This semester Gabriel’s schedule has been simultaneously amazing and crappy. He only has class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. YAY! But he accompanies the University choir on Tuesday nights so that means he is gone from 6:30 am to 10:30 pm.
And I’m alone with the kids. All. Day.
On these long days, I typically hunker down in the house, wear dirty yoga pants and spend my day scribbling in coloring books with broken crayons and making sure everyone is fed every three hours. It’s a long and boring day and no one has fun.
But this Tuesday I decided to be productive. Maybe getting out of the house would make our day more manageable–even if we’re just going to the DMV and Walmart. (The two most soul-sucking places on earth.)
I heroically got dressed AND brushed my teeth! and got everyone in the car. Neither of my children were in pjs (this is a rare occurrence) and we were optimistically swinging through the bank before we began our productive day of errands.
I could hear Theo muttering something under his breath as we pulled into the bank parking lot.
“What are you saying, buddy?” I asked.
“Fucker!” He triumphantly called. I was taken aback, but we’re trying not react to negative behavior. He gets a little power drunk if he knows we don’t want him to do something.
“Oh. What does that mean?” I politely questioned.
“It means a DRAGON’S HOUSE! FUCKER! Fucker. Fucker.” He yelled as I pulled into the drive through. He continued to alternate between whispering dramatically and screaming “fucker.” It sounded like two mafia members deciding at gunpoint who’d been stealing from the family.
I coughed trying to cover the sound of continuous F-bombs being dropped by my three-year-old.
The bank teller gave me a tight-lipped smile.
I blame Gabriel.
Though he would blame me. Honestly, I’m more inclined toward “shit” and “damnit.” It’s all personal preference.
Theo is known to sometimes affectionately refer to our kittens as “fucking cats.” I KNOW that comes for Gabriel because I adore the kittens. Gabriel tolerates their existence for my sake.
I have no idea how other parents don’t swear around their children. I’m not even particularly filthy or crass. I certainly never swear at my children. In fact, I’m the absolute worst at sounding even vaguely threatening.
If Theo is acting up at the store I alternate between bribing–with prizes, food, screen time, all the mac and cheese in the world–and issuing ambiguous threats in strained whispers like, “If you don’t sit down right now I’m going to…I’m going to…I’m going to be so upset!”
I’m basically the worst at sounding in charge.
Theo, on the other hand, has a masterful handle on show stopping obscenities. He can wield the F-bomb with sniper-like precision and he knows just how to embarrass his mama at the small town bank where everyone knows your name.
In my opinion, everyone knowing your name and your whole life story is a huge negative for this very reason. I loved the anonymity of a busy Chicago El car. If Theo stood up and dropped the F-bomb on the El, I probably wouldn’t have batted an eye. I won’t see these people again.
But in Osakis, Minnesota, when your toddler swears like an incarcerated gang leader, people talk.
Let’s hope the bank teller was feeling generous today (or she’s hard of hearing) and won’t spread the news of my incompetent colorful parenting.