I swear. Luckily, my husband swears more and unapologetically (“it’s a victim-less crime”), so I freely blame my babies’ cussing on him. Yes, my babies cuss. Yesterday I pulled down my youngest’s pants down to let him pee, but didn’t pull his pants away enough so he peed a little on his pants. I had no spare pair, and anyway, if he’s going to pee in his pants, I want it to be his doing and not mine.
“Oh, shit!” said I.
“Oh, shit!” learned he.
He is not yet two. I think this may be his fourth two-word sentence.
My older two swore as toddlers too. And well, I might add. “Damn” and “hell” are for the weak-kneed; I’m not referring to such sissy swearing here. No, my kids were heavy hitters, and when they let those cuss bombs fly, I’d observe, with a little pride, that “fuck” was always properly conjugated.
Their swearing peaked at two and three years old. Now at 7 and 4, they’ve matured, and don’t swear anymore because they know it’s inappropriate. Even the utterance of “stupid” will often be followed by a quick apology because, ironically, we are actually otherwise careful about how we use our words around here. And when I drop the full dustpan or bang my hip against the counter, they’ll give me a moment before evenly telling me, “Don’t say the F word, Mom.”
I try not to, and I’ve curbed it quite a bit, but I still do.