First, I decided it only mattered if I cursed in front of the kids. We all know I couldn’t drive properly using words like “fudger” or “sugar-head.” Certainly, I couldn’t expect to play a tennis match, let alone win a tennis match, without my swear-filled routine. And readers, I am happy to say, this week (and last week for that matter) we fucking won. And it felt fucking great. Here are some snippets of my tennis-turrets, shared only with my partner, under my breath. (In case you’ve ever wondered what it is doubles players are discussing between points).
- “No fucking way.” When we were down 1-5 in the first set and my partner said: “We’re not giving up.”
- “Lob it over her head. She keeps fucking running in. Even on a second serve. It’s our job to make her pay for that shit.”
- “Fucking A.” (Fist pump) After winning a long service game in the third set.
- “Shit. I fucking had that shot. I saw that ball and I was just so fucking excited.” After mis-hitting a backhand clear into the sky when I was aiming down-the-line to a wide open space on their side of the court. “For fuck’s sake, Lindsay, hit the fucking ball.”
- “I’m so fucking psyched that we won.”
But I still hadn’t lost it yet in front of the kids. Until the other night.
“So, you’re sure you’ve finished all of your homework,” I said to Ronan at 7:30pm when I caught him playing his DS in front of the TV. “I don’t want to have to sign one of those work report things with missing assignments.”
“Oh, right,” he said, “I think I have one more page of math. And I didn’t do the PE homework. I have to do it now. And you need to sign my work report.”
(PE homework? Really?)
“You have one of those work reports in your binder now?” I said. “When were you going to tell me that? You’re just sitting up here, playing Pokemon when you still have homework?”
“I was just about to do it. I swear.”
Then I swore: “That’s bullshit and you know it.”
Seriously – can you think of a better word?
Now I’m on a bit of a bender, like a alcoholic suddenly back on the sauce.
“Mommy, you said, you know,” Ronan said yesterday after I’d lapsed yet again.
“It’s over. I failed. It didn’t work.”
“You can start over, Mommy,” Ronan said. “You can try again.”
So I stopped myself from saying: “Do your fucking homework and I won’t have to fucking curse.”