I curse. I admit it. I do. Sometimes I even like to curse. Sorry, Dad. There’s just something about curving my mouth around a good curse word that feels so… satisfying. I curse more than my husband, but I generally stay away from the biggies (anything involving an F – hey, I have something in common with my kid!), which he can not claim to do.
Sometimes people are surprised to learn that I curse, mainly because I stay away from cursing in situations in which I am trying to be taken seriously (e.g., workplace). Once, I cursed at work and I thought my boss was going to fall out of his chair laughing. Apparently “bastards” is funny coming out of my mouth. It’s also one of my favorite away-from-work words, if he only knew.
What isn’t funny coming out of a toddler’s mouth is the word “shit.” While I didn’t hear it specifically (apparently she said it at day care after falling), I am a.) not convinced she really meant it because of the whole replacing the letter f and now, apparently “tr” with the sh sound (shucks for trucks, which also sounds suspiciously like sucks, and that’s a whole new Pandora’s Box to open, because is that a curse word? Or isn’t it?) and b.) sure that if she did say it and did mean it, it is probably my fault. Or Hubby’s. But probably mine.
So, now I am trying to quit, and I use the term trying extremely loosely. Yesterday, while feeding the dogs and carting Angel Face around on my hip and trying not to bump her head on the door frame of the garage or drop her while bending to scoop the last pebbles of Beneful out of the bag, I lost my tenuous grip on the measuring scoop, which clattered forlornly to the ground. I let a little “dammit” slip out, and immediately chastised myself and said, “Darn it, darn it, darn it” over and over again.
I am forever a work in progress.