I will admit to having something of a potty mouth, although in recent years I have dramatically curbed my tendency to use colorful language in both written and spoken speech. Partially because for years my mother told me that I’d never meet a nice man if I swore all the time and partially because I have a small child and don’t want her using salty language. I will confess that I have dropped the F-bomb in front of her a couple of times in the midst of great frustration. The first time she was about three and we were making butternut squash soup.  Once the veggies are cooked, you need to put the whole thing in a blender to puree it. First, I spilled some of the non-pureed soup. “Oh fudge!” I said, rather proud to have used a nice non-offensive exclamation. I cleaned up the mess, poured some of the soup into the blender, and let the kid press the button. That’s when I realized that whomever had cleaned the blender the last time had not tightened the bottom, thus soup was leaking out all over the place. “Fudge!” I said again. The whole time, the little one is standing on the step stool next to me, helping cleaning up and being a fine little helper. She got to press the buttons on the blender (a task she takes very seriously). When the first batch was pureed, I poured it into another pan. It spilled. And some of it splashed on me and burned my hand. And that’s when I dropped the first F-bomb in my child’s presence. And then she said it. “Fuck!” with the  happy lilt that comes when a little kid learns a new word.

We had a quick little discussion about good words and bad words, and I went more than a year without saying it in front of her. Then the three of us–the kid, the husband, and I were coming home from somewhere. I was driving, and as I pulled our too-long car (it’s a fine car, it’s just too big for my liking) into the too-filled-with-stuff garage, the front bumper tapped the shelving that was against the back wall. Without thinking, I said It. From the back seat came a little voice asking: “Why did you say ‘fuck’?”

After my husband stopped laughing, we had another little talk about language and how sometimes grown-ups use bad words when they get frustrated or angry but that it’s ugly language and we’d all try not to use it.  For the most part, I haven’t (I’m still a Cleveland sports fan, after all). But once in a while, the F-bomb must drop.