WTF????

WTF?

When our son was three, we had just moved to Vietnam.  He’d been talking for ages and was like a steel trap when it came to words and phrases he’d heard.  Thus, we felt it prudent to dial back the language in his presence.  It’s not that my husband and I have such foul mouths, but in certain situations (i.e. mornings, airports, high holidays) profanity becomes the lingua franca.  So, out of respect for our toddler, the f-bomb was replaced by “effin,” our landlord was an “a-hole,” etc.  We felt quite smug until the day we heard our son’s high-pitched voice in discussion with our Vietnamese maid.

“Miss Mai, are you an effin a-hole?” he asked.

Admittedly, I was more proud of his correctly identifying the adjective and noun than appalled by his question to Miss Mai.  And since, he hadn’t actually sworn, it was more funny than troubling. 

The years passed and eventually, he started school.  Where, of course, he learned what the f-word was (and told his little sister), what the middle finger meant (and told his little sister), and a smattering of playground smack talk. But despite having eaten from the Tree of Knowledge, our kids don’t swear.  This is rather mysterious given that there have been some serious “truck-stop-full-of-angry-longshoreman” mornings in our house.  But lucky us--our kids do as we say, not swear as we swear

Then, a few weeks ago I was picking my kids up from school.  There we were, in the throng of parents and kids waiting for the command to “Point and cross” when our dog’s leash got tangled up in my son’s legs.  As he stumbled forward, he blurted out, “Angus!  Don’t be such a PUSSY!” (The volume of his voice was such that the word “pussy”  seemed to echo at least twice.)  Heads turned.  Eyebrows rose.

Once out of earshot of the crowd, I took a stab at tactfully handling things.

ME: “You know, it’s not good to call Angus that name.”

SON: “What name?”

DAUGHTER: “You called Angus a cat!”

ME: “Well, not exactly.”

SON: “Yes…a pussy is a cat.”

ME: “Where did you hear someone calling someone else a “pussy?”?

SON: “At school.”

ME: “Well, it doesn’t exactly mean ‘cat.’”

DAUGHTER: “Does it mean ‘kitten,’ Mama?”

ME: “Uhhm. No.”

SON: “It does mean cat.  Remember when Dad and Uncle Greg were laughing because they said their grandpa called their cat “puuusssssyyyy”?”

ME: “Well, see, the reason they were laughing about that was…. Okay.  Never mind. The thing is, when you call something or someone a “pussy” it is kind of a bad word.  Not as bad as the F-Word, but pretty close to the SH-word.”

SON/DAUGHTER:  “What?  Why? WHAT DOES IT MEAN??”

ME: “Well, it is kind of a nickname for a girl’s vagina. And calling someone a ‘pussy’ is like calling them a vagina.  So, it’s not very nice.  And you might get in trouble with your teacher if you say it school.  So just don’t.”

The kids knew I meant business because I actually used the word “vagina.”  Usually, we call it a “V” to avoid anyone (mainly the adults in the house) feeling uneasy.  We call the penis a “D”.  I know.  We suck.

Then again, maybe not.  Lately, my son has begun using some alternates for the much-vaunted F-word.  When frustrated, he says, “Feeg!” and when annoyed with anyone, he gives him or her the little finger.

Since I’m nothing, if not a corrector of what I deem to be reproachable behaviour, I told him that even using proxies for the f-word was not good form.  But after a couple days, I reconsidered.  I was now curious as to why he had created this alternate for the f-word?

He told me that a number of his friends always use the actual f-word and middle finger at school and he didn’t want them to get in trouble.  So he devised a substitute.  “And mom,” he excitedly reported, “lots of people say “Feeg” now.  And the girls always give me the little finger!”

All things considered, I think that’s pretty f—king awesome.

Wife/ Mother

Although this blog is about ‘motherhood,’ I find the mom thing to be very much tied to the wife thing. No matter how hard you try to separate church and state, your effectiveness as a wife can sometimes be undermined by your dedication to the practice of motherhood. Before you get nervous about the direction this missive might be taking, relax.  This is no rallying cry for wives to meet their husbands wrapped in Saran Wrap.  I just wanted to set the stage.  See, last week, my husband and I skipped town for four, fabulous, fun-filled days in New York City.  Maybe it was because our time there was such a total juxtaposition to the previous 11 months, fraught as they were with moving, pregnancy and new baby-- or maybe it was because I actually had the time to think deep thoughts?  Whatever the reason, I took these two things away from our weekend away:

1)    Your husband gets cuter and funnier the longer you are away from your children.  I was telling my friend Sarah about this and she added, “Also, the more drinks you have.”  Well, this is also true--and sage advice--for a short term fix, like if you’re having a ‘date night’ once a month and you and your partner are both keen to know one another in the Biblical sense.  However, I can’t recommend enough getting out of town without your kids.  I remember another girlfriend telling me about the time she and her husband went to Paris for 10 days.  She said it took 3 days for her to fully unwind, but then…City of Lights was City of Love.  And that’s just it.  You can’t expect your jaw to unclench when you’ve only got three hours out of the house.  To truly decompress—which is vital if you want to ignite the pilot light—you need to get away.  And yes, it’s totally important to do things as a family, but you shouldn’t have to sacrifice your individual selves on the alter of parenthood.  You should occasionally unearth the fun people you used to be before the kids came along and siphoned off 97% of your attention span.

2)    We did a number of fun things while in NYC.  We went to MoMA, took a carriage ride through Central Park at dusk, saw a great Broadway play, saw Bruce Springsteen at Madison Square Gardens, and purchased some Fifth Avenue baubles to commemorate my bearing a third (and final) child. Lot’s of stuff that was primarily on my fun tab. However, the event that was actually the most noteworthy for me was watching the NY Giants play at Meadowlands.  I am not a sports-loving woman.  I NEVER watch any sports on TV.  In fact, I discourage it.  I don’t mind to see sports live on occasion, but I’m not one of those girls who would wear a jersey to the game. EVER. All this to say, I didn’t go all charged up for some NFL.  But it was actually really fun.  The weather was perfect, the stadium huge and boisterous, and the game a good one. I’ve never been around so many men in one place and it was interesting to observe them interacting in their native environment.  While listening to them heckle the ref or converse in short, clipped sentences about uncomplicated topics like sports, other guys they know, vehicles, and occasionally, girls in the vicinity, I realized anew what simple creatures the male species can be. Going to a game is all most of them really ask for.  Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I was feeling very magnanimous following the Fifth Avenue shopping spree.  But still, I was touched.  I even went so far as to privately concur that most of the time, men are either at work or they’re with wives/girlfriends/sisters/mothers, getting some manner of grief for not doing whatever it is they’re supposed to be doing fast enough or right enough. Or perhaps that’s just my husband? Anyhoo…when they’re at a sporting event, enjoying easy camaraderie and a cold one while watching great athletes play a game they love, guys can exhale.

Him going to the game is the man-equivalent of you going for a nice lunch with your girlfriends, discussing six different relationship dramas ad nauseum, and then buying fabulous boots at 60% off.  It’s primal bonding with your own kind.  He needs it, just like you need it. 

And while I’m totally not endorsing season’s tickets to every game with a ball, I will try to be more benevolent as we head into play-off season.

I will even go so far as to say, (ahem) “Go Riders!”