The rise and fall and rise and fall of cussing in my life (this blog contains inappropriate language)

I had to wash my mouth out with soap the other day because I let loose with a four-letter word in front of the grandchildren. Little Miss and Mr. Man were fortunately too focused on their splash pad activities to notice, but it was a strong reminder that I need to watch my mouth.

Cussing has waxed and waned during my lifetime. As a child, of course, I didn’t dare let rip with any blue words. I shudder to think what my mother would have done. Not that she was a holy roller when it came to conversation. Truth be told, she swore like a sailor. Everything but the f-word was fair game. She could have made the dad in A Christmas Story blush.

Her favorite was son of a bitch.

My sisters and I cured her of using that expression one day at breakfast. I’m not sure what brought it on, but Mary Kay, Ann, and I were at the table while Mom was putzing around the kitchen. Something had irked her, and she was mumbling under her breath about this son of a bitch and that son of a bitch. She accentuated her comments by slamming cabinet doors closed and clanging pots together.

Mary Kay took a long drag of her morning cigarette, releasing the smoke in a long, upward plume. She looked at Ann and very calmly said, “Son of a bitch.”

Ann replied, “Son of a bitch.” She looked at me.

I said, “Son of a bitch.”

The three of us then proceeded to repeat son of a bitch in as many different pitches and speeds as we could think of. Fast, slow, loud, soft, all run together, syllables all drawn out.

Ma was not amused, but to that day she never said son of a bitch again. It was always that SOB.

My father did not ever say an off-color word in front of us womenfolk. I assume he was freer with his language in front of the guys at the tavern and work, but I have no way of knowing for sure. He never made a comment about Ma’s potty mouth, either, but none of us dared push him regarding whether his little girls should be swearing.

My college years were loaded with cuss words. In fact, whole conversations around the dorm could be conducted using only cuss words. Under the spell of a few beers, we would even have contests to see who could invent the most unique insult. Not content with calling a person a shithead, we ran the gamut from “boob chewer” to “syphilitic afterbirth of a Tasmanian clusterf&ck.” That last one never failed to leave us screaming with laughter.

At my first job, I was cautious about swearing. On the one hand I wanted to be seen as tough as nails in a male-dominated business, but on the other hand swearing seemed like an cheap way to be one of the boys.

Once my children were born, my cuss words filed into the “forbidden” closet. I was a stay-at-home mother and needed to parse every word.

I remember the first time the f-word escaped. The boys were all under 10 years old at the time. They had run to tell me of a horrendous problem.

“Mom, there’s a bird in the house!” the oldest shouted.

Thinking it was a sparrow, which we had had a few times before, I said, “Open a window. He’ll find his way out.”

“No, Mom, this is a BIRD!”

I went to see for myself. There in the breakfast nook was a full-grown, fat, and highly irate crow, flinging himself from one side of the room to the other trying to find a way out.

“Holy f&cking shit,” I muttered, I thought under my breath.

The three boys stood there, mouths agape, all eyes on me. It was apparent that they had heard the words before, but were shocked to know that I knew how to use them.

We all stared at each other, then broke out into hysterical laughter.

Once we had collected ourselves, we devised a series of blankets to herd the bird down the stairs to an open door.

After that I knew I could relax a bit and use the vulgarities at appropriate moments without damaging their little minds.

Once they went away to college, I reverted to letting the little hells, shits and, yes, even the occasional son of a bitch slip out. The f-word shows up, but not in abundance.

The boys will swear in front of me, but there is always a certain awkwardness about it. It’s as if we all realize they are adults and can, but they are still my little babies and shouldn’t.

So now come the grandchildren, and I need to put a cap on it again. Jeff doesn’t have this problem. He has always been like my father in that regard. If he says hell or damn, it’s time to duck and run. I know the little darlings are going to pick up the words over time. I just don’t want it to be from me. Let them learn from some other son of a bitch.

(FYI: I apologize for not blogging over the summer. It was hot and sunny and I didn’t want to spend time with my computer.)