I’m sorry that I’m not sorry about my language. The pearl-clutching puritans who tinkle their pants at the mere hint of a hedonistic expletive assume that I’m a foul-mouthed failure of a parent, and to that I say, “fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck.”
My daughters don’t mind my F-bombs. In fact, they don’t even notice anymore, and though I can express myself without swearing, why should I? My kids still beg me to tuck them in each night, regardless of how many times I said “fuck” on that particular day. They still fight over who gets to sit next to me, even if I get elbowed in the face and say “Fuck!” They give zero fucks about how many fucks I say in a day. They think I’m the best.
Adult Words Aren’t Bad Words
Of course certain situations don’t allow for it, but in everyday, ordinary life, let the fucks fly. It’s actually pretty normal in these parts, and some would argue that people who swear are more creative, intelligent, fun, and honest (not bragging, just shedding light on existing theories). Minus that one rough patch when they were 3, my kids don’t swear, and in my house, there are no such things as “bad words.” We call them “adult words,” and my children know that when they grow up, they can use them accordingly.
Offended individuals enjoy scolding me and preach that parents must lead by example and teach their children well. I totally agree, and I think about these things too. I can only hope that both daughters will understand that fuck can be used as a noun, verb, adjective, and more. The English language is vast and beautiful.
What chaps my ass is that these puritanical pundits label me a bad parent based on the fact that they don’t like the curse words in my repertoire—this is where shit gets real.
Don’t fuck with my family.
If you’re going to judge a mother, use a more accurate unit of measurement, like how hot she is or how little cellulite she has on her butt. All fucks aside, my children are growing up to be amazing people—whip-smart and funny, because growing up in an authentic and expressive environment allows them room to stretch and grow into their personalities.
A while back, one self-righteous biatch warned me that my kids will grow up to hate me for all of the cussing I’ve done, inevitably becoming potty-mouthed menaces to society. I disagree because they’re too busy loving the shit out of me and my fucks. In fact, most kids love me dearly; I host huge playdates and slumber parties, I coach their soccer team, I haul them around from pool to park, and I make bitchin’ pancakes. I’ve also mastered the art of muttering curse words under my breath, so you can calm your tits about me swearing in front of kids who aren’t mine.
Another mistaken belief is that I talk to my kids in an abusive manner. Most of the fucks that fly are general fucks, not derogatory fucks, like, “Fuck! We’re late!” or “I’m so fucking tired.” I’d never say, “Zoe! You’re a fucking asshole for hitting your sister. Stop being such a bitch,” or “Sydney, fuck you for farting at the dinner table, again. Go to your room.”
To the curmudgeons: Humor is the stuff of life. Self-expression is arbitrary and subjective, and I’d rather my kid drop the F-bomb on a regular basis than get those gross earrings that stretch the fuck out of peoples’ earlobes. Go ahead, child, call that guy a fuckface, but please, don’t pierce your vagina or get a tattoo on your face. It’s all about perspective and the grand scheme and whether or not they’re good people. And if my kid does get a tattoo on her face, I will most definitely say a fistful of fucks.
I don’t care if people don’t agree with my choice of words, but leave my kids out of it. All of the puritan fuck-haters out there have permission to condemn me when I start abusing them or pawning their toys for meth, but for saying a few adult-y words here and there? Get a fucking life. Everything I do is for my kids and their well-being, so stop wagging your finger at me and pick a more worthy cause to wad your panties over. A few fucks never hurt anyone.