Baby's First F-bomb

Until recently I was under the mistaken assumption that the "tweens" started around 11 or 12. My illusion was quickly corrected when, at nine years of age, Brynn needed a bra. Her attitude has been steadily declining ever since.

Usually, her hormonal rages are directed at me, for one imagined offense or another. I am forever indicted for things like: enforcing her bed time, telling her to do her chores, or giving her a long explanation when I'm helping with her homework, rather than just providing the answer. Seriously, she's even talked to her therapist about how annoying I am when I'm being helpful.

Occasionally, though not often, Brynn cannot find a way to blame me for something, try as she might. Just after she returned from her week at camp she realized that she'd forgotten to bring home her brand-new goggles. You might think I'd be the one upset about this (or any of the other $20 worth of stuff she'd left behind), but no, Brynn was beside herself. After tearing through all of her bags, checking the car and even the laundry, and interrogating me at some length, she finally came to the conclusion that the goggles were at camp and no one was to blame but her. At this point she crumpled into a heap on the stairs and sobbed and heaved for at least 10 minutes. Real tears. Nothing would calm her down, not even the assurance that we'd buy a new pair when we made it out to the store again. My point: tween hormones are miserable, uncontrollable and definitely infiltrating the body at 10, if not 9.

I suppose that should make me more forgiving about yesterday's incident, when my baby dropped her first f-bomb.

               I guess I still prefer "f*ck" to her using "ménage à trois" in an appropriate context.


We'd stopped in the Christmas Tree Shoppes for a quick look at back-to-school supplies. Brynn was triumphantly carrying around a clipboard, a plastic filing folder, and a zippered case (all covered with pink zebra print and peace signs) when she decided she was ready to leave the store. As has happened many times before, Brynn's strategy for getting her way when I want to continue shopping is to badger me senseless, a plan she promptly put into action. When I'd had enough I made her put down her items and we left the store. "Not happy" doesn't even begin to describe Brynn's feelings about this. After arguing a bit in the car, she did it, she dropped her very first f-bomb.

"WELL YOU'RE THE ONE WHO WANTED TO LEAVE THE F*CKING STORE!!!"

My knee jerk reaction was to shout her full name back at her, but then I was lost. What does one say when one's child just busted out THE curse word for the first time? Silence. Even she knew that she'd just landed in a metric ton of trouble. I suggested she call her dad and tell him. Not a chance, she wouldn't even take the phone. Finally, in a state of parental bewilderment, I went with the old standby: WWMMD (what would my mother do?).

The answer, for those of you wondering, was to wash Brynn's mouth out with soap. Dove has never caused so much shame, on both my and Brynn's parts. It was only a couple of seconds of soap on tongue, but it was awful, just like when my mom had washed my mouth out. On the other hand, she only had to do that once. I don't think I cursed in front of my mother again until well after I'd gotten my bachelor's degree. It's doubtful that Brynn's mouth cleansing will last as long. And so, as I look into the future and see years of tween and then teen hormones raging, I can't help but think, "This is going to f-ing suck."  ;)