Friday, 12 April 2013

Mirror, mirror

I would like to say that I never swear in front of my children. I'd like to say that I never say anything inappropriate - but I'd be lying.

A very wise woman (an English teacher I might add) once told my sister "Rachel, if you mean f&@k say f&@k." And this is advice I've hung onto for years. After all there are moments when only the F word or one of its close bed fellows will do. Like when you stand on yet another Lego brick; or stub your toe on that damn baby walker.

Sometimes I have the presence of mind to mutter it under my breath, or hastily change it to a "flipping heck" if the children are truly in close proximity. But sometimes I (actually that should be we - I'm most certainly not alone in this) don't quite manage it.

Sometimes I wish my car had one of those sound proof screens like taxis have - and not just for the sake of concealing my road rage. Imagine being able to see them whining but not be able to hear it? But alas Rufus now believes that anyone driving a white van is called an idiot, that it's ok to refer to old people as biddies (I'm so sorry world) and that muttered expletive are must in traffic. Oh the shame of it.

Thus far we have been lucky - Rufus has only demonstrated the extent of our potty mouthed vocabulary in private. I was, thankfully, the only witness to him throwing his bunnies on the floor and shouting something that sounded very much like "f&@k it" (daddy!!!)

I would be utterly mortified if he did it in public. Though clearly it's in our blood. Reportedly at a similar age I knocked my fork off my high chair in a restaurant and stood up and shouted "bugger, bugger, bugger". My paternal Grandfather apparently, and understandably, wanted to crawl under the table. We laugh about this oft repeated anecdote now, but at the time I'm sure judgement was rife.

So I'm trying to temper the language. And my tendency to overdramatise my speech. When Rufus started telling me he "hated" wind/potatoes/petit filou without the fruity bits at the bottom, I /we decided that I should start to dislike/not tolerate/not be a fan of things/people instead.

They pick up on everything these children, even when you think they're not watching. At least they copy the good things too. it cracks me up when he grans a wet wipe at the table, jumps off his chair, climbs up Laurie's highchair and says "look at the state of you Laurie - you grubby baby". The he gently, but in effectively, wipes his face. And I smile because that's what I do.

I love seeing little bits of everyone who cares for him moulding him and helping him create his own personality. lets just hope he chooses the best bits and learns when it's appropriate to swear. we just have to remember that he's always watching and there's no where to hide.

1 comment:

Mrs Haines said...

My parents never (and I do mean NEVER) say the F-word. That didn't stop my sister Leonie sitting up to dinner, aged about 4 I think, and loudly declaring, "Not f@#$ing fish fingers!" She obviously heard it somewhere... Love that she used it in the right context despite not knowing what it meant. Also, as a fish finger hater myself, I wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment!

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