Rex, Rocky, Vivi, and Billy                                                                            

$#&% Me.

$#&% Me.

I’m gunna cut right to the chase.  Rex has developed a swearing problem.  Shocking, I know.  I could let myself go down a rabbit hole of feeling like a horrible, trashy, irresponsible mother—but what fun would that be.  So I am doing what any cool, laid back (pffff) mom would do.  Blog about it!

It began around six months ago.  Kid started dropping F bombs.  At first we wondered if maybe we were hearing him incorrectly.  He has a weird toddler accent mixed with some Boston twang and topped off with an inability to connect certain consonants correctly.  “I think he is just saying truck.”  I mean, it would make sense.  It’s Rex after all.  But then I caught him zooming his cars around on the table when one of them fell on the floor. “Oh, FUCK!”  Oh shit.  Correct context.  Well, that clears that up!

Of course I went into panic mode.  How did he learn this?! (Was I high?) What do I do?!  I decided to ignore it, and just relax about it.  I am sure it is just a phase like everything else.  So, I texted my family on our group chain to let them know that he had hit this wonderful new milestone accompanied by an obvious poop emoji.  I knew they would appreciate the humor in it.  And then it hit me.  Oh, shit. Back to panic mode.  What if he drops one in from of my mother in law?  Now, she isn’t a prude by any means—but she has a hard-lined stance on the F word. (Yes, she was thrilled her son chose a sweet little thing like me.)  Well, the next day was Friday and Rex headed off to Nana’s house for the day.  About two hours into his visit I received this:

HELLO!  Luckily she was more than understanding, and after a week of ignoring his new word it went away.

Well this week, after a few swear-free months, we are back in the game.  A few days ago Rex was playing with his Legos at the kitchen table while Rocky and I played a few feet away in the playroom.  Rock got a little cranky and started crying.  I immediately heard Rex hop of his chair, and his little (big) feet scurried in to check out the scene.  He walked right over to Rocky, bent down, and told him, “Rocky! I was playin’ with my Legos and I heard you and I said, 'Fuckin’ shit! Rocky is cryin’!' So I came to see what’s the matter”----uhhhhhh, say whaaaa?  “Oh, it’s okay Rex…” (ignore. ignore. ignore.) “he’s fine.  But thanks for checking!”  Fluke? Right? Has to be.

Then a day or two later we were outside.  Rex rounded the corner into the backyard and headed straight for the sandbox.  Right before stepping in he turned to me, “Mom, Rocky can’t go in my sandbox.  He is fuckin’ crazy.”  I almost forgot who was talking to me and responded with “no shit, dude. He will eat all the sand!”  But thankfully I had already had my coffee so I just said, “Oh, ok.”  Brilliant parenting, I know.

The next day, we were outside again and Rex saw some trash on the grass. “Fuckin’ shit, Mom! Who put this here?!” Ughhh---now we are too many swears in.  Maybe ignoring it isn’t the answer?  “Rex.  You can not say that.  Fucking’ shit is a bad word.  Please do not say that.”  He looks right at me and stares me down in silence for a solid twenty seconds.  Then he puts both hands over his little mouth and I can see the smile in his eyes.   And through his little fingers he says “fuckin’ shit!” and starts laughing uncontrollably.

Yeah.  How the HELL do I keep a straight face here?!  He is a comic genius.  I walked away.

So I am currently still in the middle of #fuckinshitgate, and I am going back to the "just ignore it" approach.  I will keep you updated on my success.  In the mean time I am on a mission to find the trucker who taught him these horrible words.  Wish me luck.

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