7 Words, the Grade School Edition

Back in law school I read the case of FCC v. Pacifica Foundation, the landmark case regarding obscene language on the public airwaves, sparked by George Carlin’s comedic routine “Seven Words You Can Never Say On Television.” The case was an interesting and welcome departure from the Palsgraph doctrine and Quantum Meruit. I won’t rattle off Carlin’s seven words, since my mother occasionally reads this, and there are actually a couple of the words on the list that even I won’t say.

Fast forward several years and two children. Prior to becoming a mom, I would, when not in the presence of my grandmother or mother, frequently use colorful language. I am a big believer that shouting “fuck” (sorry Mom) when a hammer falls on your head is both medicinal and necessary and that “oh fudge” does not suffice. However, what is acceptable from a lawyer approaching 40 (fuck, really?) is not remotely so from her angel-faced progeny and hence I have made Herculean and mostly successful efforts to clean up my language.

“Dammit” has become “darn it all to heck.” “Shit” has become “shoot.” “Rat bastard” has become “stinker pop.” “Fuck” mostly collects dust.

Apparently my efforts have been wasted. Over the past six months or so my lovely angelic young ladies have started to sound more and more like me when I was shooting pool and downing kamikaze shots. They aren’t gangster rappers yet, but their vocabularies are expanding in ways I would prefer to avoid.

It started with Pink’s song, “So What?” which Tate, having heard the Radio Disney version, declared to be her future wedding march. I played it for her one day on iTunes not realizing that its lyrics include the word “shit.” Hence the “s-word” is now indelibly marked in their young brains, and they like to roll it around in their mouths like a cherry ring pop – delicious and forbidden.

Next came “hell” which was my fault. I said, “oh hell” when I walked in to the laundry room to find that Scarlett the bulldog had eaten yet another dog bed and another piece of drywall.

Cat yelled, “that sucks!” at some perceived injustice and learned that “sucks” is on Mommy’s list of “Seven Words We Cannot Say In Front of Grandma Liz and the Public at Large but Especially Grandma Liz and at School For the Love of God, Please.”

“Stupid” made the list because the preschool and school the girls attended were adamant that students not use that word about each other.

Given that “stupid” had been the most profane thing either girl had uttered, I was unprepared when Cat asked me en route to school one morning if I knew what the “F-word” was. Why do these questions always arise before I have had caffeine?

“Um, yes. I do. I guess my question is whether you do. And also, where did you hear it?” (Don’t say Mommy, don’t say Mommy, please don’t say Mommy. Daddy hasn’t forgiven me for teaching you vagina and penis yet.)

“My friend at school said there is a bad word that is worse that the s-word and that it is the f-word. Is that true?”

“Yes, it is true. Did she tell you what the word actually was?”

“She said,” Cat hesitated and looked at me “Can I tell you what she said or will I get in trouble?”

“Go ahead, I want to be sure you have your facts straight.”

Tate looked very interested as Cat said, “Fuck.”

“Yep, your friend nailed it. That is one of the Mack Daddy bad words.”

“What does it mean? She didn’t tell me that.”

“It is bad language for having sex. And I don’t want to hear you repeat it until you are 18.” They didn’t hear the last part as they both dissolved into giggles after hearing me say sex.

“Are there even worse bad words?” Cat asked when she finally stopped laughing.

“Yes, but I won’t be sharing them with you today. Your current vocabulary of profanity more than exceeds your needs.”

So, the rule at our house is that Cat and Tate can use any bad language they like, at any time they like, so long as the only person who is within earshot is Mommy. They can sound like Eddie Murphy’s “Raw” performance just so long as the only one who hears them is me. The rest of the time they can only sound like Eddie Murphy in “Shrek.” My hope is that I am giving them an outlet for their post-toddler Turrets which will delay the onset of establishing fluency in the profane.

And so our current list of “Seven Words We Cannot Say In Front of Grandma Liz et. al.” is “stupid, sucks, hell, asshole (thanks to the movie “Fame”), dammit/God damn it, shit and fuck.” Like Carlin’s list, I expect theirs will grow to over 200 entries. I am hoping Grandma Liz loses her hearing before that happens.

Otherwise, I am fucked.