Who do you think you are?

Now that I have children I seem to be swearing more than I used to (it's all their fault). Or maybe I'm just noticing the amount of curse that has always tumbled from my trashy tongue (it's all my fault). ANY kind of obstacle results in a tirade of the seven words you can't say on television. A pothole by my driveway, a bolt that won't quite thread in smoothly, bread dough that rises out of the bowl and takes a walk around the inside of my clean oven, ... you name it, it's fair game for cursing.

And there they are. My boys. Watching me. Taking it all in. One word at time. They are keen students. I've seen that they know how to swear like a drunk rig-worker and they also know where (and when) they can let 'er rip.

Rules for swearing:
Not in front of adults. It's OK around Mom and Dad who might squawk, but won't really do anything. Sometimes the oldies will laugh at what we say. That's good right?

When I was a child, I was under the influence of the Pentecostal church. I used to think I would go to hell just for thinking the word fuck. And of course, that anxiety triggered the word to repeat in my mind like a manic parrot swearing his head off for the priest who has come for coffee. The worst was when a song would loop over and over in my mind's ear: "Jesus Christ, superstar, who in the fuck do you think you are." You know the kind of song: the one that plays over and over and nearly drives you crazy. The more you try not to think about it, the more you do.

I just wish it wasn't so damn satisfying to let a few choice bombs explode from my lips -- it really feels good -- and I like the idea of substitution: "Cheese and biscuits! Who peed all over the toilet seat? Have you notice that there's a hole in the middle?! Fooza!" But I can only do that when I don't really feel like swearing.

Seems like I'm in a bit of a pickle.



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