First, a warning. This post is likely to be explicit. As in, explicit language. As in, some words you don't want your kids to read. Unless, of course, you're like me, and you think it's ok for your kid to "talk like that," as long as he pays attention to where he is and who's listening. My son is, shall we say, a bit liberal with his use of "potty mouth." In fact, just today, he had a bit of a talking-to from his Spanish teacher, who overheard some colorful English language during class. First of all, that's a violation of our understanding, primarily the part where he's supposed to be mindful of where he is (school) and who's listening (his teacher). After hearing him utter the F-word (which, by the way, I'm pretty sure he used correctly, because he's had so much practice), she took him out into the hall and let him know that it's a "slimy and disgusting" word. She asked what his mom would think when she emailed her about the incident. "Um, I don't know," he said, mostly because when you're 13, that's your answer to pretty much every question asked by an adult. But I think, on the inside, he knew. He knew his mom doesn't necessarily agree with the whole "slimy and disgusting" thing, but that she is totally on board with the pay-attention-to-who's-listening thing. So... Lesson learned!
When I picked him up from school, he handed me a piece of paper. I don't usually pick him up from school - usually he's just out there in the world, hootin' and hollerin' and swearing up a storm. But today he had a dentist appointment. Coincidentally, it's also our dentist's 70th birthday. I wonder if our 70 year old dentist knows the F-word....
Ok, so it's getting kind of clumsy to keep typing "F-word." I mean, most of you know what I'm talking about, right? Even my son knows the real F-word, at least according to his Spanish teacher. Apparently, in middle school, they call it the "F-word-word." Well, that's not exactly what they call it. They call it the "fuck-word." Ok, so long story short - in the middle of Spanish class, close enough so his teacher could hear, my son said "fuck."
And this reminds me of a story. I think it's my mom's favorite story. I'll probably get some of the details wrong, but I think I'll get the good stuff correct. I was probably about 6 years old or so. My brother is a year older, my sister is a year younger. That's right, I'm a "middle child" - the "fucked-up one." My parents had some company over for dinner. My mom's a psychiatrist (oh, the middle child of a psychiatrist... some of this lightly-sensical I Hate Cheesecake stuff is starting make more sense...), and I think one of the guests was the head of her department. I think her name was Mary Lou. Also maybe Mary Lou's husband, or somebody else, or more people - I don't remember. Apparently, one of us little kids said "shit," right there in front of all of our dinner guests. The perpetrator had, by all accounts, learned it "on the bus." I think my parents were hoping to impress the guests, or at the very least, not come across as complete degenerates. The guests paused, looked around, waited to see what would happen. And so my dad launched into an explanation of why that word might not be totally appropriate for the situation. Kinda like the guidelines my wife and I laid out for our son, with so much recent success. My dad's explanation was kind and thoughtful and understanding, and all of the things that we all want to be when we picture ourselves as parents, but that turn out to be nearly impossible to achieve when your kid brings on-the-bus language to a dinner party. The guests were impressed. My mom was impressed. My dad had turned near-disaster into a beautiful family moment. All was good in the world. My 5-year-old sister had just one more little question. She looked up at my dad with big, sweet eyes: "What about fuck, daddy?" Well, that was the end of that. The guests couldn't take it anymore. My mom and dad couldn't take it anymore. They laughed til they cried, they fell out of their seats, one or more of them may have accidentally shat their pants. Ok I made up the part about the pants.
The piece of paper (remember the piece of paper?) turned out to be a waiver. You see, my son's friend is having a birthday party this weekend at a paintball place. He warned us that all the parents would have to sign a waiver before the kids could go. Well, that sounds fine to me. I understand that when you play paintball, S-word can happen. So I read the waiver. Here are some of the things that just might happen during this afternoon of 13 year olds playing 5-on-5 paintball:
- risk of injury, including the potential for permanent disability and death. Ok, that's harsh, but I've read my share of waivers, and I know that's pretty standard.
- possible equipment failure. Sure, that makes sense. I won't sue if his paintball gun breaks or shoots sideways, or if it misfires and he gets paint all over himself.
- Attack by insects, reptiles, and/or animals. Well, this is getting kinda weird. There might be a reptile attack? Where exactly is this paintball game happening? And whose idea was it to let in the Attack Reptiles?
- risks associated with exposure to elements, excessive heat, hypothermia, impact of the body upon the water, injection of water in to my body orifices. Yeah, of course. Maybe it'll be hot and he'll be running around and not take a break, and - WAIT, WHAT?! Injection of water into my body orifices? Did I read that right? I shook my head. I closed my eyes and opened them. Twice. I looked around for hidden cameras. WTF IS GOING ON HERE? But then I realized - it's paintball. Sometimes, you hide behind a tree and wait for your chance to shoot someone with a little exploding ball of paint. And sometimes, you sneak up behind some poor fucker and inject water into his asshole.