[Note: I'm only certain this blog has two readers: my mom and a high school sophomore, so I'll keep this as PG as possible.] It's no secret that I love to swear. Some argue that people swear because they can't think of any other, and possibly better, word to use, so they resort to blue-language. Screw them. I say that my background in English and my job as a rancher give me both the license and venue in which to curse. But, of course, there is a drawback and I knew my day would come: Dylan swearing.
I'm surprised Dylan swearing didn't come sooner, but, in my defense, I tried, sort of, not to swear in front of her. Like a Mormon, or Cate Blanchett in Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, who used "F" instead of, well, you know what it's instead of, I tried creative ways to avoid swear words. It didn't work so well. I can't get my head around using "fudge," or "frick," or even "frig," but I have adopted plain old "F" (thanks, Cate), or "Mother Trucker" when things really get out of hand.
I really would rather she learned where and when it's appropriate to swear. School = No, Feeding Cows = Yes. I have to give her credit, she's used "dammit" in the correct situation every time she's used it. But this is also a three-year old with poor impulse control who still uses fifty squares of toilet paper to wipe with after she pees and only two squares after she poops, so learning proper swear-venues isn't something that's going to come naturally.
I know, in a couple of years I'll be having the same talks with Grady, and I'm hoping his big sister will be there by my side, helping me with that lecture. Until then, if you see me out and about and are confused about my tame language, just remember, today is brought to you by the letter "F" and my mother is a trucker.