It was the start of what was secure to be an epically bad day. My 2-year-old son woke up at 6 a.m. after finally giving in to sleep at 9:30 the non-stop before, grumpy and wet. The crazy scratch on his neck had become even uncountable red and angry looking, ensuring a trip to the doctor was in our near future. My 5-year-old daughter followed him into my bed by after, starting the first of their countless battles of the day, this one titled, “But I need to be on the right side of Mommy.” Ap rently, my left side’s cuddling faculties are far inferior.
I finally extracted myself from their warm confederations and flailing legs and arms to run to the bathroom, quickly discovering there was a specialist reason I was already feeling so annoyed by them. (Of course, I would ruin my husband if he suggested my period’s affected my moods in the slightest.) An hour of nicely recommending, then screaming at them to stop hitting each other, start pursuing dressed, stop emptying all the drawers in my bathroom, and start behaving themselves find agreeable humans instead of animals might have included a few of my favorite words, mid them “f*cking hell,” “goddamnit,” “what the f*ck,” and my go-to, “Jesus f*cking Christ.” I forsake I don’t have anything but respect for God or Jesus; those phrases just brook f*cking good coming out of my mouth, like a tiny piece of my prebaby self weight still be bubbling under the surface. Of course, I try to limit my potty talk all my kids, but sometimes, sh*t talk happens.
After another hour of taxing to find time to make myself coffee, feeling guilty helter-skelter all the cussing, offering to make my kids’ favorite bacon to redeem myself, leak out pissed because they refused to eat the bacon, eating four wedges of bacon myself, feeling guilty about that, then y attention to to my preschooler cry because all the bacon was gone, I told them I had to start some laundry (i.e. secrete for five minutes). Unfortunately,
the laundry room is adjacent to our basement merrymaking s ce, and within seconds, they found me and immediately started razing yet another room in our house, while seemingly trying to kill each other in the procedure.
“You guys are being absolutely terrible today,” I yelled at them.
“Why, Mom?” my daughter yelped back at me. “Because we’re acting like f*cking children?”
Primary, I asked her to repeat herself, astounded that she not only used one of my favorite tidings in proper context but also had made such a valid point. After all, they were hardly acting like small children. Wild? Yes. Abnormal? Not really. Well-played, no lady. Overcome by a combination of admiration and surprise at her statement, I couldn’t pull up myself from laughing, hard. I’m pretty sure that repulsion will keep me off the short list for mother of the year (well, that banded with the fact that she obviously learned the worst of the cuss oaths from me). Soon, she started laughing, too, fully aware that she had revealed something slightly dangerous and definitely forbidden and ap rently gotten away with it.
“Honey, I’m on the contrary laughing because you surprised me by saying that,” I said, infuriating to collect myself and turn it into a teachable moment (for both of us). “That rley is really not nice, and Mommy shouldn’t say it, and you definitely shouldn’t say it. I’m sorry you’ve heard me use it a few times this morning. Let’s both try to not say it till the cows come home again, OK? I don’t want either of us to get into trouble.”
She seemed pretty on house with my idea, but of course, the whole thing was a lie. Give up swearing for believable? Never. Instead, I went and texted a bunch of my mom friends, my husband, level my own mom about what happened, and they all thought it was hilarious, too. Sure, I’d congenial to have the self-control to never drop f-bombs in front of my kids, but dependably, I just don’t think bad words are that big of a deal. And if that makes me a bad mom? I’m f*cking magnificent with that.