To Swear or Not to Swear?

I'm aware this post will probably ignite a few heated words and I may very well get flamed for it. Bring it on. I'm more than prepared for what may or may not happen. Along those lines, I don't have a "comment policy" per se and don't really feel the need for one. I stopped moderating comments because, for the most part, those who read Barking Mad are mature enough to not need moderation, which in my mind equals censorship. True, I do attract the occasional fuckwit, but I'm usually able to deal with him/her quickly enough so that things don't degenerate into a free-for-all. So, whilst I'm open to debate, even a heated exchange of thoughts and ideas; personal attacks won't be tolerated.

I swear. No, really, I do. I know, you're as shocked as...what's that? You aren't surprised that I let the occasional F-bomb fly? Well, of course you aren't because you've seen them fly fast and free out here. I also know I've lost a few readers because of it. My language on the blog has deteriorated with the proliferation of my depression. However, I do try and moderate the expletives that tend to come out of my mouth; around my house. See, I have this miniature person living here, and she tends to pick up everything we say. Oh, she doesn't just mimic it, she uses things in context. She's one smart cookie, sometimes much to my abject horror.

Every once in a while, I'll let something slip. Such was the case back, nearly a year ago now, when I let a huge one fly. The Little Imp wasn't even 2 years old at the time, and we were in the kitchen as I was preparing something, and I had a 28 ounce can (that's almost TWO POUNDS people, not exactly a feather!) of crushed tomatoes that I was trying to open. The can slid from my grip and landed on my big toe. I yelled "Mother Fucker!!!!" at the top of my lungs. I said it a few more times as the tears flowed and I bent over and picked up my foot and cried, blood running over my hands and onto the floor. Never mind that it did indeed hurt like a mother fucker. The fact of the matter is, I said it and the Little Imp heard it. I own the fact that I said it.

It took a few hours for it to come back and bite me in the ass.

I had my foot propped up on the coffee table with an ice pack on it and in walks the Little Imp, who noticing my wrapped toe, comes over to me, pats me on the leg and looks at my toe and says; "Dats a mama fucker." I admit, I laughed. I probably made a bigger deal out of than needed to be made. Several hours later, before bed, the hubby sat in the bathroom giving the Little Imp a bath and dropped the bottle of shampoo on the floor. Once again, she piped up from a mound of bubbles and bath toys and exclaimed, "mama fucker!"

We both told her it was a very naughty word and she should never repeat it. Ever. That lasted for an entire 48 hours. We were sitting around the table, the day after Thanksgiving and she started saying it again. Two of my teenagers were sitting there as well, laughing their heads off. So I grabbed the camcorder and this (pardon the crappy quality, and I know the food looks less than fantastic...it was the day after Thanksgiving. We were having leftovers on paper plates! I had just spent the prior day hobbling around the kitchen catering to 23 people and wasn't about to break out the china again, for leftovers!) was the result...


I originally posted it out here and even got some flack from my ex-husband and his family by way of my eldest daughter. Whatever. The Little Imp hasn't said it since the day we videoed her. Unfortunately I've let it fly a few times, after which, the look on the Little Imp's face and her tone of voice when she dressed me down for saying that was enough to make me think twice about uttering that in her presence ever again.

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