Tale of a recovering potty mouth

“Oh shit, in need more sprinkle cheese”. It’s funny to hear a two year old utter his first curse word, and couple that with the words sprinkle cheese and it’s downright adorable. But why is it so shocking? “Where did he pick that up?” I say, trying to skirt responsibility. It strikes me that it could be from his primary care giver; the woman who prides herself on being a stay-at-home mom in an effort take on the challenge of teaching and molding her children to be good people, the woman who thought she was a reformed curser but is merely a recovering truck driver mouth who will never be fully healed and obviously still has the occasional slip ups.
But why is it that these tiny little words are the only ones echoed by these tiny little people? How is it that in the midst of a lengthy rant, it is only the “f bomb” that makes an impact (so that’s where that term comes from)? And how am I supposed to explain to my six year old daughter why the word “poop” is infuriating and NOT FUNNY but hearing her little brother say “fuck” cracks me up? She doesn’t mimic me anymore either. Instead, when she hears me curse she gives a punishing “MOMMYYYYY”. “Oh, I’m sorry honey.” Yeah, I’m sorry I just got caught and scolded by my kid.
I remember when I discovered the joy of cursing. One day my best childhood friend and I were frolicking through the woods around our neighborhood and decided it was “shit day”. We threw the forbidden word into every sentence we spoke, confident that there were no adults to reprimand us in our happy place. It was very liberating.
Another time, I was at school where my father was my fourth grade teacher. At recess, my friend shouted “shit!” during and intense kickball game. Instantly, and out of nowhere, we heard my dad’s voice crash down onto our playground (along with, as I remember it, a crash of thunder and a bolt of lightning on that lovely spring day). She was sent inside to mull over her mistake, my father’s version of which was purely uttering the word, and our version of which was uttering the word anywhere other than the middle of the forest where no adult had ever been sighted. At the end of the day, my dad would call her mom and tell her what had transpired. She was grounded, and I was thanking my lucky stars that our teacher, my father, had not had to call my mother, his wife.
Now if I could only learn to control myself around my children as I did around my parents; never curse when you know they will catch you! Save it for when you are all alone. Oh, I just realized the snag in my plan. I haven’t been all alone in six years and three kids. That’s a long time and a lot of temptation for a recovering addict.