He's sitting on the bathroom floor, half-naked. Somehow this seems to be a state which evokes the most interesting conversations between me and my son. In this case, we were talking about something
that happened at his school. I don’t
remember the details other than to recollect that it was a short episode about
kids that I know chained together with “and then what happened was,” which
launched him into another rambling episode of something that someone did to
someone else. It didn’t seem to be a particularly good thing, but then
again, it wasn’t particularly bad. Then, my son said, “Mama, can I say a
bad word?” I stopped, contemplated, and nodded. Why not?
“He was
f*cky pants and sh*tty brains!”
“F*cky
pants and sh*tty brains, huh?” In all of
my almost 45 years on the planet, I had never actually heard the word
“f*cky.” Not once. I know “f*ck” is an extremely versatile
word. It can be a noun, a verb, a
participial adjective, an adverb. It’s quite amazing. But “f*cky.” That was a new one.
“Yes, f*cky
pants and sh*tty brains!” He was beyond
himself in joy and naughtiness. Here he
was with full permission to swear, and he was doing it. Not only was it okay, it was an adult giving
him the thumbs up.
“I’m okay
with you saying it, “ I tell him, “but you know that I never swear at you.”
“I would
never swear at you. I’m not swearing at
you right now.” We both nod in
agreement.
“Dada
and I never swear at each other. And he
would never swear at you.”
“But he
does use bad words.” We both
laughed. He most certainly did use bad
words. In earlier years, I would
admonish him for swearing in front of our son. I didn’t want to have that kid who let out a strong of “Oh my
f*cking God! What the f*ck is going on?” in the middle of a store when I
accidentally knocked over the display stand of chips, or when someone else did
that, or when he did that. Because we
all know that when a kid lets out a string of blue like that, it’s simply
because he or she has heard it somewhere.
No, I
wanted my kid to know when and where the appropriate times of swearing
were. In front of grandma and
grandpa? No. At school? Probably not.
In front of most adults? Probably
not. But with his friends? I knew he
swore with his friends. After all,
that’s where he learned some of his words. Plus, those friends with older siblings tended to have a vocabulary rich
with swear words.
In the car
once he said, “Mama, tell me all the
swear words. That way, if I hear them,
I’ll know what they are.”
I
responded, “Um, no. And besides, I don’t think I know all the swear words. But if you hear something, think it’s a
swear word, and want to know what it means, just ask.”
Funnily
enough, here was a case where he was teaching me swear words: f*cky pants.
Now, that was new. Five minutes
later, and after having repeated it in every possible variation, I let him know
I was feeling full. His face fell
slightly.
“But maybe
you want to say it three or four more times?” Yes, he did! And he did so with gusto.
I knew that I would never have control over him swearing when he wasn't with me, but at least I could hope he'd understand discernment, and that was worth its weight in gold.
I knew that I would never have control over him swearing when he wasn't with me, but at least I could hope he'd understand discernment, and that was worth its weight in gold.
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