The Art of Cursing

Five years ago, my mouth was sparkly clean. Rarely would the f-bomb be uttered from these lips, only a random "damn" or "shit" in sight. Then something monumental occurred, a life changing experience that is supposed to make you want to keep things G-rated.

I had kids.

It started out small. A little "damn" when I dropped something or a little "shit" when I stuck my finger in...well shit. But eventually the small pleasure I derived from these phrases lost it's charm and another word worked itself into my potty mouth vocabulary. A word I always hated and made me cringe. A word that would have gotten me a slap to the mouth as a teen. I'm talking about the word, the big word, the F word.

The f-bomb is a frequent flier in my house. I'll drop it without thinking; when I drop a plate and smash it, when I stub my toe or when I step onto a hot wheels car (those miniature objects of metal and sharpness are the bane of my existence). But I realized the other day it's taken another direction. I also use the F word when I need to release built up stress from hours alone with diapers, Thomas the train, and laundry.

Sometimes when my day is shit and I'm ready to explode and the kids are screaming and fighting and I just want to blow, I just let it fly - Fuck! And then something inside me says, "ahhhhh" and I can return to my folding, chasing and wrangling - at peace once again.

So if the future generation that comes to you courtesy of my home have the mouth of a sailor, please forgive me, at least they won't be bullies, liars or thieves. Sometimes you have to strive for the obtainable. We're going to make Ozzy's family look like the Cosby's.