Your child swearing is funny and cute when it starts. 

When your 4-year-old repeats an errant “What the hell?” or “Holy crap!” in the perfect context, it is hard not to laugh. Even funnier — a full-blown “f-bomb” in front of other kids at the playground or daycare.

I’m joking.

But, come on, it’s adorable. 

Until it isn’t. 

I am beginning to pass the discretionary line of cute-to-cringy when it comes to curse words being used by my elementary schoolers right now. And I’m unsure how to handle it. 

My two youngest children, ages 7 and 10, are not really swearing. They are just “soft swearing.” Using words like “crap,” “pissed,” “BS,” “shh,” and “freaking.” Their usage of these marginal curse words started with a few fleeting, innocent uses to emphasize a feeling. Now, they are thrown around casually and far too frequently for my tastes. During a recent week at church summer camp, my daughter was reprimanded for yelling “Oh, my God” to exude excitement.    

Who is to blame for the swearing tendencies in my youngest kids? I want to mostly blame my teens for gradually getting loose with their cursing around their younger siblings, but, honestly, I am also to blame. I am far too frequently using an “f-bomb” or “BS” to illustrate emphatic points. 

My rules for my child swearing

Should I be concerned with my kids using foul language?

Can/should rules be black and white about children cursing and using bad words?

Should similar rules apply to their parents?

Denying your child is swearing, or ever will, is crazy. So, from that reality, I believe there to be three versions of kid-cursing:

1. Swears I choose to allow (or not allow) in my house.
2. Words not permissible to use in the presence of other adults.
3. Foul language used socially with friends, teammates and/or classmates. 

Each, I gather, requires different rules from me. And, if I can be clear about those differences with my kids, my innate hypocrisy is covered. They will, no doubt, try to call me out when they slip up in using a word they have been able to use at soccer games, but not around their grandparents.

The first two versions – about a child swearing in the house and in front of other adults – are easy to manage. To me, kids routinely cursing to make a point before the college years is a no-no. While not judging other houses for letting kids throw down an “MF’er” during a heated conversation, I would prefer my kids to get into the practice of emphasizing points without swearing. The words my kids use reflect the way I speak – which, too often for me, involves colorful language I should have left out. I especially need to watch my mouth as I interact with my friends in front of my kids more. Our adult-to-adult conversations can get gnarly. All that said, to me, my children should not be swearing to or in the presence of adults, in my house or outside.

Teaching kids about cursing that happens around them socially, with their friends or at school, is much more difficult.

Over the past year, I’ve heard children at my kids’ elementary school use every bad word in the book – from those I’d consider marginal to the soap-in-your-mouth ones. My kids have watched in horror when I’ve called these potty-mouthed kids out: “Hey, watch your mouth around the school!” I find younger kids to quickly apologize for their lapse in linguistic judgment. Teens, meanwhile, flash a condescending-but-mildly-embarrassed type of look in my direction before quickly scurrying off. 

Cursing in the heat of competition

When the competitive juices are flowing on the fields of play, holding kids accountable for using foul language is much tougher. If you have a teenager, they are either talking or taking “trash” consistently – on the field, court, track, backstage, everywhere. 

I attempt to hold the line in teaching my kids to take the high road using clean language. However, certain times require some escalated, even bad, words.  Disciplining a kid for swearing during competition is far more subjective. 

If a “sh*t” comes out as a natural reaction after my son makes a bone-headed turnover, so be it. There just cannot be a rule here. Kids must learn through experience or, in this case, by making mistakes in the presence of adults whose definition of appropriate times to swear is different than mine. 

And that’s what makes this issue drip with variability. Every parent not only handles their child cursing differently, but the treatment of each instance also varies wildly by context, not just the time and place but the child’s age and level of vulgarity. For example, some parents are okay with the “s” word, but the “f” word is worthy of punishment.

This stuff is hard. 

We’re all in this together, I guess. I find comfort in the shared hypocrisy of my scolding our 15-year-old for swearing from the passenger seat when a car rolls through a stop sign in front of us while I laugh at our toddler who repeats the same curse from his car seat a few moments later.     

The are no swearing rules, after all. 

So, f*ck it. I’ll do the best that I can.  

Child swearing photo: © nicoletaionescu / Adobe Stock.

Yesterday I stopped by CVS and went through their seasonal clearance items, and came home with something I thought my 2-year-old daughter would be bananas over. It’s a yellow plastic cylinder, like the base of a flashlight, with a clear egg-shaped top made to look like a bee. When you press a button, the insides of the egg spin causing lights to flash and the whole thing to buzz and quiver. The toy cost 62 cents or approximately what it cost to make.

Sienna squealed with glee and I smiled because I’d made my daughter happy.

“Ear!” she shouted, eyes gleaming with fascination at this new sensation tickling her skin. She pressed the buzzing bee to her earlobe. “Nose! Arm! Elbow! Head!”

“Wait until your bedroom’s dark,” I said excitedly. “It’ll light up blue and green and yellow and red! Do you like how it vibrates?”

And then my innocently meant words hit me in an entirely different context.

I looked at the shape of the thing. The bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz sound echoed in my ears.

:: facepalm ::

To all you new or soon-to-be parents out there, letting these dirty things slip out of your mouth isn’t an abnormal thing. You’re all going to say something really simple only to do a double take as it sinks in that you’ve said a simple phrase you’ve happened to associate with Skinemaxian entertainment for the past decade or two.

At first, you’ll blush.

Then you’ll giggle.

Soon you and your partner will race to say, “That’s what she/he said!”

And finally, as your child gets older, and you and your partner try not to laugh at what one of you just said, you’re just going to do the old facepalm.

So I present to you the seven funniest phrases (plus one bonus Q&A that had me and my wife on the floor) I’ve said to my daughter that, when taken out of context, means something entirely different in the bedroom:

Dirty Things I’ve Said to My Child

No. 1: “Do you like how it vibrates?”

See above.

No. 2: “Please swallow!” and “Don’t spit! Swallow!”

The first time I said this (while trying to get my daughter to eat dinner) I literally cringed until I caught my wife’s eye and saw her trying so hard not to laugh. Then I just laughed along and went with it.

No. 3: “The girl was so wet, she was dripping.”

Ah, those fluctuating pre-air conditioner spring days when you put your kid down for a nap and discover her all sweaty and disgusting because her room was about 80 degrees.

No. 4: “You need to suck harder.”

Teaching my daughter how to use a straw. My wife beat me to “That’s what he said!”

No. 5: “She’s so cute, I just want to eat her.”

Can’t remember when or why I said it, but does it matter? When those words come out of your mouth, translate into adult connotations, and you realize you’re talking about your daughter? :: shiver::

No. 6: “Did you just put that whole thing in your mouth?!”

After Sienna gobbled an entire string cheese without chewing forcing her cheeks to look like she’d been gathering nuts for the winter.

No. 7: “Stop playing with your balls!”

Doesn’t apply to a girl, but it still generated a sideways look between me and my wife. Parents of boys are sure to love saying that one for the first time!

BONUS: One thing new and soon-to-be parents might not know is that kids sometimes take time to learn how to use their tongues correctly (:: facepalm::) meaning that the letter “L” often gives them trouble. Hence, I bring you the following interaction that had our daughter standing with such a gloriously proud and pure look on her face:

Me: “Sienna, what do you want for dinner?”

Sienna, pointing at the wall clock: “C*ck”

What can we parents do but cackle?

A version of Dirty Things first appears on Raising Sienna. Photo: ©Krakenimages.com / Adobe Stock.

Over the weekend, my son unleashed his first swear word.

The chosen curse was “bitch!” And as far as my wife and I could tell, he didn’t direct it at anyone. He just kind of said it. And it was pretty evident that he had no idea what it meant.

But that didn’t stop the household from doing some soul-searching.

I curse a lot, but that’s not the sum of my character. I usually curse for emphasis, or for laughs. But regardless of my rationalizations, those words – once so forbidden, both in my home and, more generally, in the world at large – are a part of my vocabulary. And my wife’s too. You’re probably no stranger to the occasional curse word yourself; who is, these days? (Oh, you are? Congratulations, you’re going to heaven!) Not everyone casually swears, but I’m fairly confident more people do today than when my parents were my age. We can probably blame TV.

I love pop culture and I’m no prude; I plan to introduce my son to a lot of my favorite examples of it. Just not yet. He’s only 3! Which is actually kind of good, because even if he accidentally sees a second of one of Daddy’s adult TV shows, odds are he’s not going to start shooting people or having sex with them like everyone on Game of Thrones does. Even catching just the merest glimpses of sex and violence can affect a kid (and can be internalized in profound ways), but until you’re at least a little bit older than my son, that kind of behavior is less easily copied. Repeating bad language, though, is a cinch, especially with toddlers, who are parrots from the get-go.

Kids copy what they see, their behavior reflects their parents, and how it’s important not to encourage the wrong things. Cursing is a perfect example of all three of those things. They’re gonna hear their share of swear words via entertainment, and their friends, and other adults, but it’s when they hear them from their parents that it makes the most impact. And that’s who they’re gonna copy, more often than not. So my wife and I need to take responsibility for my son sounding like a rap lyric.

I’m not always proud of the language I use, but I don’t think swearing is inherently wrong, provided that it’s not constant, is used in the right (or at least not in the wrong) context, and isn’t deployed with malice. But I’m an adult. My son is not. It will take him some time to understand the impact of swear words, and how and when to use them “properly.” Until then, those words are verboten. Which means they should probably be off-limits for me and my wife too. Which is SO LAME. But it’s the only way we’ll have a leg to stand on when we come down on him for cursing.

Sure, he’s eventually going to figure out that we’re huge hypocrites about tons of things, like all parents, but he doesn’t have to know just yet.

So we’re trying. It may not be easy, but what about parenting is? My wife and I are also trying to yell less, trying to be more patient, to eat better, to watch less TV, and to do all sorts of other pointless things. Parenting is an ongoing battle that you often lose. The important part is that you care enough to give things like not swearing a shit.

I mean: a shot.

A version of this first appeared on Dad and Buried.

“Argh, Aaargh, Mmmh.”

“Daddy, what is that?” I remember the sweet voice of my almost 4-year-old son in the back seat of the car last week. It was the first time he verbally responded to my vocal tics.

“Oh … nothing”, I said.

Nothing. Is Tourette syndrome nothing? Not to me it isn’t. The years of torment from schoolmates and perfect strangers who misunderstood my tics weren’t “nothing.” The years of having to make an announcement whenever my vocal tics appeared in public weren’t “nothing.”

“Please don’t mind that everyone. I have Tourette’s.”

I should be used to it by now. I was diagnosed at the age of 11 and I’m now, what … 42? The memories never fade or get easier to cope with. I’d better tell him.

“I will have to tell him eventually,” I whispered to my wife, who was driving seat. “Do I tell him now?”

“Be rational,” she said. “You’re going to explain Tourette’s to a 4-year-old little boy?”

She was right. At least it gives me some time to figure out how to explain it to him, what to say. How to break the news to my son that Tourette’s is hereditary and that if he doesn’t have it, his kids probably will? He’ll resent me.

“Fuck!” I shouted. Yet I couldn’t blame it on my Tourette syndrome this time. My particular case doesn’t give me the compulsion to shout obscenities. That was me being angry.

“Language,” she chided. “He’s still hears you.”

Explaining Tourette syndrome to a child

“When do I tell him?” I asked.

“He’ll be old enough to understand on a basic level in a couple of years,” she replied. “But don’t worry, he’ll be fine with it.”

“Do you think he’ll be embarrassed to have his friends meet me when he’s older?”

“You’re overthinking it, sweetheart, he’ll love you. Nothing will change.”

“How will I explain it to him though? I know I can’t say, “Daddy has a genetic neurological condition called Tourette’s syndrome that causes him to make involuntary muscle twitches and vocalizations called tics.”

“You’ve done it before.”

“When did I tell him?”

“Not our son, you goofball. Carly, my god-daughter. How did you explain it to her?”

That’s right. Four years ago my wife’s god-daughter noticed my tics at brunch in New York City. It was the first time I have ever had to explain Tourette’s to any child. She was 6 years old at the time and asked why I made “those noises.”

I remember asking her, “Can you stop yourself from sneezing?”

“No,” she responded.

“Well, sometimes I make sounds or twitches and I can’t stop it. Just like a sneeze.”

“Oh,” She said. “Does it hurt?”

“No. Not really,” I reassured her. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Are we all together now?” my wife asked her.

“Yes.”

“Are we all having a good time?”

“Yes.”

“Does Jason seem different now that you know this about him?”

“No.”

“Well. You’re right. I’m not different,” I remembered saying proudly.

“I’m still the same. You’re still my friend and I am yours.”

I remember feeling relieved. I’ll tell my son the same way I told her and he will still love me. The fact that I have Tourette syndrome won’t change our relationship a bit. And the possibility he might have it? Well, that won’t change a thing either. He loves me and he knows I love him. As it should be.

Resources for parents and children with Tourette Syndrome available via the Tourette Association of America.

While I’m not ready for my 2 1/2-year-old to go all Richard Pryor or George Carlin on me (though, it’d be pretty cool if Sienna started dissecting language the way the great Carlin did), I don’t want her to become like me: a person so scared of being judged that he’s unable to say the four-letter words that comfortably fill the public lexicon.

When she’s a teen, I don’t want her to be afraid of speaking the language of her classmates (yes, we’ll have the comedic swear jar). Once she reaches adulthood, I hope to be ready for her to speak such words in my presence as part of the normal conversation because the reality is cursing is ordinary and sometimes acts as a release for pent-up stress.

I wish I had that release but I’m terrified of what people will think of me if I curse – fear of judgment, just another aspect of suffering depression. My dad never cursed in front of me when I was growing up and seemed terribly uneasy when my mom did. I think I took that discomfort and internalized it to the point where I can’t curse in front of anyone … not even my wife. I think I feel that if I utter one, my dad will know and think less of me. To be honest I imagine everyone will think less of me. And that’s insane. It’s ludicrous. Why would anyone care?

I tried to change when I went to college. I went in there thinking that I’d start cussing like Al Swearington on Deadwood (OK, Deadwood wasn’t on yet, but you get my meaning). I wanted to create a new identity. I wanted to be normal. So I tried. Freshman year I said something about my roommate to my best friend, something like my roommate’s “getting off” on being a jerk and my best friend’s eyes widened to the point where I thought they’d burst.

“You’ve never said anything like that before!” he shouted. I know he was proud, but I took it as criticism – and I didn’t even really use a swear word! And that was it for me in college. I couldn’t curse after that. Freshman year became a pathetic war with hallmates trying to get me to utter obscenities.

When alone, profanity swirls through my head and expletives spout from my mouth. If driving alone, I’m not immune to deriding a bad driver with a “motherf–ker” or even giving someone the middle finger. When I’m alone vulgarity comes easy, but my jaws clamp in front of others. “Friggin’” I’ll say. “Morons. Jerks. Idiots.” For the longest time, I wouldn’t even say “hell” or “damn.”

Eighteen years post-college and I’ve cried in front of my therapist about my inability to curse, tears streaming, face scrunched and reddened with embarrassment and anger.

“You’re safe here, she’ll say,” leaning toward me as twist myself into a pretzel. “Let go. Say f–k.”

I sputter like Fonzie trying to admit he’s wrong. “Fu…fu…fu…fu.” But that’s as far as I’ll get.

“I’ll leave the room,” she’ll say. “I won’t hear it. Just say it.”

And she’ll leave, the door clicking. I’ll sit there furious with myself, face blotchy, hands tightened into fists. The room dulled and quiet. Sometimes I’ll whisper it, sometimes not. It doesn’t matter. No one’s there to hear me so I’ve still failed. “F–k” and “s–t” and so many others remain missing from my daily speech.

I still feel so much internal pressure when it comes to swearing like the world would stop, a collective gasp catching in everyone’s throats, fingers pointing, judging, always judging, if I dare utter the f-word in front of another person. And, I don’t want that for Sienna. I never want that for her. I want my daughter to curse.

I look forward to having a swear jar and by the time Sienna’s old enough, I hope to be adding a few coins to it myself.

A version of this post recently appeared on his blog, Raising Sienna.