Is This Mike On?

My youngest son swore the other day.

He didn’t say the big one, thank goodness, the one that makes mom go into a spasm and reach for the Dial soap. (For the record, Barb does not allow this form of punishment here. She prefers something much more lethal: Celine Dion songs played backwards.)

On that day, I actually have the gall to tell him to do the dishes, to do his part and help the family. Spencer acts like I am fitting him for the rack.

First comes the  stomp into the kitchen. Then to make sure I know he’s really not happy, he starts moving dishes around with the subtlety of a Jerry Bruckheimer movie. Dishes flying this way and that, like a Food Network segment with Randy Savage.

In a calm voice, I tell him something in my best Ward Cleaver voice: “You need to cool your jets, dude.”

He looked at me with the same blank expression and said, “I don’t give a d—.”

I think Bill Cosby’s right. I think there’s a 400-year-old man waiting up the street to brief my kids every day.

“Kids, today’s word to mess up your parents is the ‘d-word.’ Go home and conjugate it in a sentence.”

So now Spencer’s looking at me, confidently waiting for me to react with an explosion.

I don’t. I don’t show any emotion whatsoever. My face remains impassive before I smile at him.

“That didn’t do anything for me,” I told him.

A little bit later, I put my arm around his shoulder and pull him close.

“Don’t say those words.” They weaken you instead of make you stronger.” He nodded his head.

Maybe I didn’t do the right thing. But it seemed better than Dial for sure.

Profanity photo from here.

Tweet This Post