Andy loomed over me as I thrashed on the floor, clutching my foot. My pinky toe had met the table leg, and I was nursing my wound in the fetal position. “I heard you say “’&%@$’” he whispered, his owl eyes watching me closely. Sure enough, he was right; as my foot throbbed in hot agony, I’d cursed like a sailor, forgetting my offspring was in the room. Of course, the one time my son pays attention is when I’m swearing like a dock worker.
“I shouldn’t have said that Andy,” I replied, rubbing my injured toe, “I was wrong, that’s not a nice word.” He eyed me critically, then wandered off to play with his trains. I limped back to the kitchen sink to wash the dishes, wondering if my toe was worth saving. Not ten minutes later, I heard a crashing sound from the playroom, followed by Andy’s little voice blurting “&%@$!” How hilariously awful!
I’m 100% to blame for any curse words my kids use. My mistake with Andy wasn’t my first, and I’m sure it won’t be my last. I can’t even blame my upbringing; my parents were almost puritanical with their language. I didn’t hear my dad swear until I was in my twenties, and the worst thing my mother ever said was “what the hell!” I never swore as a child, which made me feel superior and made me lots of friends (yeah, right!). I can’t pinpoint where I picked up my shameful habit, but maybe I’m making up for lost time? Whatever the cause, I need to set a better example for my kids. I can’t have them sounding like belligerent carnies!
Something’s gotta change. I must show my progeny what an upstanding, respectable member of society I can be. Starting today, I vow not to swear. I won’t swear when Andy shovels sand into his socks. I won’t swear when six-year-old Molly sticks her elbow in the peanut butter. And I won’t swear when my kids are annoying the ever-loving &%@$ outta me……… AAARRRGGHH! I DID IT AGAIN! I DON’T STAND A CHANCE! Well, &%@$.
