Potty Mouth

My earliest memory of profanity was hearing my dad swear at his brother on a family flight to Baltimore. I think I was three or four years old. My parents were hardly censored around their kids. They had four within five and a half years; that many kids, so close in age, wouldn’t you swear, too?

I think that there’s a certain level of irony — and maybe even destiny — in my penchant for prose. I didn’t always have a strong vocabulary; “potty words” came easier to me than anything else. They felt powerful, even when they were very much the opposite. The word “fuck” was an easier space-filler, and commanded the attention I craved from the grown folks around me. Naturally, profanity came with punishment. And yet, I still didn’t learn.

Consequences — some stronger than others — didn’t curb my curse words. In fact, they made it worse. Again, it was a misguided power play.

When a kid swears, the awe-struck audience asks, “well, where did they hear it?”

Like I said, I heard it from my dad. You could say, based on his volatility, swearing was akin to his love language. Great material for therapy, and saying just that says just enough.

I’ve grown, followed a path paved by stronger words, all the while understanding how void of power so-called four-letter words really are.

I went through a phase on social media in my early 20s where I never used profanity. To be fair, I mostly posted quippy one-liners from Curb Your Enthusiasm, but still, out of all of Larry David’s fuck-filled funnies, I kept it clean.

Like the general rules of grammar, I think at a certain point you earn the credibility as an adult to linger in loopholes. So, sometimes you’ll find me swearing online. Even on LinkedIn. In a “grown-up” conversation, or a retelling of a story for broad reflection, I may pepper in some profanity for emphasis or oomph. Sometimes even for comic relief. But in a real exchange, where I’m looking to build credibility, or in an argument where real power is up for grabs, I keep it PG.

With peers and at work, this comes easily. I take more time to communicate with intention. I think, even if on my toes, about the words I’m using and my tone.

At home is where I struggle.

Stepping on a Lego or other infamously easy-to-miss floor toy gets a knee-jerk “dammit!” Spilling freshly-pumped breastmilk when prepping bottles for daycare summons a “shit!” And at home, my audience is one most eager for a power-play: my toddler.

Is a 4 year old even a toddler? A little kid? Who knows.

Alas, I’ve spawned a pre-schooler with a potty mouth. Truly in his parents’ image. We scold him and redirect him, and still, he conjures a curse word with appropriate application — in the most inappropriate settings. Daycare. The doctor’s office. You name it, it’s been defiled by his words.

He chuckles when caught, saying, “Sorry, I know, I know. Bad language.” I can’t tell if he really gets it. I know he’ll grow out of it. Even still, I don’t think you ever really recover from the little loss of innocence when you hear your young child use a “bad word.” Especially when delivered with conviction.

I don’t know that I feel shame; my inner reactions oscillate largely between shock, disbelief, and disappointment. Would it be better if he did it at home, but not in public? No, probably not.

I can say with certainty I’m not angry. Like most questionable toddler behavior, the root cause can be traced back to the parents. I know, I know, it’s so cliche.

My preschooler, with his premature potty mouth, gives me pause as a parent. One day, my own missteps as a parent will be fodder for his therapy sessions (you’re welcome, Harrison!).

Until then, I suppose I’ll look forward to him expanding his horizons with words that command power more appropriately.