Tragically the time has come. I have magically avoided this day for three-and-a-half years, but I suppose everything has it’s season.
Baby girl has entered the parrot phase, which means that one of my vices, the art of cursing, must now become a secret indulgence–at least around all-too-perky toddler ears, which are connected to the suddenly very articulate toddler mouth.
I am a little depressed at my need for discipline. One, I am not good at restraint in almost any variety, and two, I love to swear. Even though I have a wide-ranging vocabulary thanks to a couple of English degrees, I have yet to find the perfect replacement for a good fuck, or mother fucker even.
Still, my love of the curse is replaced by wanting to avoid the chagrin of those clean-mouthed folks such as teachers and other preschool parents, who will not likely think it’s as funny as I do when my little Tiger says, “Fuck it! I hate this!”
So if you know me in the non-internet world, you might see an uptick in my f-bombs and ass-hats, because basically I will be on a swearing binge every time I leave my house. See how I sacrifice?