The other day (yesterday?), B asked J, “Where the hell were you?” Hmm, I wonder where he learned that?
(A-hem, I had said it the week before. And to my defense, I think it was the only time I’ve said it in his hearing.)
J, being outside with him, told him that he hadn’t asked very nicely. Almost on top of his words, I shouted out the door, “The next time you use that word you will lose both your DVD and your mp3 player!”
After he came into the house, I explained (not for the first time) that I’m not going to let him get into the habit of using “that” kind of language. But even as I spoke, I felt a cloud of hypocrisy descend upon me. It stretched out its slimy arms, and wrapped them around my chest. Tight.
“Tell you what,” I said to B, “if you ever hear me use the word damn or hell, I have to pay you a quarter, okay?”
He beamed with excitement. “Wow, I can make lots of money!”
(Again in my defense, Potty Mouth usually only appears during A Certain Time Of The Month, and not all day long by a long shot. I’m trying to cushion the shock some of you are feeling by this revelation of myself.)
Now I felt like a Really Bad Mommy. “It should make me stop using bad words,” I said.
The next day, I banged my hand against something while trying to get a bucket of almonds out from under our bed. I used a choice word. Under my breath, of course.
After my tirade calmed, B said, “I think you just used one of those words, like damn.”
“Maybe I did,” I replied dryly. But I didn’t pay him.
I hadn’t spoken the word very loudly. And besides, I hadn’t said either one of the twenty-five-cent words.
I had said the “F” word.