It comes out of nowhere. One minute I’m enjoying the peace and calm of a sneaky mid afternoon cuppa while you and your sister are paying homage to the porcine demi-goddess,the next I am scrambling off my kitchen stool and into the living room to find out if my ears have indeed deceived me.
You turn away from the brightly coloured images on the tv to face me, an enormous grin on your little face.
There it is-confirmation of something I’ve dreaded since becoming a parent. You continue to grin,delighting in your new word and my fingers fly to my temples, moving them in frenzied circles in a vain effort to turn back time.
“Fuckeeee Peppa! Fuckeeee Dorge! Fuckeeeee Mama Pig! Fuckeeeee Daddy Pig!”
Every new word you learn is suffixed with a friendly -eee. Bag becomes bag-eeee, sock becomes sock-eee and now it seems fuck has become fuck-eeee. It’s tempting to blame the pig for this latest in naughty behaviours. Peppa may be teaching 21st century preschoolers that it’s ok to be rude, bossy and annoying, while constantly calling her loving father an idiot, but one thing she and her cohorts don’t do is teach swearwords. Unless that is, you count that one time when they were organising a party for Madame Gazelle and a character seemed to drop the f-bomb. Blame cannot be assigned to your Papa either, for he of course, prefers his own native tongue to swear in, and what lovely and exotic curse words they are.
But they’re not as satisfying as the f-word. There’s just something about it that renders it the perfect of curse words-it’s pithy, it sounds angry, but more to the point it’s versatile. It can be a noun, a verb, an adjective. In short, it’s the perfect mono-syllabic way to register your displeasure at a recent event (s).
So I guess by now you can see that the blame for the occurrence of this potty mouth from a not even potty trained youngster such as yourself lies firmly at Mammy’s feet. I curse all the time. I’m Irish, and more than that I’m from Limerick. Cursing is kind of what we do and we’re very good at it. A little too good it would seem. Your sister is still working on untangling the jumbled letters in her brain to form spoken words we all understand. We have some way to go before she can ever be accused of using bad language. Though there was that one time she seemingly shouted “SHIT!!” at the top of her lungs in a crowded doctor’s surgery. We managed to pass that one-off as ship though and not an inkling of a bold word from an under 5-year-old mouth since.
I’ve been desperate to keep it that way.
Because even though it sounds hilarious when kids curse, when you hear your own doing it, you can’t help but feel that once again you’ve failed another of life’s parenting classes. Your knee-jerk reaction would be to blame the teacher which is all well and good, except guess what? It’s a self-taught course ya bloody eejit so you’re well and truly fuck-eeeeed.
So I’m just going to ignore this latest and (unwelcome!) milestone and go back to my cold tea. You, my darling second born, can go back to Peppa Pig and we will never speak of this again-deal? Deal! Now where’s my fuck-eeee magazine…