Ah. There comes a time in every parent’s life when one hears just how awful one’s own choice of words might be.

My time came one Sunday morning when my kids were packed into their car seats and we were waiting ten minutes once again, for my husband to find his wallet and camera to go into town for breakfast. My husband notoriously cannot leave the house in a timely manner and not without bringing at least ten items he won’t need to the car. I think I was having this thought when I sighed heavily and Diego––who must have taken the sigh as his cue to impersonate me on most Sunday mornings looked out the window at the open front door and yelled, “Ay, Julian! Hurry the F*&! Up!”

I turned ten shades of red as I turned around sheepishly and asked what did you just say? I couldn’t of course ask, where did you hear that? I know where he heard it. He heard it from me. For my son wouldn’t have known any of the tiny little swear words because I don’t use them. A-words, s-words, d-words etc., I just don’t use. Neither does Julian. But, the granddaddy of swear words is somewhat second nature. I’d argue that my grandmother who hails from the Bronx has genetically pre-disposed me to the use of the F-word.   How many times had she and I watched something with Al Pacino or from Scorsese where grandma would turn and look at me at the end and say, “Well, that was a F-*&!ing movie!”

What is the proper parental response in that situation? I’m not sure. Ignoring it seems to encourage it. Punishment seems overwrought and hypocritical.

“Hey baby? You can’t say that word. Only mommies and papas can say that word. And it’s not really a good word to say. Mommies and papas shouldn’t say it either. We forget.”  

Diego looked at me  like he wasn’t sure whether or not I was pulling his leg. I went in for good measure.

“And you can’t call your Papa, Julian. He’s your Papa.”
“But Mommy, that’s his name.” Ah good, My recommendation? Head logic off at the pass. Get them thinking about a different injustice to their vocabulary so they’ll forget about the big bad.

When my husband got in the car, I had to tell him. I whispered and spelled. Do you know what your son just said? He said F---.

“What are you spelling, mommy?” S---. Who taught them how to spell?! Wait. I did. And what I didn’t do, I paid preschool to do. D---.

Truth be told, Diego’s swearing at the ripe old age of five had nothing on his sister Paloma who, not only began swearing at the ripe age of 2 ½ but did so in Spanish. Truly the best thing about a bilingual household where one parent swears in Spanish and the other one in English is the direct irrefutable evidence of who is emulating whose speech.
Still, I had to be proud of her for keeping it all in context. My husband under his breath, mutters ‘pinche’ this and ‘pinche’ that (sort of like f&%!—ing this and &%!—ing that) at Paloma, our resident mess maker—as in ‘look at this pinche mess you made. On the particular day of her first swear attempt, my husband had taken away something she was playing with because it wasn’t a toy—I’m guessing probably as Sharpie since he was sending out packages for eBay.  Paloma squinted at him and crossed her arms.

“Pinche Papa.” My husband looked incredulous. What did you just say?  And of course she repeated it, and like the girl she is, the second time around she annunciated and stood up straight to him and defiant. Me? I had to put my face down on the dining room table and stifle a big belly laugh. Tears were streaming down my face. I know, I know. I shouldn’t laugh. But you see, his perfect daughter just started her first fight with Papa and we all know it isn’t going to end for at least another sixteen years—it’ll end in car keys and a dorm across country.

“Paloma, you can’t say that. Only Papas can say that. It’s not a good word.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a bad thing to say.”

“Why?!” Oh s—t. Now what? She looked at us, united in this approach and reason that makes no sense at all. And if I’m not mistaken? I could swear I heard her whisper “Pinche Mama.”

Since our bout of swearing we’ve tried to watch what we say around them. Friends and acquaintances have offered up advice---the most common being to create words like fudge and fiddlesticks! And “Oh Cheeses” instead of “Jesus.” But the substitutions taste like Sweet n Low or Splenda. I don’t drink diet sodas and I’d rather forgo the carbonated beverages all together rather than drink a faux one. So too with the swearing.

Still something in me seems to want to justify my choice of words to my children. I take Diego aside and try to explain context and how a well placed word no matter what it is can have impact if used rarely and specifically but I suspect that’s not really an issue for a kid who is lost in a world of pirates and jedi.

If ever there was something that had the potential to curb parental behavior, hearing your kid be you for a moment is it.