Parenting and @$%#**!

I'll be the first to admit that I have a trucker's mouth. Or at least I used to. Then I had kids.  The transformation to my colourful vocabulary didn't occur overnight. At first, I didn't give much thought to my habit of using swear words. The curses came naturally when the baby's diaper leaked, or when he vomited, projectile fashion, into my shirt. Nothing else seemed to express our frustrations so concisely than a short expletive when the baby woke up, again, within mere minutes of falling asleep. Sometimes, the words simply belied our own helplessness as parents. There was the time when Devlin was running a high fever, and all the parenting books indicated a rectal temperature was the most accurate. I don't know how many times we tried to hold the squalling, squirming baby still, while attempting to insert, most delicately, a lubricated thermometer, and try to obtain an accurate reading, all the while wondering if we were inserting it too deeply or not enough.
Then baby grew. Swear words were easy to mutter as we ran into more obstacles of parenting. Another bowl of oatmeal goes flying. The garbage bin gets overturned again by curious hands.  The computer gets turned off by a wayward kick by a tiny foot while you were in the middle of a transaction. The newly replaced toilet paper roll is unfurled ceremoniously by a giggling toddler.
Then came potty training. All hell broke loose with our language. Just when we thought we had turned a corner with the toileting issue, Devlin decided to regress. He began to poop in his underwear. For no reason. He knew how to use the toilet. Had no problems peeing in the toilet. In fact, he had been pooping in the potty. Overnight, he began to poop in the undies.  (I've never figured out why, but I now realize it's a commonality amongst all of my offspring.) It was gross. It was disgusting. I was at home with two kids, and at my wit's end. None of the parenting books or toilet training guides mentioned this type of regression. The pediatrician's advice was to take it easy as it would go away, but the regression could last up to a year. Up to a year!!!???
Reverting to using pull-ups made matters worse as he decided to pee in the diaper-like training pants. We decided to suck it up and soldier on with the underwear. It was a dirty event. Each day, my frustrations grew. The swear words flowed freely. Until the day I realized that kids are indeed sponges and they do mimic the adults. One afternoon, my son informed he had pooped. In his underwear. As I pulled down his pants and underwear gingerly, I said "Ahh, Devlin" in a despairing tone of voice. He responded, "Yeah, I know, F---!"
Well, that stopped me cold, and I swore that I would clean up my language. That incident, and the one time he actually used that word in front of my mother was enough of a warning to me. We have tried to clean up our language. The last thing I want or need is a conference with the teachers about my kid's inappropriate language. It's hard especially since my line of work inspires such creative terminology. The challenge for me is to leave the cursing at the workplace. For Daddy, the task is to drive without mentioning all the d@!% morons and idiots on the road.
But there are some situations where a good expletive provides the perfect relief to one's frustrations. I've tried to substitute the really bad swear words for some milder, not r-rated ones. Unfortunately, I am using the Lord's name in vain way too much. Funny how the kids will repeat the r-rated words and their lesser counterparts but not the religious ones.
Then there was the evening where Aisling was finding every excuse in the book to delay bed time. More milk. Need to pee. One more story. Need to find her baby [doll].
"Aisling, the baby is downstairs. I am not going to get it."
"I neeeed my baby to sleep. I can't sleep. Get it for me. I can't go by myself. Come with me," she whined.
Knowing when I was defeated, I muttered crossly, "Let's go. Let's go and get your bloody baby and then you better get to sleep."
We went down to the living room, and searched for her doll. Then I heard the triumphant cry, "Here it is. I got my bloody baby!"