WARNING: This blog post contains extreme levels of coarse language.
When I was pregnant with Amazing M, I was in bliss. I wasn’t afflicted with the common nausea or major physical discomforts that usually accompany pregnancy. I daydreamed about our perfect Eurasian daughter wearing the cutest and most avant guard outfits and how I would parent perfectly. Sugar and spice and all things nice. Reality check: she sometimes wears cute and maybe at a stretch, avant guard-ish stuff, but most of the time she wears high street and discounter clothes: think ALDI. Now, don’t be dissing -those clothes wash amazingly.
When M was a newborn, I was in deep shit. I felt like I had entered a first world kinda hell that would take at least 18 years to crawl out of. It was never that bad that M would be neglected. Through the grace of whoever/whatever is out there, I managed to get my daily shit together. I would show only a happy face to this beautiful child. I was in essence worthy of an Oscar. Outwardly I was put together and lost loads of weight. Other mums were openly jealous over my rapid weight loss. Inwardly I didn’t want to live, and the secret to the lost weight was breastfeeding round the clock (I fed on demand and boy did she demand) and not sleeping with an ever active dysfunctional mind. Never before in my life had I wanted to be heavier in exchange for happiness, for normalcy. I just wanted my life back. But strangely with the shit hitting the fan of my mental health, I endeavoured to refrain from anything negative in comment to my child or in front of her. No scolding (she was a baby, after all- she is going to cry when she’s hungry or cold) and definitely no swearing. No one around her in my family was allowed to swear. I lectured my sister in setting good examples and being a role model. And how important Motherhood is. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Fast forward four years and a bit. I’ve realised that motherhood is and isn’t the most important thing. It’s important to nurture your kid and try your best at least some of the time to not be dick to your spawn. But at the same time, women have been doing this for eons. So just humble yourself to the fact that motherhood is just another part of human life and get on with things. We all know what happens when you take your self ascribed role in life too seriously…you get either physically or mentally face punched.
And now that this mama is no longer a demon to her thoughts and is pretty content with a sort of fabulous life she has created, all this perfect parenting nonsense has gone out the window. I swear harder and more frequently than anyone of you could imagine. I’m not hiding this side from you, I swear (ha ha, you know I just had to put that one in there). It’s just that when I socialise with my fabulous friends, they don’t moan, whinge and writhe on the floor because I didn’t give them a perfectly cut piece of apple, which usually warrants a, “Oh, for fuck’s sake” kind of response. When you have a normal kid going through a normal childhood, developing the normal emotions, reactions and behaviours that happen to homo sapiens at the tenders ages between three and 23, and parents go through the normal everyday pressures and pains of living in a technologically and materially advance world, parental cussing is inevitable. Ok, some parents out there don’t swear but in my universe, perfect parenting is out and good enough parenting is the orange is the new black.
Which is why fuck and any other combination of swearing involving fuck and worse come out of my mouth. It’s not intentional. I don’t need to shock anyone in my family for the sake of it. Let’s just say that for me, it’s an honest release of exasperated emotion rolled up into a few little words that are deemed uncouth by society. When M hears me say it, she hardly bats an eyelid- she knows mama is frustrated. Only once has she repeated me after I said fuck for something obviously rage inducing. I promptly told her quite nonchalantly to stop it because only adults say fuck. And that was that. No fucks no more, at least from her side. For now. And I kinda reckon saying a frustrated fuck is better than raising your voice to mean and angry levels. I’m definitely guilty of the latter as well as times, but I don’t think I combine the two societal no-nos in the one occasion.
In all fairness, if M was of a different personality or disposition, I might have to reign it in. Some kids are just parrots and like to repeat words and phrases, often ones that cause major embarrassment. Luckily most of my parent friends are cool – i.e. don’t take themselves too seriously with the parenting circus. In fact a good friend would rather her daughter say “Fuck you!” than “Pardon?” (here’s looking at you marvellous, Ms S).
But seriously, if the worst thing your kid does is say shit or fuck, then you’re pretty blessed.
Touching wood now!!