(WARNING: SWEARING AHEAD!)
A couple weeks ago Will demonstrated he'd moved on to the next big stage of Middle School. My mom scolded him for something he was doing. Will's response? "Shiiiiiiit." He has a high signsong voice and loves to stretch his words out. I tried very hard not to be amused. Total failure. A week after that, his other grandma informed me she'd heard him say the f-word under his breath. Time for a talk, I thought, but then my mind went to all those moments where swearing played a key part of the experience. Weird, but I have a cussing soundtrack to my life.
Nine years old, rough time for me. My mom ordered patterns in the mail to make pillows out of cartoon characters. My sister's arrived with mismatched pieces. I didn't take it well. "If they messed up my Strawberry Shortcake pattern, I'm going to be really pissed off!" Got grounded on the spot.
Fourteen, summer before my freshman year of high school. After being grossly hit on, I boldly and stupidly told the awful (and gargantuan) guy I could not stand him. He grabbed my boob and in my struggle to get away from him, he ripped my shirt. The shirt I had just gleefully stolen from my sister. "You tore my sister's shirt! You (three fast punches to his face) asshole!" I learned by the immediate rage that took over his entire body to flee first, feel properly pissed later. Our mutual friend stepped between us before the jerk could pummel me into the ground.
Two years ago fresh off my divorce and about as fragile as anything, my dad called using his overly calm voice. My brain went into overtime to keep the emotions in check because I knew something bad was coming. "...and the doctor said I'd die of old age before the leukemia got me." I tried my best not to cry because I absolutely hate crying over the phone. In my effort, my brain grasped for anything to hold on to. Swearing. "Shit," was all I could say. Then he kept going, talking about white blood counts and diet. I nodded until, "Do you know the odds of Ella May and I both having leukemia?" "Wait. Grandma has leukemia too?" "Yes." "Shit."
I don't know what landscape of life Will has in store, or what his cussing soundtrack will be. So last week after picking Will up from school, I turned off the car and had our talk.
"Will, I don't want you saying shiiiiiit." He chirped the way he usually did. If I could draw musical notes you'd get a better idea of how he sounds.
"Anything else, Mom?"
"Uh...yeah, don't say damn."
"You mean like Get your ass in here?"
"Wait, what? Where did you hear that?"
"Where did I hear Get your ass in here?" I nodded. "On my game at Dad's."
"Well, don't say that."
"You mean ass?"
"Grrh. Yes, ass."
"Don't say pissed off, God dammit, or Jesus Christ."
"How about bitch?"
"Oh my goodness, don't say bitch. Do not say bitch. Really. That's a terrible one."
"Bitch is terrible?"
"Yes, it's terrible!"
"I won't say bitch, but you can't say bitch either, as in son of a bitch!"
"Uh, my bad. Okay...And Will?"
"Don't say fuck."
chirp, chirp, chirp
Think Out Loud is one seriously awesome post whatever you want meme. I mean, I freaking love it! (I couldn't pull the trigger there on all-out cussing).