The other night I was in bed reading to my two youngest girls.
I heard my two-year-old toddler mumble something, but I didn’t quite catch it.
“Mommy, did you hear what Lily just said?” my five-year-old daughter asked, wide-eyed.
“No honey, what did she say?”
She stood up in her nightie, and with a theatrical wave of her hands for emphasis, she announced the dire words.
“She said… ‘f——-ck youuuuuuu!” (with the u’s particularly drawn out).
“Angel face with a potty mouth”
I should have been horrified, but for a moment, I was stunned. Then I did what no one should ever do in response to a serious situation about their kids.
I lost it. Like curled in a ball, laughing hysterically, lost it. It was the “youuuuu” that really got me – so personal!
My nine-year-old son came running in to see what all the commotion was about, and I couldn’t help myself. I whispered into his ear what his cute-as-a-button little sister had said.
Then he lost it. Bent over. Struggling-to-breathe lost it.
Now, the reason this reaction was so silly, aside from the fact that it wasn’t very mature or appropriate on my part, was that I know firsthand that laughing in these situations is the absolute worst thing you can do.
How do I know this? Because my mother told me so. You see, when I was the same age, I learnt the f-bomb too.
“One of mom’s favourite expressions”
Mom always says I must have picked it up from my three older siblings when she tells the story, but we all know that’s probably fiction.
“For f–k’s sake” is one of my mom’s favorite expressions.
Anyhow, I somehow learnt this word and I’d say it, and at first my whole family would lose it laughing.
Soon, I discovered that this particular word had power. Lots of power.
We’d go to the shops and mom would put me in the trolley and wheel me around Woolworths.
“Momma, I want lowwwlies,” I’d say.
“No Milly, not today,” she’d reply, feeling panicked because she knew what was coming.
I’d look at her with an evil eye and repeat, “lowwwlies.”
“No, Milly,” she’d say.
Mom would start to sweat, dreading what would come out of my mouth next.
“F–k!”
“F——-k! Youuuuuu!”
Yes, I’ll admit that I was a bit of a monster.
“What kind of parent allows this?”
Often poor mom would toss me a lolly just to appease me, as other mothers in the small Tasmanian town where we lived looked at her with distaste.
“What kind of parent lets their child use such profanity?” they’d mumble as mom walked away, defeated by two-year-old me.
After a while, it definitely wasn’t funny anymore and my parents would tell me off for using the f-bomb.
But I’d say it even more, just to spite them.
In the end, my mom told me that the only thing that worked was completely ignoring me when I said it.
Suddenly, the word lost its power. I quickly got bored of it.
So, ever since my angel-faced daughter with a potty mouth began her use of adult vernacular – every chance she can get, and mostly out of context — I’ve told the bigger kids not to acknowledge it.
It’s been a challenge, but we’ve remained a united front, and Lily is finally learning it won’t get the reaction she wants.
So far, so good. Then again, we haven’t tested it out in Woollies yet.
