After two harrowing weeks of unabashed cursing, Kate finally stopped dropping the F-bomb. We followed the sage advice of those friends who dealt with their own little potty mouths and we ignored her. I’m not going to lie – it got worse before it got better. In her desperate attempt to get a rise out of us, she really let it rip. Sometimes she uttered it in such rapid succession that one could have mistaken her for a child possessed by something unspeakable. But I ignored it and, eventually, she just stopped.
It’s been nice to go out in public again without experiencing the accusatory stares of other mothers as they quickly shuffle their darling angels away from my petite flower. I’ve seen them and I’m onto their game. They make a show out of ushering their children out of earshot, but stay close enough to observe my little Kate and her filthy mouth. They stupidly feign interest in the ol’ granny pants hanging on the wall just to hear what’s going to happen next.
Mostly, they’re rookie mothers. First-timers whose lovely little balls of chub aren’t yet speaking. They’re still riding the “my child will never do that” high. And you know what? Your first one probably won’t. Mine didn’t. My second was slightly less angelic, and by the time we threw our third onto the pile, decorum had officially left the building. So judge away, Newbie Mommy, judge away…but do so carefully because karma just might come around and bite you on the ass. Hard. Look what happened to me.
Having left the terror of the F word in our wake, we’ve begun dipping our toes back into the public pool. Last Friday I took the girls to our local garden center to buy some plants and check out the frog pond. You know how it goes… kids + water = free entertainment. Kate and Gwen threw pebbles into the pond and squealed when they found a (fake) turtle among the rocks. Their excitement caused smiles and mutters of, “Oh, how cuh-ute!” as women walked past. Then Kate decided that it was time to wash up.
I fucky my hand, Mom! I’m fucky my hand! ….MOM! I FUCKY MY HAND!
I’ll admit it. I was letting that fake turtle babysit my girls while I mulled over what type of juniper bush was appropriate for our dry, sunny and bald hill. My mind was honed in on soil types and growth rates when the word “fucky” broke through my thin membrane of concentration.
I whirled around, entirely forgetting the juniper bushes, and saw my darling angel baby beaming up at me. She was ever so proud of her big-girl ability to wash herself in the frog pond, “See? I fucky my hand.” My eyes widened and I performed a quick visual scan of the vicinity. Amidst the lilac bushes I noticed an older gentlemen watching with interest.
“Katie, say wash,” I instructed. “Wuh-wuh-wash my hands.”
“Yeah. I fucky my hand.”
My shoulders dropped and I let my head fall back as I gazed toward the heavens quietly seeking assistance with the developing speech patterns of my toddler. From the lilacs I heard chuckling, “Someday you’ll laugh about it. I promise.”
I found his eyes between the purple blossoms and they beamed with delight at the spectacle my little girl had created.