Mommy Curses Sometimes

By the time I was in kindergarten I had heard all the curse words I would need to know and use later in life. If I had been more of a provocateur as a child I could have sworn with the readiness of a drunken sailor. I might not have known exactly what each word meant, but basically I knew that every word I heard bellowed from the basement where my dad was working in his darkroom was not a word that I should say. 

Shit was the first word I knew I should not say, but that’s only because I had tested it out for myself. I was four and I won’t go into details but I survived to tell the tale. 

Boo Boo has already tried to say cuss words. And it’s not because of his father, it’s because of me–but not just. I direct 99 percent of my cussing at the MTA. I don’t remember how many curse words I used, but I do know that this weekend a trip that was only supposed to take 30 minutes ended up taking almost an hour and a half, and the trip back was just as disastrous. All told, one round-trip incurred at least five unforeseen, unaccounted for fuck-ups. The only saving grace, during the first trip anyway, was that Boo Boo was asleep.

Not so on the way back. Several local trains rolled into the station during the ten minutes we spent waiting for the N train. I plied Boo Boo with bananas and water. He’s never needed more than two seconds to eat a banana, so he was back to squirming in no time. The stroller straps were his straight-jacket and he tried to wriggle free.  

“Look,” I tell him. “I’m frustrated, too.”

I know the only reason he cries, though, is because he doesn’t know how to curse. Long story short, we found ourselves needing to get off the N train to wait for the R train at 36th Street after a long trip that should have been short. It’s supposed to come in eight minutes. Boo Boo has had it. He’s squirming, scrunching his face, and kicking his legs. 

“I know, pumpkin. I know. Mommy’s angry, too. But we’re almost home. We just have to get on the R, and then we’ll be home in one stop!” 

The simple act of me validating his extremely legitimate feelings made Boo Boo willing to stretch his goodwill and patience. His legs went slack. He grabbed his binky and put it in his mouth. We waited for the train. Seven minutes later we saw its headlights come from around the corner. It was a beacon of hope, like a lighthouse spotted in a squall by sailors lost at sea. 

“Ar train! Ar train!” Said Boo Boo. 

“Yes! We’re almost home!” 

The train came to a stop, the doors flung open. Never mind that the R train was on the N side of the platform. That kind of shit happens all the time. I rammed the stroller through the threshold, and didn’t care whose ankles were nipped.

“Attention passengers, attention passengers.” Oh lord. I looked up. Other passengers did the same, extracting their faces from phones, books, or the space they were staring into.

Everyone knows that it’s always better for your conductor to be voiceless, to have nothing to say beyond informing you which direction your train is going and what stop you’re at. For as much as you pay to ride the subway and for as long as you wait, your attention is not something you should also have to give.  

For someone who is responsible for the fate of so many, the conductors hardly speak with much clarity beyond the initial call to attention. We were at the gates with Saint Peter, waiting for a verdict from on high, but it sounded like God was running his microphone over a bed of broken glass.

“xxxxxxyyyzzzzshsshssshssXXXX Passengers. This train pppSSHHHHCCCCCCHHH making express xxxxxchcchhphh between 36th Street and TTTTschXXXjjk Avenue. To get to 45th Street and KKKssHHHTTTCH Street, please take this Brooklyn bound R train to 59th Street and wait for the next Manhattan bound local train.”

Cue the Greek chorus. FFFFFAAAAACKKK!! Fock. FUCK! Coño. Shit. Mierda. Fuck this fucking shit. 

Cars have horns. That is a driver’s primal scream. Subway riders have their curse words. Even if Boo Boo never hears another curse word from me (fat chance), he’ll hear them every (fucking) day here. Where other people say hmmmm, ummm, and uhhh, New Yorkers insert fuck, fuckin’ and shit. 

A stroll around the block sounds like this:

Where’d ya park da fuckin’ car?

 Alternate side parking? Man, fuck this shit!

Yo, that puppy is soooo fucking cute!

I fuggin’ hate da Patriots, but I hate da fuggin’ Cowboys even more.

Happy fockin’ Monday.

* * *

We eventually make it home, but the damage is done. Boo Boo’s heard the words, from me and everyone else. I’m on high alert when we go out later in the evening. 

“Fock! Fock!” Boo Boo said as we walked on Fourth Avenue. Fuck, I think, until I see that he’s pointing to the four flags that fly outside the church on the corner. 

“Fock! Fock!” He said when we entered our favorite smoothie and empanada place. Fuck, I think, only to see that he’s pointing to the figurine of a frog that’s sitting near the counter as I order. 

“Fock!” He said when we were at the park. He was walking along curb between the field and sidewalk at the park and I was holding his hand.

 “Fock!” He said again when he lost his balance and grabbed the fence of the dog run along next to the soccer fields.

There are no frogs in sight and his back is to the flagpole. Fuck, I think. 

“Don’t say that word, pumpkin.”

“Fock! Fock! Fock!” 

“Shhhhhh! Don’t say that word!”

If I make a big deal out of this Boo Boo will only continue to say the word. That’s how toddlers work. I make promises to never curse again in Boo Boo’s presence, and grab his hand to walk him to the soccer fields so he can watch the big kids kick the ball around and maybe he’ll forget about the new word he keeps saying. We pass three teenagers sitting on a bench. I’m grateful there are no matronly figures to bear witness to my failure as a mother. 

We are a few steps away from the soccer field when a couple teenage boys leave, passing the group on the bench. 

“You fuckin’ lookin’ at me?” The question comes from a girl who’s on the bench, directed towards one of the passing boys.

I do not know what transpires between this sentence and the next fuckin’ fuck I hear, but soon two boys are standing twenty feet from each other, arms open in a posture of welcoming chaos, duffel bags of soccer gear laying on the ground, forlorn as roadkill. I do not see their faces, but their strategy of avoiding a fight while pretending that they’re not afraid of one plays out like this:

 “Fuckin’ come at me, I’m right here!”

“I’m fuckin ready! You fuckin’ come at me!”

“What are you fucking afraid of? You too pussy? Come at me!”

“I”m right here! I’m fuckin’ ready! Let’s fuckin’ go!”

The teens stay planted as trees, their arms still raised like limbs. 

“Let’s go,” I tell Boo Boo, and take his hand. I know he was excited about watching the big kids playing ball, but there is no protest. He knows enough about humans to assess that this is not a friendly situation. We are the only ones that go anywhere.

* * *

I know I shouldn’t cuss in front of Boo Boo. It’s not just about the words themselves and that it’s unbecoming for someone so innocent to say them. Me cussing vehemently at the MTA is tantamount to me throwing a temper tantrum. I can’t expect him to stop throwing temper tantrums if I can’t do the same. I know that every time we leave the apartment the way will be studded with f-bombs and caked with shit no matter where we go. I don’t need need to add to it.  

The end.