The F-Bomb

Last year I received a letter from my children's school addressed the parents of Monkey. It was one of two things, and informational letter or a discipline slip. I have to say my children have always demonstrated good behavior so I opened the letter with complete confidence that it was just the results of another test score. Possibly this was the one telling me that my son was a genius and that I was up for the Best Parent of the Year Award because he clearly learned his genius from me. Well, the note did reveal that he had learned something from me. He learned how to use the f-bomb.

According to the letter Monkey had yelled f'n a-hole to another child on the bus. Mind you by the time I got the letter disciplinary action had already been taken. Monkey had yelled the obscenity on Monday and on Tuesday had visited the principal, who by the way was my boss at the time. I was home sick from work on Tuesday, so I missed all the fireworks. Of course I was furious. Furious that my son would say something so mean to another child, furious at him for not breathing a word of this for two days and furious that now my boss thought I was raising a foul-mouthed sailor.

Luckily for Monkey he was at school when the letter was delivered, so I had a few hours to cool off before he would have to face my wrath. During that time I couldn't help but contemplate where my sweet boy would learn such words. At first I turned the guns on my husband. Oh, yes he was the one to blame. Swear words rolled of his tongue like butter off a hot roll. But he wasn't entirely to blame. There were also those older kids on the bus. Yeah, I've heard their little mouth rattle off some doozies. Yes, my husband and the little brats on the bus. That was where he learned the words. They would take the fall. However, being that I'm human, I have a conscience and it was telling me otherwise.

I'll admit it, I have a potty mouth. I try not to let the words slip out, but sometimes I just can't help it. It's completely out of my control! Like for instance, say I'm running late and in my rushed state I hit my toe on the leg of the table. The first word that flies is usually the f-bomb. I don't want to say it, but it just comes out and somehow it makes me feel better. Being a writer, I believe in the power of words and sometimes that power includes dulling the pain of a throbbing toe. I'm not proud of it, but I can except the fact that I too am responsible for teaching my children profanity.

By the time Monkey arrived home I was calm. He had no clue that only hours before steam had been seeping from my ears and fire from my nose. I sat him down and did something I thoroughly enjoy doing with my kids.

Me: "Monkey, do you have anything you would like to tell me?"

I always like to open the door for a confession. I find that asking an open ended question like this not only can get your children to admit to the things you know about, but it can often get them to admit to the things you didn't know.

Monkey: "Um, I got a C on my science test."

Me: "Yes, but is there anything else you want to tell me?"

Monkey: "I took Queenie's picture and ripped it up."

Queenie: "WHAT? MOM HE RIPPED MY PICTURE!"

Me: "Nope, not what I'm talking about. Would you like to tell me what happened on the bus?"

Monkey: "No."

Me: "You want to answer that question again?"

Monkey: "I called Pumpkin Head a bad word, but he started it mom."

The pieces were starting to come together. After a short interrogation period I learned that my two boys were arguing over Pokemon on the bus. My little Monkey has a short fuse (I don't know where he gets this from), and in the heat of passion the word vomit just shot out of his mouth. I could sympathize. After all, I suffered from the same debilitating disease. Then there was a twist in the story that even I couldn't see coming. Turns out the person who told the bus driver about the word crime was none other than his own brother. Honestly, I don't know what upset me more, Monkey calling Pumpkin Head bad words or Pumpkin Head telling a school authority on his brother. Come on man! There's a code when it comes to family and I'm sure that not ratting out a brother is one of them!

I spent the night discussing the need to watch our words, to think about other people's feelings , controlling our tempers and not tattling on siblings. Things were all good at home, the next thing I had to do was face my boss. All I could do was state the facts. I looked at him and said, "I don't know where the f*** he gets it."