The children found this great new app for my iPhone. They took a short video of me, zapped it with the app, and made my head explode. SWEET! It’s not weird at all that my adorable 6-year-old thinks it’s SO HIGH-LARIOUS to blow off her own mother’s head – because she also tells me that I’m the “best toast-cooker” she’s ever seen IN HER WHOLE LIFE. When she learns that the toaster actually does most of the work, she’s going to blow up the rest of me, too. At least she’ll be ready for chemistry class. Or the army.
Expanding on the impropriety theme, the Tyrant and the Pterodactyl were complaining recently that their sister has been calling them buttholes. “Honey, why would you call them buttholes?” I asked. I mean, I knew the answer. They are buttholes, after all. Still, she should show some discretion, right? But I’ve always stressed the importance of telling the truth. So she answered: “Because I can’t say the A-hole word.”
The Pterodactyl, for all his emotional immaturity, has never met an expletive he didn’t adore. He piped up immediately. “ASSHOLE? DOES SHE MEAN ASSHOLE?” The little Tyrant thought it was a stellar word. “ASSHOLE? ASSHOLE! WHAT’S AN ASSHOLE?”
We were driving at the time, and Hot Firefighter Husband kept his eyes on the road to keep from laughing out loud. That was a good thing, because his front crowns had fallen out and he looked more like Homeless Meth Addict Husband than Hot Firefighter Husband. When he smiled, I had the distinct urge to cover my neck so he wouldn’t stick his jagged fangs into my carotid artery. “Does it make me look sort of sexy? Like, tough?” he asked. Well. I’ll be honest here. No. Finally he went to the dentist and spent the children’s summer camp tuition to restore civility in his mouth.
So – there we were, driving along, listening to the Thrift Shop song – this is fucking awesome – but not singing because the little kids were screaming ASSHOLE! ASSHOLE! as loud as they could. And my head was exploding, so suddenly the iPhone app seemed oddly appropriate.
But listen – my head was exploding due to the cacophony in my immediate surroundings. Curse words? Pshaw. I. CARE. NOT.
Well, okay, I care a little bit, because I don’t want my kids to be banned from other people’s houses, as that would make me spend more time with them. But the power behind words, particularly curse words, comes from the intent that props them up. The real words I worry about? Loser. Weirdo. Retard. Fatso. Words that really hurt, and imprint scars on the delicate egos of young girls and boys. I don’t want my children labeled with such names, of course – but more importantly, I preach constantly about the importance of not using those words against their peers.
Because, you know, that would make them assholes. For real.