So, of course I’ve been trying to watch my mouth since my first son was born. And, to my credit, I’ve done a fairly good job. No f-bombs have been dropped in either child’s presence, and no s-bombs for that matter or even a-bombs (you all know what I mean). But I’ve had a few moments of weakness with “dammit.” And, I learned recently, I’ve apparently said “goddammit” in front of the kids as well. How do I know this? Not long ago, Matthew dropped a Lego creation on the floor and let out a perfectly-timed, top-of-his-voice “god damage!” for all of us to hear. We had the requisite some-words-are-only-for-grown-ups (damage-is-not-one-of-them-but-dammit-is) (oh-and-damage-means-breaking-something-but-you-don’t-usually-shout-it-out-when-you-break-something-but-technically-that’s-not-wrong) conversation and I vowed to be more careful. So this afternoon, as I was hammering nails into the wall to hang Christmas lights and I hammered my thumb instead of the nail, I tried to hold my tongue. What came out, very slowly and through gritted teeth, was not much better than the original version: “Gosh…poop…it!”
3.5-year-old Matthew was silent, but looked at me with a wheels-are-turning, I’m-saving-this-one-for-preschool look. 20-month-old William smiled with delight and proceeded to march around chanting “gah poopit! gah poopit! Mommy, gah poopit!”
So. “Gosh poop it,” it is. Now if only I can remember that the next time I step on a Hot Wheel while holding hot coffee.