From 'Mama' to 'Motherf***er'

After a rather colourful discussion with a couple of yummy mummys this afternoon, I started thinking about the  relationship between swear words and young children. Throughout my early years on this planet the only curse that was ever uttered in my presence was "oh bloody hell." This happened on about two occasions, which I can imagine being quite drastic (house burning down, accidentally chopping arm off with chainsaw?). This has, I suppose, affected my own use of the swear word vocabulary to either;

A) Immense pain

B) Getting my opinion about Bono across in the most sufficient way

C) Drinking too much.

So why do we have curse words, and when should we use them? If you asked me this when I was a mere fifteen year old know-it-all I would have said; "who cares? It's just a word, just a sound that people make when they communicate with eachother... now eff off and leave me to bask in my own aura."

Ok, so it is 'just a word.' But the whole point of words is the representation behind them, the connotations, what is symbolized. If words had no meaning surely they would just be a series of squiggles on a page? It's all about what your intentions are when using these words...

For example, one of those yummy mummys I mentioned earlier has a four year old son. When trying to say the word 'ketchup' it would come out as 'fuck fuck.' He could never understand, when requesting a preferable sauce for his burger, why all the adults fell to the floor in a state of shock. However, if he meant it in the most innocent way it doesn't count as a swear word does it? (Like my son trying to pronounce the word 'cork' but instead saying 'cock.')

I was never so incensed by the whole 'children swearing' concept until a few years ago, when I heard a very young boy (five years old maybe) say the 'c' word. It's funny but I can't even bring myself to type it, as though my mother will burst through the monitor and waggle her finger at me... On hearing this boy's flippant use of such a taboo word I reacted quite strongly (maybe duct taping his mouth shut took it a little too far) and had to get my son out of that environment immediately, all the while thinking "Oh crap, I'm turning into my mum."

I sat and I thought about my reaction, and how I would feel had my son said that word. He has said a few 'naughty words' before, like when eating soup at the age of three and dribbling it down his t-shirt, he looked at me and said "oh buggers." Or when our blanket was blown away at a very civilised picnic with our extended family, he shook his head and muttered under his breath "that bloody wind." We were 'shocked' but under the looks of disapproval there was a hint of amusement. 

I suppose it is fractionally down to my upbringing (old fashioned, seen and not heard or feel my slipper type of thing), but there is also some tangible aspect in my view of a child swearing. Swear words certainly have their warranted space in the world of language, as maybe a vocal outlet for unfathomable pain or simple pissed-off-ness. I have no objection to hearing an adult turn the air blue, or myself, but a child??? I feel like a child shouldn't understand what these words symbolize, such as pain, sexual definitions and immense frustration, therefore they have no need to know or to use them.

Kids are suckers for imitating adults, which is a slight downside on my part as I am quite a bad role model. (Many a time when the 'shit' word has slipped out I have to blunder my way through an explanation about how much ships irritate me). I'm not one to try and soundproof my son to the profanities that exist, but as long as he doesn't learn them from me, I will sleep well.

An interesting experiment comes to mind, the conclusion of this was; swearing lessens pain:  http://www.keele.ac.uk/pressreleases/2011/swearingrelievespainbutdontoverdoit.php

Basically if your child hits their thumb with a hammer, it's ok to swear.

A bit of Milligan

"There are holes in the sky where the rain gets in, but they're ever so small that's why rain is thin"
Spike Milligan

Tears at the School Gate

So my son decides to drop the tear bomb on me today when we arrived at the school gates, just as I was preparing to run through a field screaming 'freeeedom!' with burning torch in hand. He proceeded to clamber up my rib cage as if it were a ladder whilst the teachers tried to prise him off with a crow bar and usher him inside. 


I had never felt more useless and less of a mother, my child needing comfort and cuddles from his one reliable port of call, and all she had the power to do was stand there waving him off with a weak smile. It's one massive pain in the arse, to put it bluntly. Now I will spend the whole day fretting and resisting the urge to go back and peep through the window just to make sure he hasn't spontaneously combusted, and as I rock in the corner with worry he will be happily drawing pictures and affectionately stabbing little girls with compasses, completely forgetting such a traumatic farewell. 

For those who might be interested, here are a few tips on encouraging your child to enjoy school and general preparation;

1; Be positive when sharing your school day stories with them. If you grumble about how you hated your teacher/didn't enjoy maths/lost a tooth when eating one of the dinner ladies infamous rock cakes, your child will associate these negatives with their general outlook on school. You are the google of his/her life, how they see this big scary world is how you choose to portray it to them, the answers you give to questions and curiousities will be absorbed and provide them with a template in which to grow during their early years. Talk about school with envy, tell them how you wish you could go back to that carefree existence.

2; Get them into learning from an early age. As soon as they ask you a question you don't know the answer to, sit together at the computer and search for it together. Tell them everything you know about anything you see on a daily basis, something as simple as an acorn growing into an Oak tree will be a spark in their hearth of knowledge. Buy your child a magazine as a treat, sit with them and help them complete the activities. If you love music show them videos on you tube and tell them about the instruments. Watch animal documentaries together. Open them up to thinking, solving and questioning. When they finally reach school age they will be armed with the tools for enjoying education.

3; Give them a little control. As simple a thing as choosing what shoes they'd like to wear (within reason, not many schools allow Peppa Pig flip flops), let them decide on a bag and lunch box too. If they want a hair cut go get one, if they want to wear ribbons in their pony tails and butterfly clips go for it. When your child understands that going to school means being more grown up, and growing up means having the lee way to make more decisions, he/she will start to come round to the idea.

4; Don't stress out in the mornings. This is one that I have learnt the hard way. After sweetly asking my son to put down his dinosaurs and get dressed I thought I'd leave it at that and go about my morning routine. Obviously my son was so engrossed in helping his dinos in their escape from the meteor he completely ignored my request, and the one after that, and the shouting it several times. So it all went a little worse than pear shaped; there were sulks, stamping feet, throwing toys and screaming about how unfair life was (Louie was pretty pissed off too). We left with just enough time to march at a soldierly pace, my son wanting to analyse every leaf and poke spiders whilst being dragged along by his cruel mother. Now every morning I make sure it all runs a bit smoother. Louie can't have telly on, for instance, until he is dressed. Packed lunch is always prepared the night before and my morning cup of tea is put on hold until I have completed mission school run. 

                                                                        *

My son will frequently attempt to play top trumps with me in regard to going to school. He'll whip out his weak 'It's boring' card and sulkily cross his arms. At this point I will stop what I'm doing, and in slow motion, like a Texan cowboy in a shoot out, The Good the Bad and the Ugly theme playing in my head, I draw my weapon...  Bam!

"Ok, why don't you just stay home with me for the whole day? First we will slowly dissect mount-washing up until our hands become wrinkled prunes, then we shall go into battle with the army of toys scattered around your bedroom. After our victory we will need to remove all that remains of our visit from the dust fairies, hoover up the peas that jumped off your plate last night (escapeas???) and then mummy will need to lie in a dark room with a flannel over her eyes for at least an hour, at which point you will be required to sit very quietly and watch the already-dried paint. This will not be a tidy up scene from Mary Poppins buddy..." 

If this fails I threaten to build a time machine and travel back to Victorian England where he would be sent down the coal mines/up chimneys/to the workhouse/to live with Ebenezer Scrooge.

Useful things you can do with a yoghurt pot #126

• GENTLY PEEL OFF LID PREFERABLY WITH FINGERS

• EXTRACT A SPOON OR SIMILAR SCOOPING UTENSIL FROM CUTLERY DRAWER (IN TIMES OF DESPARATION YOU MAY FIND THE USE OF A HEDGEHOG EAR QUITE SATISFACTORY.)

• USE SCOOPING UTENSIL TO REMOVE YOGHURT FROM POT AND BRING TO YOUR MOUTH

• BEFORE MAKING CONTACT WITH THE MOUTH, BE SURE TO OPEN IT. PERHAPS THE FIRST FEW TIMES WHEN MASTERING THE COMPLICATED TECHNIQUE WEARING A BIB MIGHT BE HELPFUL

• BE WARY OF AMOUNT OF YOGHURT ON SPOON, TOO MUCH MAY RESULT IN DROWNING, TOO LITTLE, AND YOU ARE IN FOR A DISAPPOINTING YOGHURT EXPERIENCE

• FOR FURTHER SAFETY PRECAUTIONS A GOOD IDEA WOULD BE TO WEAR ARMBANDS

• DO NOT EAT THE SPOON

• BE SURE TO RECYCLE YOGHURT POT AFTER YOU HAVE COMPLETED ALL THE ABOVE STEPS OR THE WORLD WILL END AND NO AMOUNT OF ARMBANDS WILL SAVE US

So it begins.....

As I have heard many a time during these four years of bottom wiping, food shovelling, buggy fuelled pave raging, extracting stray lego out of feet etc, it is so very important to keep a diary. Had I taken this irritatingly accurate advice from the word 'push,' it would be a lot easier to fill this blog with knowledge and tips on parenthood. As it stands I will have to resort to rooting through those moth riddled boxes in my mind for any little experience gems that I can share with you. Maybe we can all fish out our advice gems and donate them to saving the Western World from 'toxic parenting.' (more about toxic parenting when I'm in the mood for long words and lecturing).


So, for all this time devoted to moulding and shaping my little blob with eyes, my son has been painstakingly transformed into a  generally socially acceptable four year old whipper-snapper. (Apart from his tendency to pivot his head 360 degrees and puke streams of green liquid). Little Louie skipped off to 'big school' two weeks ago, leaving me the freedom to do whatever I darn well chose to do. As long as most of it was housework.


After the initial joy of being able to finish a *whole* cup of tea, whilst revelling in the ability to actually put a full face of make up on without having to do twenty other arduous tasks, I was left in an unfamiliar state of peace. It felt like the aftermath of a fervid party that had sucked you in, spun you round and spilled you out into a dazed heap on some stranger's ashy carpet. The hangover of motherhood had begun.