Growing up as the eldest of four sisters, I adhered to certain household rules that shaped my upbringing. There were strict guidelines about screen time—only designated family nights for high-minded PBS specials—and absolutely no swearing allowed. The mere thought of uttering even a hint of profanity felt as shocking as committing a cardinal sin. For us, dropping a four-letter word was akin to a one-way ticket to an early bedtime without dinner.
Ironically, this dedication to the sanctity of language existed alongside my parents, who had a penchant for colorful expletives. My mother, for instance, often emphasized her requests with a few choice words. “Clean up your fucking room!” was a common refrain, delivered with an intensity that made it clear she meant business. My father, while less vocal, had a commanding presence reminiscent of a stern movie character. “Clean…your…fucking…room…now,” he would say, leaving no room for debate.
At ten, I attended a party where the air was thick with a symphony of swearing. As I stood amidst my peers, the thrill of using such language felt like a rite of passage, a marker of our progression into adolescence. I still refrained from cursing in front of my parents for the next two decades, sticking to milder expressions like “Oh shoot” or “Darn it.”
As I ventured into adulthood, I found myself immersed in environments where profanity was the norm. In college and beyond, I became fluent in the art of cursing, reveling in the grown-up feeling it provided. Eventually, I married someone who shared my affinity for such language, and our conversations were often laced with expletives, whether we were ranting about traffic or discussing profound topics.
However, everything changed when we welcomed our first child. Like many new parents, we were determined to shield our little one from bad language. I became a paragon of virtue, scolding anyone who dared let a curse slip in front of my child. Without my usual verbal release, I found myself stifled, longing for the days when I could express my frustrations freely.
Despite my efforts, my sons gradually became aware of swearing, whether it was from friends at school or the television. “My friend said the ‘s’ word yesterday,” one of them would announce over breakfast, looking for my reaction. To my surprise, I didn’t feel outrage; instead, I realized that swearing, while inappropriate in some contexts, could also serve as a healthy release for emotions.
What has become crucial for me to teach my children is the understanding of context—swearing might be acceptable among friends but not in formal settings. While I haven’t returned to my previous level of profanity, I occasionally let a curse word slip when emotions run high. My boys chuckle at the excitement of hearing “bad” words, and while they may wish for more than just “frickin,” I’ve promised them they can expand their vocabulary when they turn 16. Because, really, that’s not a bad age for a little freedom.
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In summary, my relationship with swearing has evolved dramatically since becoming a parent. While I strive to maintain a clean vocabulary around my children, I’ve come to appreciate the nuances of language, including the importance of context and the occasional release of frustration through colorful language.
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