When I was little, I thought that “vulgar” was a language — spoken, I presumed, in the country of Vulgaria. I imagined it as a nation full of rude and unkind people who chewed gum with their mouths open and said “butt” instead of “bottom.” This was all because of my dad, who was comically polite. To him, drinking from a straw was inappropriate (“They’re meant to be used in hospitals”), and children were always “children,” never “kids.” Drop a casual “heck” and he’d look almost wounded. “Let’s not be vulgar, Kels.”
By age four, I’d figured out both the real meaning of “vulgar” and the fact that my dad was ridiculous. I spent decades ruffling his feathers with the mildest slang: “snot,” “spit,” or — egads! — “puke.” I, of course, would have no such hang-ups as a parent. I’d be principled about language, not stuffy. As long as it wasn’t hateful or harmful, who really cared? Then came the day my own four-year-old said “snot,” and some fussy, paternal gene was activated in me: “It’s called ‘mucus!’”
My daughter is now six, and we’re still ironing out our policies on language. The central tenet is the same: nothing hateful or harmful, which includes words rooted in ableism, like “dumb” or “crazy.” Sure, it gets tricky, explaining why we don’t say “crazy” when lots of our friends do — or why we listen to Hamilton, but we don’t walk around calling people “bastard, orphan, son of a whore” (and also there’s nothing wrong with being any of those things). Whew, it’s a lot, but that’s the kind of tricky I can handle.
What I’m completely lost on is good, old-fashioned swearing and slang. I don’t really have a good, principle-backed reason for not wanting to let my daughter drop f-bombs (we’re not there yet, but I’m sure the day is coming). I just tell her there are some words she might choose to use when she’s older — y’know, Alexander Hamilton’s age. (That’s pretty good? Right?) I correct her “oh my god” to “oh my gosh,” with a slightly wobblier explanation about “god” meaning different things to different people, and then trail off into something about respect for beliefs. (???)
As for calling it “mucus” instead of “snot,” I have no excuse. That’s just straight-up fussiness I inherited, along with my dad’s nose. One day, she’ll turn around, tell me I’m ridiculous, and crack her gum right in my face — and I’ll have earned it. That’s fine. But in two months, she’ll start first grade. We’re talking real school, with homework and lice and all sorts of other big-kid stuff she’ll bring home, including big-kid words and, surely, the desire to ruffle her mom’s feathers with them. I need a strategy, and quick. (Quickly, that is.)
So, if I may ask: What’s your policy on ‘bad language?’ If you’re a parent, do you allow it at home? Do you have different rules for different crowds or age groups? Are certain words off-limits, period?
@90zclub Jerry Maguire #jerrymaguire #1996 #tomcruise #jonathanlipnicki #talk #zoo #really
P.S. More posts on talking to kids, including talking to kids about sex, periods, death, consent, and feelings.
