I grew up in a home where swearing was absolutely not ok. We did not swear. Well, we did not swear in front of my parents. My mom considered 'fart' to be: the F word. We said 'pass gas' instead. Which, by the way, is so gross - like you can actually picture the biological function involved in 'passing gas'. Fart just sounds cool. I was desperate to say fart as a kid. We secretly suspected that dad swore when he was out and about... doing farm guy stuff. Someone once told me he swore regularly outside of our home. I remember finding that quite shocking - but also pretty cool. No matter what, I still would not swear in front of either of my parents growing up. When my mom would hear people swear she would say things like: "How can they kiss their children with that mouth...?" Meanwhile, I was so deprived of swearing as a youngster that I would fully binge on swear words any moment it was safe to do so, away from home, of course. I remember having a sleepover at my little friend's house, we couldn't have been any older than 10, when we mindfully decided to have a 'swearing fight' outside. Her parents were tucked away inside of her house, out of earshot, of course. It was incredibly liberating. We stood, two tiny creatures, in her yard on her farm, pointing at one another and stream-of-conscious swearing... connecting every single swear word we could think of - even if they didn't logically belong together. It was both therapeutic and soul cleansing, even though I worried I might actually be going to hell afterwards. Interestingly - a thunderstorm rolled up out of nowhere during our swear-fight... coincidence? We may never know.
I am now a grown up with my own family. I almost hate to admit it - but I really enjoy swearing. Nothing adds emphasis to whatever it is you are saying quite like putting the real F word in front of it, or behind it. The F word makes everything sound bigger, better, cooler, crazier... For the majority of my children's lives I did not swear in front of them. I reserved swearing for 'adult' conversations. Thank goodness I have had the pleasure of working with people who shared my love of the F word. I could spend eight hours a day swearing at work, and transition into a sweet baby angel while at home with my family. The odd time Andrew would accidentally let a swear word slip out in front of the kids I would join them in 'mock shock', my eyes wide, mouth agape, a rose blush taking over my cheeks... how could he...?
As Julian and Nora got older they became fascinated with swearing (as most children do at some point). This was back when I had them convinced that 'stupid' was a swear word. They often asked me: "Mama... did you ever swear?" I would look at them innocently: "Oh my... of course not, my sweet pea."
Then, one day, I can't even recall when, it just... happened. I dropped the F word in the car. They knew by the ease with which it slipped out of my mouth that it wasn't 'my first time'. They both looked at me with an expression of absolute shock on their faces. Andrew thought it was hilarious. I spent about five seconds trying to convince the kids it was my first swear word EVER, but they knew. Honestly, I think they were relieved.
Then came the time that my own parents never needed to worry about. That time when your children start to swear - in front of you, the parent. The first time I heard each of my children swear, I honestly felt almost sick inside... What had happened? Where did I go wrong? How had I failed them?
This past summer Andrew and Nora went to England - leaving Julian and I in The Well. We decided to have a weekend getaway in Toronto. We stayed in my favourite little boutique hotel, and Julian literally spent his life savings on records. Just the two of us, mother and son, bonding in The Big Smoke. It was awesome, and very 'grown up'. As we casually walked down Queen Street, feeling incredibly free and independent, it happened. Julian dropped the F bomb. I didn't want to behave like the shocked mom I was on the inside, so I played it cool, and came up with a deal. As long as we were in The Big Smoke, on Queen Street, we could both swear as much as we wanted and it didn't matter. It didn't 'count'. After that weekend away, the odd swear word would slip out, we would look at one another - and one of us would say it: "Queen Street". Although we still physically live in The Well, psychologically we have taken up permanent residence on Queen Street. It is fucking awesome... (sorry mom).
jbxo
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