The F Word

When Justin was in kindergarten or first grade, he had a friend over. They played with and discarded every toy he owned in every corner of the house. At the end of the afternoon, while his friend was dutifully hauling the G.I. Joes, Legos, and trucks back to the toy box, Justin sat there, whining about how he didn’t feel like picking up the toys.

“Justin, you need to help,” I told him sternly.

Without missing a beat, he sighed and said, “I don’t want to. Can I say fck and just put myself in time out?”

Well, sh*t!! Should I be horrified or impressed by the way his little devious mind worked?!

My little angel was acting like a whiny, lazy ass and dropped a cuss-bomb right in front of his pal. And odds are, he didn’t pick it up from the neighborhood kids, TV, or even from Bill. Nope. That addition to his vocabulary most likely came straight from me, the Queen of the F-Bomb.

Of course, I gave him the whole “that’s a bad word” talk and promised we’d both stop saying it.

Almost thirty years later, neither of us has quit, but we’ve both learned to curb our language and save it for the right time and place.

I’m still not opposed to using swear words. In fact, I think it’s a pressure valve - one good curse word can release more frustration than a dozen deep breaths. Swearing has also been linked to pain relief, stress release, and even honesty.

So really, saying f*ck is a form of self-care - just not the kind of self-soothing you want your five-year-old to practice in front of his friends.