Four Letter Words

Let me go ahead and start out by saying that if you find muttering four letter words under your breath around your Offspring and/or maybe sometimes flipping them off behind their backs offensive, you should just stop reading this now.  Go ahead and have yourself a nice, curse-free day.  But...if you’re like me and often think to yourself, wow...my Children really bring out the F-bombing in me, then keep reading and maybe we should consider being Best Friends.  Now, if you DO find this offensive and are STILL reading, then I take no responsibility for your choice and think maybe you should lighten up a little and that you might be lying about the words you may or may not be muttering under your breath or thinking in your head during the more...trying times of child rearing.

Being a parent demands an enormous amount of patience.  It requires you to actually be an adult and remain an adult even as the most obvious solution to a six year old child throwing a tantrum better suited for a two year old child seems like it should be to also throw a tantrum.  All day your Children are testing you...daring you even...to just come on down to my level, Mom.  Come on.  Come down here and act like a total asshole with me.  It’s fun.  But...you can’t.  I’m the Adult, you repeat to yourself.  I am in charge. I must remain calm.  I am the Parent.  Oh, shit.  I’M THE PARENT.  So when you joyfully proclaim to your Offspring that it is time to go to Target and this announcement is met not with a Sure, Mom...I’ll get my shoes on...but with a Physical Collapse on the floor followed by a long soliloquy  about how their lives are so UNFAIR that they have to run ERRANDS and why are you so MEAN, you must, as a Parent, explain to them that it is summer and the majority of their days are spent playing and if they like to wipe their butts with toilet paper and drink those delicious yogurts they like so much, a trip to Target is necessary and I’m not asking you, I’m telling you, that it is time to get your shoes on and Get.In.The.Car.  

When clearly, what you really want to say is: Shut the hell up.  Get your damn shoes on.  And get in the fucking car.  And buckle the fuck up. 

But you can’t.

Because, as a Parent, you have to use Gentle, Firm Mom voice.  And surely, Gentle, Firm Mom Voice would disapprove of the truck driver living inside your brain.  Sometimes that Truck Driver wants to get out, but you have to keep him down....way way down...but just for fun, let’s explore what Truck Driver would say in daily, somewhat frustrating situations in the life of a Parent.

What I’m saying in Gentle, Firm Mom Voice:
Get out of the car please...come on guys...let’s get a move on.
Truck Driver:
Fucking seriously get out of the fucking car. I could have brokered a fucking peace treaty by the time it has taken you to slowly, tortuously, slide your body out of the damn car.

What I am saying in GFMV:
You know what, guys?  I’m not really in the mood to be jumped on right now.  Let’s find something else to do that doesn’t involve Mama breaking a rib.
Truck Driver:
Get.The.Fuck.Off.Of.Me.  I gave both of you my BOOBS for twelve fucking months.  Would it kill you to give me some PERSONAL FUCKING SPACE ALREADY?

What I am saying in GFMV:
Yes.  That’s what we’re having for dinner.  Eat it or be hungry.  Your choice.
Truck Driver:
MAYBE IF YOU LIKED TO EAT MORE THAN TWO FUCKING THINGS YOU WOULD NOT COMPLAIN ABOUT DINNER EVERY FUCKING NIGHT.

What I am saying in GFMV:
I’m sorry that you think you’re not tired, but it’s time for bed and you may not come out of this room again.  Good night.  I love you.
Truck Driver:
We just spent every possible damn second together today and now I need to have a very large glass of wine on the sofa and watch some terrible fucking television.  Good fucking night.  Go the fuck to sleep.  And I fucking love you so fucking much it makes my heart fucking hurt.

Of course, the most important reason to not speak to your Child like a Truck Driver is because you want them to feel secure and loved and after all, every day they’re learning.  They’re watching you, the Parent, to teach them how to be kind and decent.  But sometimes, every once in awhile, I wonder if they’re thinking, Damn, lady.  Can you get me my fucking milk already?  I only asked you like, 7 fucking times.  

And that, for whatever fucked up kind of reason, makes me smile just a little.