(With a nod to Meet the Fockers for giving me a way to write this word into the title of a family friendly blog.)
Why the profanity?
It could be because Anchorage broke its record for snowfall on April 5th with over five inches recorded and double that if you live on the Hillside or higher.
(Taken Sunday morning at the dog park.)
Or because after resting my back for a couple days, I opted to play in my hockey tournament and my team lost two of our four games, knocking us out of a championship bid; and I can’t really blame my back for the fact that I sat on the bench for most of the goals we scored and lay on my stomach on the ice for most of the goals the other teams scored.
On Thursday, as I lifted Elias into his car seat, just as I feared, I felt another shooting pain in my back and let out a quiet: “Oh, f_cker.”
Classic bad parent move.
Elias, of course, giggled and repeated the word-- though it did sound more like: focker, focker, focker.
I chose to ignore him in hopes that by not bringing attention to the word it would lose power and he’d soon forget the expression and return to: Uh Oh Spaghettio, Holy Moly, or Ruh-Ro.
(Think of Scooby Doo saying uh-oh—now, Elias has never watched Scooby Doo but Jen, one of his swim therapists, said ruh-ro once during swimming and its become one of his regular terms of expression, such as: “We have a ruh-ro here,” when his walker gets caught on a root or on the back of someone’s chair as he tries to run laps in a restaurant.)
Focker, focker, focker.
I closed Elias’s door, jumped in the driver’s seat and headed to therapy. I didn’t hear the word again for the rest of the day.
On Friday morning, still trying to stretch out the pulled muscle in my back, I remembered Nick’s heating pad, and on my way up the three stairs to the bedroom I somehow managed to miss the first step, stumble, and slam my pinky knuckle against the door frame as I tried to catch myself.
“Ow… ow…ow,” I muttered as I rolled around on the small landing between our two bedrooms.
And then I hear it from my sweet little baby boy:
Not a curse word left my lips, this time, but Elias, in perfect context, reminded me of what I said last time.
On Saturday, Nick carried Elias, his backpack, and his walker, out of the rink, through the snow, to the truck and he grumbled when the key stuck in the lock refusing to turn.
The same expletive, in perfect context, from Elias’s small mouth.
And I must admit, though I’m ashamed for teaching him his first curse word and just waiting for him to let it loose at preschool, I cant shake a feeling of pride in how quickly he learned, not how, but when to use the word. I mean, it takes a heightened understanding of situations to know to bust the word out at a time when your mom or dad might be saying it anyways if they weren’t trying to protect your innocent ears.
Now we just have to teach him not to say it.
-Excerpted from Following Elias, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2009 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.