The F-Word

We don't 'cuss in our house.

At least, we try not to. I consciously gave up the vice when I met my wife (she wasn't actually my wife at that point), rather the same way that my father gave up smoking when my mother was pregnant with my oldest brother. He figured that if he smoked, so would his children. Of course, in 1961, he probably didn't anticipate that that same child in the womb would one day become a high-ranking priest-monk, known as an archimandrite, in the Russian Orthodox Church. As a devout Roman Catholic, at the time - long before our family's conversion - this flash into the future would probably have surprised him. But it all comes together; a boy is somewhat more likely to become a distinguished cleric if he doesn't start out his life in a family of smokers. (And the statistics bore themselves out; none of the six of us turned out to be smokers...)

But back to the vice of expletives per se. I'm not presuming that my children won't use naughty language, but I'd rather not start them out exposed to that particular vocabulary. So these unsavory terms come out of me - aside from the occasional punchline to a joke, let's say - in an involuntary form, usually when I'm driving in Greater Boston, which is, in any case, a bit like Fallujah without the protection of a tank. And Amy is similarly self-gagged, although, in daily life, I seem to have a knack for eliciting language from her that she wouldn't normally employ. But we try not to say bad stuff; we don't want our children to talk like that, or think like that.

So I was quite astonished tonight when Daniel mentioned "the F-word." I don't mean that he used an unrepeatable word; but he literally described himself as having used "the F-word" [his language]. And I was even more surprised when I saw the discussion itself lead to an act of violence. Not to mention the details themselves:

I was putting all three children to bed in the boys' room, since Amy was working in her office on something with an imminent deadline. And Daniel whispered to me, in his own way, that he felt nauseous. He was clearly going to some lengths to prevent his brother and sister from finding out about his unfortunate condition; I just didn't anticipate how genteel he would turn out to be in sheltering them from it. Of course, I was very concerned for Daniel's well-being, but luckily, there were no eruptions - at least of that sort.

But a few minutes later, he was trying to tell me that usually when someone feels nauseous, it's Ian. But he couched the reference to his previous disclosure in a supremely cautious, euphemestic way - something like, "I used the F-word about myself, but usually when someone uses the F-word, it's Ian."

I was extremely interested in what Daniel had to say about this F-word. And I had no idea what he head in mind.

So he had to spell it out for me. He had said that he was going to fro-up, but usually, if anyone is likely to fro-up, it's Ian. The F-word, if one can pardon the indelicacy, is "fro up," a six-year-old's way of describing the violent, abrupt loss of one's supper - what an eight-year-old (or older) might call "throwing up." This was definitely the most interesting clarification of the evening.

Of course, Ian quickly mentioned that throw-up begins with a "T" - not with an "F".

But amidst all this discussion of nausea, Madeleine went over to Daniel and thwacked him quite soundly in the face - pretty much centered around his nose. This was very upsetting for all of us, but especially the sheer bafflement that Madeleine would just randomly strike her brother, with great force and rancor.

But Madeleine clarified the picture: she couldn't stand it when people talked about froing up. The very category was so upsetting to her that she felt compelled to hit her brother.

This reminded me of a story told to me by an outlandish female friend from New Zealand, many years ago. She said that her fiance had once gotten very, very, very sick from drinking too much Tequila, and as a result, he couldn't stand even to hear Tequila mentioned in his presence. And eventually they found themselves in a bar where some guy was going on and on about Tequila. This very balanced individual politely asked the guy to stop discussing the matter, but when the bar-neighbor persisted, he said something like, "I warned you," and punched him in the head. My friend seemed pleased with this mighty act of self-preservation.

And likewise, when Madeleine heard mention of more-or-less the same thing - something associated with nausea - she couldn't help herself but throw a sound, spontaneous slap. I was sorry she lacked the self-restraint, not to mention the trauma she caused young Daniel, who is already quite sensitive. But I should have known: once people start using "the F-word," you don't know what bedlam might break out.

(February 5, 2012)