Kiddie Cussin'

I swear I have a problem. My problem is my two year old swears. At first, it was both mortifying and cute. Who can't resist a chuckle the first time he tests the waters and utters "asshole" much in the same vein as the child in Meet the Fockers to Ben Stiller. Then there was the Dick's Sporting Goods incident. Horrifying to my husband, who lived it in a slow-motion nightmare and couldn't move from the spot he stood. Paralyzed as our son gleefully chattered the word "shit" over and over in every way one could possibly say the word. Even drawing it out into eight syllable long utterances that drew amused yet disproving glances from soccer mom types in surrounding aisles. We moved on from the day with an explanation that there are some words you just don't say and a solemn promise to ourselves to clean up our own language, for we certainly have quite the mimic on our hands.


And I have to confess. Much of the problem lies with me. I have a secret. I love to cuss.  There is just something so satisfying about unleashing a colorful string of curse words on an unsuspecting world.  Some days it just needs to be said and makes me feel so much better afterwards. And I'll admit, other days my cussing is completely frivolous and unnecessary. But I still love it despite my proper upbringing and the horror it causes my mother when so much as "sucks" leaves my mouth.  These days are ending, for I have a swear problem and it's not even my own. The potty mouth now belongs to someone much smaller than I.  I dread each time the phone rings and I see his preschool on the caller ID. I fear he's taught some classmate "dammit!" versus winning the Thanksgiving reading contest. 


Just the other day, he spilled water and his natural response was "Aww....goddammit!" Uh oh. Mommy loaded the dishwasher one too many times before bedtime this week.  Yesterday, getting dressed he wanted to put back on wet pajamas and was told no. His response? "dammit!"  My favorite word has now become his. There is one happy ending for me. The granddaddy of bad words he unleashed while I was dressing? A direct mimic of Daddy housecleaning. 


I swear I have a problem. There are THREE potty mouths in my house.