Swearing for children

So …. the swearing thing. It’s bound to come up at some point, isn’t it? For the first couple of years, our children thought our dog’s name was ‘Bugger Off’.

I am very fond of bad language, so I probably cling to it more than my husband does. Some of our friends have given up swearing for their children, but frankly, I think we’ve given up quite enough for ours already, and I was damned if we were going to let that go, too. First the drug trafficking, then the swearing … who knows where it could all end?

Fortunately, my husband and I agree that while children in general – and ours in particular, of course – have their good points, what they don’t have is the same rights as adults do. While we are very aware of their constitutional status (I recently overheard my husband saying calmly to my yelling, stamping son, ‘ Of course, it’s your constitutional right to have a tantrum, and I’d like you to know I fully support you in that endeavour. But you are still going to wear your hat’), like Bill Cosby’s mother, we also believe that we brought them into this world and we can take them out. In other words, for the time being, we’ve got the power, a-huh a-huh.

So we decided to sit them down and explain to them that there were words grown-ups could use but which they couldn’t. Our children accepted this point of view without question, but they did feel that they needed to have those words listed for them in order to avoid any future confusion. We sat there very seriously and swore at them for about five minutes in level tones, gently reminding each other when we thought we’d left something out (‘Dear, I’m not sure that you mentioned *&*%^’).

Our children were politely attentive, and they have remembered every word – and I mean every single word – of that conversation. They never swear. Instead, every so often they get a faraway look in their eyes as they envisage their rosy future, and say very clearly to whoever happens to be around (usually a colleague or an elderly relative), ‘My mommy says when I’m big, I can say ‘’Fuck’’.’

I don’t believe this is nearly as disingenuous as they make it seem. And as a conversational opening gambit, it’s not very successful either, because there are a limited number of responses one can make. What do you say – ‘How nice’? ‘I bet you’re looking forward to that’? ‘I’m sure your mummy and daddy will be very proud’? But as a toe-curling parental slap on the wrist, it’s extremely effective. Children are ruthless in meting out guilt to their parents, which is something worth bearing in mind on the few occasions when you have the upper hand. Take no prisoners, I say.

The following was not one of those occasions. For some reason, the other day I found myself watching an episode of Thomas the Tank Engine with my daughter. I would rather poke myself in the eye with a wet fish than do this voluntarily, so I’m not exactly sure what I was doing there. Is it just me, or does everyone find Thomas a loathsome little prat? Anyway, there I was, minding my own business, thinking quietly to myself what a self-righteous, boring toad of a train he is and wondering what it is that children see in him when my daughter turned to me and remarked conversationally, ‘Fucking troll’. I was just about to say, ‘Isn’t he, though?’ when I remembered I was having a conversation with a two-year-old.

‘I beg your pardon!’ I said, ‘What did you just say?’

My daughter eyed me with mild interest. ‘I said, ‘’Fat Controller’’,’ she said, pointing at the screen. And there he was, the Fat Controller – one of Thomas the Tank Engine’s many odious friends.

‘Oh,’ I said.

I swear she was smirking when she turned back to the screen.

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