Our house is our home. We go to church on Christmas and Easter, and we always say “¿Como estás?” to our neighbor Guillermo (I was a Spanish minor and it feels good to refresh myself). My kids know that there are certain words we just don’t use in this house. At least, not until I’ve uncorked a bottle of Pinot. Here are the no-no words we absolutely never say before I’ve had a glass:
Sorry, but under no circumstances do I tolerate the word “hate.” Not in this house. You can leave that kind of negativity at the door. No, Carmichael, we don’t “hate” your sister. No, Elizabette, we don’t “hate” what I worked very hard to make for dinner. But once I’ve had my after-meal glass of red, we do “hate” that your father hasn’t made it home for dinner in tres weeks.
Carmichael and Elizabette know that if I catch them using the A-word, they’re getting their mouths washed out with hypo-allergenic soap. I do everything in my power to keep a clean house, until I have my dessert trough of sangria. Then I’ll freely say that my sneaky asshole of a husband better have a damn good reason why he missed taco night—“his favorite.” Favorite, my ass.
My kids aren’t allowed to say bitch, but I am, after a few sips of this Clarendon Hills. That bottle of Shiraz was a wedding present, but since marriage seems to be no longer sacred, what the hell? Life’s a bitch. I can’t find the wine bottle opener so I’m gonna use these bitch-ass pliers. Go to your room, mis hijos.
If I ever heard the word cunt come out of my kids’ mouths, I’d demand to know where they heard it from. And they’d probably say they heard it from me after a lot of vodka. Because after I’ve finished my 3pm martini(s)(s), I usually wish a curse upon my husband’s cunt of a “coworker” and also her actual cunt.
The Other C-Word
The word is cuntfire. My curse goes something like this: “May Daphne experience a spontaneous and painful cuntfire. Amen.” Like I said, I’m a spiritual person. My kids have never actually used this word, I think because they know I made it up. But if I ever heard them say it, before I got blitzed on Cabernet, I would ground them into next week.
Every time Elizabette and Carmichael suggest I file for divorce, I put them in time-out. Unless I’ve knocked back some nail polish remover. Then I’m like, “Oh my God you guys are soooo right. Te amo mucho.” They’re kids, but they’re so damn wise.
The other D-Word
Daphne lives at the corner of Lincoln and Madison, right? Kids, get in the car. No, you get in the driver’s seat. I’ve had too much of whatever this is.
Fuck it, I’m too sloshed to walk.
It’s so important to teach your children that words become actions, and actions become character. That’s why I monitor my children’s speech, as well as my own, until I don’t.