Let's get it out in the open. I have a raging potty mouth. My mother probably gets red in the face every time she comes across a post in which I lambaste you all with fucks, shits, damns, and so on. (Sorry again, mom. You raised a demon. But you love me, so it's cool.)

Though I swear on all that's fucking holy to me, Little-E has never heard that particular linguistic abomination escape my lips, but she has somehow inherited -- as if it was implanted in her genetic fucking code -- the ability to form that word in a way that is purposely challenging to my authority.

Oh, my. How did we get here so soon?

I've always rejected the idea that dropping the f-bomb makes a person sound less intelligent. On the contrary, I think it provides for effective emotional emphasis in the appropriate context -- creating more succinct communication, not just of the stale, factual meaning of whatever concept I'm trying to verbalize, but also the gushy, connotative shit surrounding the facts -- which, arguably, is more important anyway. (Republicans have been winning elections like this for years, only instead of "fuck," they say "Jesus.")

While Little-E was still theoretical, I used to wax lyrical about all the ways in which my incredibly progressive parenting was going to change the way people viewed their interactions with children at large. I intended to let my burgeoning, but-at-that-time-not-yet-fully-realized new daughter make her own destiny -- refusing to indoctrinate her in to the superfluous, arbitrary social courtesies that have become disturbingly common practice. No longer would I cave to our own apathy towards the increasingly conservative degeneration of our society's natural resolve! The buck stops here! This is my daughter we're talking about! No more compromises! If they can't take a kid saying "fuck," then to hell with 'um!

As is the case with a number of things, now that Little-E is a real-live, walking, talking responsibility, my hard-line, parent du resistance approach to child rearing has become more amicable to practicality. She wears a lot of pink, has normal toys instead of gender neutral dowel rods, has never been a vegetarian (even when we still were), and in now well versed in the Santa Claus mythos.

So, what do I do now that she's saying "fuck?"

It'd been slipping out for a couple days before I really caught on. E's in the habit of stringing random vowels and consonants together into her own little language. Usually it's sing-songy, just to play with the sounds, but sometimes it comes out when she's holding court with her stuffed animals -- or, occasionally, when she's trying to tell us something. So when I heard something a lot like "fuck" coming from the other side of the playground, I wasn't alarmed. I asked what she'd just said, and she responded "glockup!"

Yeah. Sure. Glockup. I must've mis-heard.

Then after a friend's first birthday party (lots and lots of babies -- holy shit, they're cuter then I remembered), we plopped down in the car, and that's when Little-E looked at her party favor and said:

"Fuck."

Lady-A and I looked at each with that "are you going to do something about this/are you going to make me do something this?" look that's become increasingly common since we began the twos.

"Little-E," I asked, "what did you just say?" (Please say glockup, please say glockup)
"Fuck." She responded.

And there it was. Are you gonna stick to your guns, dad? Or are you going to cave?

"I'm not sure we should be using that word, E."

Might as well pack up your shit, move to the suburbs, by seven SUVs, or Hummers, or whatever, cut your hair, shave your beard, buy a few J-Crew outfits and call it done, dude. You are so lame.

"Well. Actually. Hold on a sec. Do you know what that word means, E?"
"No."
"Ok. Here's the deal. That's a word that makes some grown-ups upset, because it's not a very nice word."
"Oh."
"And when you're older, and you know what it means, it's ok for you to use it. But for now -- while you don't know what it means -- I think you probably shouldn't. Ok?"
"Ok."

I'd like to think, that this means technically I'm still cool with her saying it. Right?

Tell me I'm not a sell-out.

tags: parenting, fuck, dad is a sell out
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