I present the idea to him one evening after the baby goes to bed. “So I was thinking … ” I begin. Immediately he knows bad news is coming. Good things never follow, “I was thinking.” In this case I tell him, “you should stop saying fuck.”
His reaction is classic addict:
First, he denies the problem. “I don’t need any fucking diet. Verbal or otherwise,” he says.
Stage 2: Anger. “Fuck you for thinking I’ve got some sort of problem.”
And then finally, the apology. “Babe,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I’ll never say it front of the baby again. Whatever you want me to do, I’ll fucking do it.”
And then he pauses, replays the conversation in his head, and realizes that yes, he might be a fuckaholic. And so I tell him that he should go on a fuck binge tonight, because tomorrow, it’s cold turkey.
The next day he’s armed, he’s ready, he’s determined to be curse free. He’s even got a thesaurus downloaded to his Blackberry should he be jonesing for a fuck and need a stand in. It’s all going so well. He’s made it past a fender bender in the morning, bad directions on the way to a meeting, and a leaky roof discovered that afternoon.
As the day comes to close I tell Justin how proud I am of him. But then, the phone rings. It’s family; his family. A pushy bunch who thinks opinions and criticism are meant to be given not asked for. I suggest he let the call go to voice mail, knowing he might be vulnerable, but Justin assures me he can handle speaking to someone he’s related to without cursing. I’m suspect but encouraging.
Justin silently listens while his Mother speaks. He says a few things, then hangs up the phone. His face is flush and clammy. “For my Dad’s birthday, he wants to take the whole family away. He’s renting a house in the mountains. Two weeks” he says matter of factly. He waits for my response.
I ask for clarification, just to make sure I’ve heard correctly, “Two weeks with your parents?” He nods.
“Well then we’re fucked” I tell him. He pauses. Smiles. And then replies, “No, we’re not … we’re totally fucked.”
And then a light bulb goes off in my head. No matter how hard we try as parents we’ll never be perfect. We can only try our best to be good role models for our children. So if my son gets his sleep, eats healthy, plays gentle, and cursing is the worst thing he learns from us, I can live with that. And if our son’s first words at his pre-school interview are, “Mommy, I’m fucked” then at least he’ll be in good fucking company.
