June 2, 2015

Kids say the darndest things…

“She’s such a psychotic b*tch!”

These very words were uttered from the lips of my (usually) sweet six year-old son. He was referring to his sister. How could it have come to this?!

Let’s back it up a touch, shall we?

It was in the days after my daughter’s fifth birthday. She had received a build-your-own birdhouse kit, which she was working on during the day with our nanny. The work in progress sat on our dining room table. I was busy preparing dinner one evening, and my son, Sacha, approached the birdhouse with the intention of showing his sister, Heidi how the roof was to be put together. The exchange went something like this:

“Here, Heidi, let me show you how this goes together” (subtext: “I want to work on this”)
“No, Sacha!” (subtext: this is my project. Hands off.).
“I just want to show you how this goes! GAWD!”

*chaos ensues *

“OK Sacha, hands off the birdhouse, come sit over here for a few minutes and cool off.”*Sacha lays down on the floor feeling sorry for himself* “Heidi  wants this to be a project for her, during the day, and it’s her birthday present, so let’s respect that. I know we share, but you guys are getting really mad at each other, so cool it.”

With the kids separated and “calm”, I returned to the kitchen.  

And then I heard Heidi’s war cry. She was not, it seemed, content with the situation quite yet.


And with that, she charged across the room, having made her choice. She dropped a chest-stomping left foot onto Sacha’s rib cage, WWE style.

*Chaos reigns once more*

Heidi was in her deepest pits of rage now, and she needed to be moved. After making sure Sacha was OK,  Heidi was taken upstairs to scream her head off by herself in her bedroom.
Back downstairs to Sacha.
“Hey buddy, you OK? I’m sorry that Heidi chose to use her body instead of her words like that.”

And there, from his position lying on the floor, he looked up at me and said "it".

“She’s such a psychotic b*tch!”

This, dear readers, was one of my finest parenting moments, I have to tell you. 

You will be amazed to learn I didn’t break out into fits of laughter, though Sacha caught  hint of a smile immediately tug at the corners of my mouth, and a glint appeared in his eyes. Quickly wiping any hints of the humour from my face, I gave a short and stern dad-style lecture about hurtful, powerful words, strong language, yadda yadda yadda.

Quickly, It dawned on me that this was not the run of the mill profanity and my course of inquiry changed.

“Sacha, WHERE did you even hear words like this?! Mum and dad don’t ever speak like this”
“NOWHERE,” he said, ruefully.
“It must have come from somewhere. Are kids at school talking like this?”
“NO! I’ve never heard these words before.”
Imagine my surprise, to learn that it was my own son who introduced these words into the English language.


This accounting is the most extreme we’ve had in our house, but the use of the occasional “swear” is on the rise in our house. Without a doubt, some of it has been picked up at home. I am guilty of the occasional F-bomb front and center with the kids. Not directed at them, but if I stub my toe, cut myself chopping vegetables, or whatever.

Increasingly, though, the playground at school is a source of all sorts of choice language, either during school with the kids up to grade three (our school is an annex), or after school when kids from “the big school” come around to play in the annex fields).

So far my biggest challenge is keeping the idiot smile off my face when we’re treated to this colourful language. The best we can do as adults is try to curb our own foul mouths, and talk frankly and openly about why those words are totally inappropriate.

In any case, the time has finally come in our house.

We’re instituting The Swear Jar.

.25 cents per youth offence, $1 per adult offence, with proceeds to charity.

Why do these kids have to grow up so fucking fast anyway?

ARGH! There goes the first loonie.