Bombed: The Power Of 4-Letter Words

I was in high school when I discovered the joy of cursing.

It was 1968, and my “hip” suburban parents were trying free expression on for size. My mother, who taught me "forks go on the left" when I was 3, never freaked when I swore. She just winced -- ever so slightly, but every time.

God, I loved that wince. I swore when frustrated, when excited, when bored and watching Mother twitch involuntarily was fine entertainment.  Every wince made me feel like I was gaining muscle. And lacking any real power, or muscle, I settled for the shock-value of four-letter words.

I cleaned up my vocabulary when I began writing for a living and realized that curse words were lazy and vague. And when Ben was born, I spoke the King's English, figuring it was better for our son than swearing like a stevedore.

Ben is verbally gifted and was only 9 when he proudly recited the restroom gems he read on the way home from a camp field trip.

Afraid he’d repeat them at Chesterbrook Elementary in the fall, I forced myself to say, “Those words are inappropriate.”

But I thought, “Karma’s a bitch.”

Ben took to cursing like a duck to brackish water. He became a thesaurus of obscenity, collecting curses like other kids collect Yugioh cards. When everyday expletives lost their punch, he’d invent new ones, mixing and matching body parts and functions until he stumbled upon something that felt anatomically and scatologically correct.

Clearly, things were getting out of hand.

The potty-mouth genie was out of the bottle, and I couldn’t easily stuff him back. So, during a particularly vulgar and vexing family drive down Route 66, I decided to teach him one of those Mom lessons that seem like a good idea at the time.

“Every curse word you say, I’m going to shout out the window,” I said.

My husband, who was driving, shook his head and said, “Someday, I’ll introduce you to our son.”

“S—t,” Ben said jauntily, testing what he figured was another blind threat.

I rolled down the window and shouted, “S—T!”

Ben sunk into his booster seat.

“Ass----," he said in a smaller voice.

“ASS----,” I yelled louder.

By the time we exited 66, Ben was huddled under a blanket mortified but still whispering his inexhaustible list. And I, hoarse and deflated, continued our absurd duet down our block, past our 81-year-old neighbor, and into our driveway.

Later that evening, when Ben was all snuggly before bed, he asked, “Mom, weren’t you embarrassed?”

“Sweetheart,” I said, kissing his blond buzzcut, “I gave up embarrassment years ago.”

A couple of weeks later, we were picking up party balloons at the McLean Giant. I was frazzled and running late, and I grabbed my car keys with the same hand that held $12 worth of helium balloons.

"F---!!!!," I screamed into the sky as my pastel bouquet floated above the Giant parking lot, and the after-church crowd began their Sunday food shopping.

For once, Ben was rendered mute.

Eyes on the pavement, we slunk into the car. I rested my head on the steering wheel as Ben searched my face to gauge how unglued I really was. Then he grinned and parroted the other words I often say in extremis.

“At least we have our health!”