colorful language

After an intense day of Back-to-School-the-Day-Before-School-Starts school shopping, I was exhausted, to say the very least.

Max had tried on at least 20 pairs of shoes before I convinced him to go with the Vans on clearance for $15. Apparently, even he knows a bargain when he sees one...which is great.

After pulling in the driveway and carrying 5 bags, my purse, and a travel coffee mug up the back stairs, I used the pinkie finger from my left hand and the middle finger from my right to fumble for the house key. Unfortunately all of that awkward fumbling caused my car key to break loose from its ring and hit the deck.

As the key thumped on the wood, I instinctively shouted, "Shit!"

Then I looked at Max.

"Sorry, Max. Mom shouldn't say things like that."

He looked up at me and gave me an understanding nod---and forgiveness for my foul mouth. I mean, it's rare I drop a curse word in front of him, but it happens. Heck, when we play video games, inevitably a "damn" or a "shit" will pop out, especially when Mario fails to make a jump for the 18379384th time.

That's when Max will say, "Mom! You're not supposed to say that word." And that's when I humbly apologize, and he says, "That's okay."

But it got me thinking. I remember the very first time I let the word "shit" slip from my juvenile mouth---right in front of my dad. We were in the 87 Dodge Caravan, driving up the street to somewhere I can't remember. I was probably 11 or so, and I remember being introduced to Razzles candies that day---you know, those candies that magically turn into gum?

I had been chewing on a few pieces that afternoon. So sure, they go from candy to gum, but what my friends failed to mention was that if you chew them for too long, they also magically disintegrate into stringy, lumpy, slime. And as we were going down the street, that's exactly what happened. One minute gum, and in a split second, a mouthful of fruit-flavored, rainbow-colored bird poop.

So, I quietly muttered, "Shit."

For a moment, the interior of the car started spinning, my face got hot, and my ears began to buzz.

Did I just cuss? In front of my dad?!?! Did he hear me? What the hell am I going to do with this mouthful of lumpy stew?

My dad kept on driving. He didn't say a word. But for the next few years, I didn't utter a bad word in front of my parents again.

But during that part of life, that part when there are words that you're not supposed to say and really aren't allowed to say? It's sort of breathtaking. Think about it. When you said them around your friends, out of ear shot of parents, teachers, or other adults, you felt sort of empowered. I mean, you could almost taste those words...and they were delicious.

And then, at some point, they became words that you still weren't supposed to say, but could say if and when you needed to.

At six, I was allowed to say "dang." (Turns out, I could have been saying it all along. But I'd heard my babysitter say it and just assumed it was a bad word...so one day, I just asked and ended up getting the go ahead.)

At twelve, I was allowed to say "crap" whenever I wanted.

At sixteen, I could get by with "hell", "damn", "piss", and the occasional "shit." I could even say "bitch" so long as it wasn't in reference to my mother.

And, even though my friends and I had been saying it for a few years already, by 18, I could drop the mother of all curse words--the F-bomb--in front of my parents. (But I gotta tell you, even though I was allowed to say it, it took a long time to not feel the way I did years before in the back of the family van that day my candy turned to troll snot.)

I guess it's sort of a coming of age thing. A rite of passage of sorts.

But sometimes I wish I could taste those words again, back when they were juicy, forbidden fruits still ripening on the vines of my vocabulary.

No shit.