In my never-ending attempt to not swear profusely in front of my children, yesterday I uttered the phrase CRAP-A-DOODLE-DOO!
My kids think I am a comic genius.
Since my husband and I both have potty mouths we take the tack that they aren’t bad words, they are just “inappropriate for children words”. Then on special occasions and with permission we might let them say one.
If you ever meet my mother-in-law you should ask her about the time the twins requested permission to say one swear word. She said yes and braced herself for “ass” and my six year old daughter said “Okay, heh. Fucker.”
We went out for Mexican food one night this week and were having a lovely family conversation about my son’s dreams to make movies in Hollywood. He was brainstorming studio names when his sister suggested he should probably not use the name Pixar since it was already taken. “Maybe Bixar?” “Nixar.” “Flixar.”
“Okay! That is enough!” I stopped it there. They were getting loud. Then my husband said. “Oh, I thought of one, but it is inappropriate.”
“What is it, Dad?” both children wanted to know. Fortunately the food came right then. I thought it was over.
I thought wrong.
You know how when you get your food it gets quiet for a minute while everyone begins stuffing their faces full of food? Yeah, that still happened, but the first break in the lull was the boy.
“I think I know what it is, but I can’t say it.”
“What what is?” I asked. Because I forgot about it.
“Dad’s inappropriate studio name.”
“Let’s not talk about it anymore.” the grown-ups say.
“What is it?” his sister wants to know.
Let’s just nip this in the bud and then be done with it, I think. “Fine. What letter does it start with?”
“Okay!” I say.
“S-H-I-T-sar.” he says.
“No. That wasn’t it.” his father tells him.
We go back to eating. We talk about other things: our day, fantasy football, kitchen remodeling, Gorgoroth, what appears to be a pear carved into the booth, you know, regular family talk. Then my daughter says. “I know it is!”
Here we go again.
She decides to whisper it to her father.
My daughter whispers like a Skakesperian actor. I can hear clearly from across the table amidst the loud-ass mariachi music as she cover her mouth and leans into my husband’s ear. She says “shitsar.”
We all start laughing. Because we are all 11 years old.
“No!” he says. “That is the same thing your brother said.”
“Oh.” she says and then both kids keep laughing for a while.
They wouldn’t let it drop. Fortunately, since we met there and had two separate cars to drive home they couldn’t gang up on us in an enclosed space. Hopefully they would forget about it before we got home.
My son tried to trick me into telling him in the car, but I wouldn’t budge. “It isn’t mine to tell. It is your father’s and if he wants to tell you he will.”
Once we got home it was homework, then showers, then bed. We said goodnight to the children then went into the kitchen. My husband put his arms around me and looked into my eyes and said “Shitsar.” and we both laughed.
“It was Dicksar, right?” I asked.
And then we laughed some more. Because Dicksar is funny.