as he piled in beside his brother.
Finally, I found my voice. “Pigs don’t have fur on their backs. And, even if they did, that isn’t where bacon comes from.”
“Oh, I know. But I pretend. It makes me feel better, and then I can eat it. I love bacon. It’s my favorite.” He jutted out his chin. “But I’m not a murderer.”
“Okay.” I stood and reached for his door. “Let’s go home.”
“This was fun!” Bas told me with a giant grin. “Can we come fishing tomorrow? With plastic worms?”
“This wasn’t fishing. It was like some sort of
screwed-up freedom rally. All that was missing was the peace signs and the pot—” I cleared my throat. “Potted flowers. Like the ones they hand out during rallies. You know, peace, love and flowers?” I held up two fingers, giving them the universal sign, as I rambled on.
Both boys stared at me.
“You’re so weird, Ma,” Ben informed me before he slipped his headphones over his ears.
“Your brother called me a murderer and released worms into the wild and then tried to yell at a stranger, but I’m the weird one?”
Sebastian patted my hand as if in sympathy. “It’ll be okay.”
I closed my eyes, begging the heavens for strength. I couldn’t keep a house plant alive, or go one morning without dropping an F-bomb. I wasn’t sure what had prompted me to think I could raise two children to be responsible adults.
I smiled down at the little one. “You really had fun?”
Bas nodded, returning my smile. “It was the best! Well…” he hesitated, and then added, “until that jackass told us he was killing the baby fish.”
“Sebastian!” I scolded.
“Right.” He nodded. “What’s the kid word for jackass?”
“Donkey,” I mumbled, closing my eyes. “The kid word for jackass is donkey.”
“Sorry, Mom,” he said sheepishly. “I had a really good time before that donkey came along.”
I dropped a kiss to his temple, ruffled his brother’s hair and shut the door. As I slid behind the driver’s seat, my eyes drifted back to the lakeside. The woman from earlier had turned her scowl into an angry sneer. I wasn’t sure how much she had heard, how much our voices had carried in the cove, but I couldn’t stop the laugh.
I was sure that fifteen years ago, I would have reacted the exact same way. Before I’d had my kids, I’d had this “mom” thing completely figured out. Hell, I was a better parent than most of my friends. Then, the boys had come. And I’d realized how fucked up my perceptions had been.
Sebastian—and his bad language—wasn’t hurting anyone. Sometimes it was funny as hell. There weren’t many who couldn’t appreciate a well placed F-bomb, especially from a child, and I was one of them.
#MomFail: 24 Authors & 24 Mom-Coms Page 25
