I have a bit of a potty mouth in real life, understatement of the year. I try to keep the profanity out of this here blog for the sake of you, my dear readers, and your untarnished sensibilities. If we were to meet in person, however, you’d quickly realize I can give the dirtiest sailor a run for his money.
The ‘F’ word and I have a love affair, actually. It just has so many connotations and exemplifies every emotion. It’s supportive when I need that extra boost, it’s funny when I need to laugh. It suits me, what can I say.
Of course, I try my best to curb the severity of my crassness when around my innocent youngsters. Except I’m with my children all the time, so there are bound to be slips. Or a string of slips, depending on the occasion and day. When that inevitably occurs, I attempt a meager cover-up when they’re close enough to have heard. Such as, “Mommy said fudge, Mommy likes fudge. So see, mommy’s a motherfudger.” That bait and switch has a limited shelf life until it catches on, however. If I ever had them fooled at all.
Which leads me to how I believe they’re on to me.
Abby was playing on the top bunk of her brother’s bed when the toy she held fell from her hand to the bottom. “Oh, shit!”, she blurted.
“What did you say?”, I shot up to attention to ask.
Her eyes set on my gaze as she clarified smoothly, “Shoot, Mommy. I say shoot.”
Ah, gosh fudging dang it.