Let's get one thing out of the way- I have a potty mouth. No! I have the mouth of a pirate ship that's been lost at sea for three years, battling scurvy and entertaining loose women. Before Jack I never gave a thought as to who I was potentially offending (old ladies on the bus, my English teacher) and I just let the f-bombs and s-storms come flying when and where I felt fit.
"It makes you sound uneducated."
"Whatever. I have the highest GPA in the damn English class. So that notion can go fuck itself."
Fast forward a few years and now I have Jack. When Jack was an infant I figured he was too mesmerized by his own hands to notice the "son of a motherfuck"s I was tossing around when it came to breastfeeding, sleep deprivation, healing c-section sites and general Arizona summer weather. Surely he didn't notice the in-depth expletives I served up my malcontents on the road. No, my son would never understand "donkey dildo shit eater" from "Ohhhh, loooook at the duckies!!"
Until he did.
After Jack dropped his very own f-bomb the other day while mimicking me, I slammed the brakes.
"Uuuuuhhhh nooooo! Okay, listen. Mama has a bad, bad potty mouth! And she needs to STOP! No bad words okay?"
And we moved on to more pressing matters like apple juice refills and guitar playing.
But, habits don't just end at the snap of a finger. And by dinner I had "an accident".
"*pop off oil landing on my skin from the skillet* Oooowww fuck!"
And then I see this curly head of hair peek around the corner, with an expression I can only describe as "unimpressed Martha Stewart", points at me with disgust and says-
"NO BAD WORDS MAMA!!"
"Ohh, oh yes, I'm sorry dude. You're right! No bad words! I'm sorry."
And so it has begun. The reform of my rebel tongue. It's just kinda f*@ked up that a 2 year old had to point it out.
Classy Amanda, reeeeeal classy.