ABCs … And F-, H- & Sh-Words

“Mom, I have to tell you something.”

The statement came from the 8-year-old after I picked him up from flag football camp recently, and he was sitting in the back seat as I navigated us onto the main road. Many of our most fruitful conversations happen in the car – for whatever reason – so I didn’t think too much about it.

“What’s that, bud?”

“I don’t want you to get mad.” His voice was a little shaky, which got my attention.

“Okay…”

A pause. “I said the F-word two times today.”

“Oh. Uh … Well, how did you say it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like in what context? Were you mad, or upset? Or maybe trying to be funny?”

Mikey explained to me that some other kid used the word in jest when talking to his brother, and Mikey repeated that word… twice.

“Did you get into trouble?”

“No. The coaches didn’t hear it.”

“Oh.” Taking to heart that this kid has such a guilty conscious that he will confess his curse words to me without having been caught, I decided not to make a big thing out of it. “Well, I don’t love that you said the F-word,” I told Mikey. “But I’m sure you’ve heard some adults say it, when they shouldn’t, either.”

“Oh, yeah. You and Dad say it all the time.” (For the record, I wouldn’t go so far as to say it leaves our lips “all the time,” but maybe on occasion.) “And the kids at camp swear a lot. And the coaches.”

“OK, well, let’s try not to copy anyone, when we know it’s not something we should be saying.”

“Nonno swears all the time, too.”

Truth.

“OK, OK. So we’re all going to try not to swear. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Great. Awesome. Crisis averted.

A week later we were camping at Jellystone Park just over the river, and – very long story short – Mikey thought someone had taken his bike when actually I had just moved it. When we found each other he was absolutely hysterical, thinking “some thief” had stolen it.

It broke my little heart.

By the time we got back to the cabin he calmed down, and as the adrenaline subsided, the familiar sentence reared its head. “Mom, I have to tell you something.”

“Hmm?”

“I swore when I thought my bike was stolen.”

I sighed. “Well, I get that. You were upset. What did you say?”

“The G-word.”

That one took me a minute.

“Like, the lord’s name?”

“Yeah.”

That surprised me, because Mikey recently completed his first communion and learned why that term is so offensive. “Honestly,” I told him. “I’d rather you say the F-word than the lord’s name, because that’s really bad.”

A quiet minute passed. “I also said the D-word. Twice.”

Another sigh. “Just go to bed.”

“Are you going to tell Dad?”

“No.” (Yes.)

We got back from Jellystone and Mikey had to finish out the week at another summer camp. After picking him up one day, his voice came from behind me in the car.

“Mom?”

“Yeah, bud?”

“I said the Sh-word today.”

Pulling into the first parking lot we came to, I turned around. “This has got to stop. Where are you hearing all these words this from?”

It semes that between me and my husband, Nonno, possibly some kids and counselors at camp, probably a show or two he shouldn’t be watching, and even some music on the radio, the kid has gained a robust vocabulary. So I told Mikey he had to make a swear jar when we got home and he would be putting his own money in – from birthdays, his communion gifts, etc. – each time he swears.

And Dad and I have to do the same.

That jar now sits proudly in the bay window, the sun shining through it and projecting little prisms on the wall.

And it’s possible that by the end of the year we’ll be able to use that money to afford a trip to Disney.

Holly Crocco is editor of the Putnam County Press/Times and mom of an 8-year-old boy. She can be reached at editorial@putnampresstimes.com.