Last night the inevitable happened; Marty dropped his first legit F word. And while, on some scale, this probably makes me a terrible mother, I can’t lie, I’m pretty impressed by his timing. Now, as you can imagine, I probably swear more than I “should” in daily conversations with friends and family but I haven’t really determined my course of action on that as a parent so we’ve been winging it – AKA um, not doing a fucking thing about it. A couple days ago Seth came home with the boys and said, “Well, it happened. Matty said the F word.” He started to tell this story about how they were driving down the road yada yada yadaaaa. I think I stopped listening and then impatiently cut him off asking if Matty had just repeated something Seth had said or if he legit said it out of nowhere. Turned out, he had just repeated what Seth said during a (not so infrequent) bout of road rage on the drive home. I laughed and didn’t think much about it because Matty was just repeating what he’d heard and I (call me an idiot if you want) didn’t really think it’d be an issue.
So then last night after work, we took Matty to get a haircut and then decided to swing into Walmart to grab a couple items for his birthday party on the way home. As you know, there’s an 87% shot that going to Walmart at any given time is not a good idea, when you have a family of four those odds increase to about 99% – but I’m an optimist so we usually go anyway. Lucky Seth. So we romp around Wally World collecting our few random items – Matty is trying to put everything he can get his hands on in the cart, Abbott is being the best baby ever because that’s what he does (#soblessed) and there are a million other people in there doing their own things (AKA I AM IN HELL). Finally, we’re ready to checkout. Now, at this Walmart nine out of the ten lanes are usually self-checkout which would make sense if the population frequenting this Walmart was capable of using those fucking machines but 79% of the customer base at this Walmart are buying booze (us) or using food stamps, neither of which categories are really capable of using these machines without some sort of assistance. To top that off, Seth LOATHES self-checkout so of course we end up waiting in the longest line at the one lane being run by an actual human. I’m holding Matty when Seth begins unloading our stuff onto the conveyer belt. The cashier greets us and all is well, until…
I was spacing off looking at the magazines when Matty sort of jumped in my arms – he swings his head around, lowers his chin, looks me dead in the eyes and says, “That fucking bus” with perfect diction.
I was so taken by surprise that I would probably liken my reaction to that of a kid hearing his friend drop the f* bomb in public or, like, a younger sibling being scared of getting in trouble for playing a role in something they knew was wrong. My jaw dropped and my eyes widened. I looked around to see if anyone heard it and immediately made eye contact with Seth. He knew immediately that something was up.
“Ask Matty what he just said.”
“Matty, what did you just say?”
“THAT FUCKING BUS!”
He yelled to be sure Seth could hear. Seth and I exchanged looks trying not to laugh.
“Truck and bus, buddy. Remember, I said truck and bus.”
“CHUCK AND BUS! CHUCK AND BUS! CHUCK AND BUS!”
The cashier gave us an uneasy look and we just laughed. It was maybe one of the more memorable moments in my life.
Needless to say, I’m dubbing today F* Bomb Friday because next week I’m cleaning up the language around here – we’re going PG. No more cussing (unless I really have a point to make – I’ll save them for my stronger moments of conviction).
And I honestly don’t even know where to begin.
So, happy F*Bomb Friday – make it count – or lose count.