Raw Drip

When I signed on for the whole kid & family thing I knew I’d be making sacrifices big & small.  But no one said anything about how many sacrifices, nor how difficult it would be let go of my old ways, and they certainly didn’t have the courtesy to mention how much I’d come to miss some of the simple things – like being able to swear whenever the urge struck me.  

With the addition of the little free-loaders, Dick and I have all but eliminated profanity from our banter.   It wasn’t so much a decision we reached through mutual agreement, than it was an implied responsibility of our new role as parents. Besides, it doesn’t take a genius to recognize that the types of parents who inundate their children with profanity are the same people you see on Jerry Springer with belligerent knocked-up teenage daughters and drug-dealing, ex-pimp sons who’ve fathered 4 kids before the age of 17.  Not exactly a demographic we as pasty white-collar NPR listeners have ever really identified with…

While I’m the first person to admit that I miss the freedom to swear whenever the urge strikes me, Dick, being the language whore and wanna be literary snob, proclaims not to miss it.  Instead, he’s labeled the use of profanity in our culture as over-done, lazy, coarse, and common.  My usual response to Dick’s stated position goes something like, “Well, fuck me, Mr. Professor…”, which elicits a sigh of disgust coupled with a dramatic eye roll.

Like a pervasive root-rot, the influence of the language police is spreading.  Now there are certain not nice, but not particularly coarse or profane terms like “stupid”, “crap”, and “shut-up” that have also been excised from our newer and more kid-friendly lexicon.  It turns out our little freeloaders may have a hard time hearing us when we ask them to pick up their Lego or wash their hands, but can hear very clearly when Mommy tells Daddy he’s being stupid.   Apparently once they see that you’re okay with calling Daddy stupid, there’s no stopping them from running around wielding their new verbal weapon with abandon.

While I see the necessity in self-policing, eliminating simple words like “stupid” has really put a cramp in my conversational style.   I feel like I’ve been muted, diluted, dulled-down into a less interesting person who’s forced to say things like, “Stupid isn’t a bad word, it’s just not a very nice word.  Words like stupid make people feel bad about themselves. It’s not nice to make people feel bad, is it?”  

Gag.

But even as hard as all the self-policing has been, part of me is proud of the fact that I’ve been able to adapt to our new G-rated, profanity-free existence – for the most part.  That’s not to say I don’t let ‘er rip from time to time.  I do.  Now I just save my really nasty words for the occasional cocktail rendezvous with girlfriends.  My ladies’ night out events are the occasional release valve needed to ease the building pressure of unspoken swear words.

Recent outings with the girls suggest, however, that I’m losing my edge just when I got old enough to finally harness its full capacity.  Ironically, it turns out that great swearing is a bit of an art form and without regular practice, it’s hard to deliver a fabulously dirty, off-color punch line with the required gravitas.  Despite this sad irony I still long for my regular dose of occasional swearing to salve the wounds inflicted upon me by motherhood.   Take one part food, one part booze and 2 to 4 parts chick-chat and our speech becomes the highly inappropriate kind I long for, designed to speak of life’s universal truths in a lazy, over-done, coarse and common manner that makes me erupt with laughter…

…because, as any good girlfriend will tell you, sometimes you just need a good FUUUUUCK!