By Jennifer Batchelor
@jennbatchelor

My seventh grade English teacher was the most prim and proper woman I’ve ever encountered. She wore her hair in a straight up 60s bouffant, I never saw her in slacks, and her handwriting was impeccable. Seriously—typeplate-worthy quality. 

It goes without saying, then, that Mrs. Moore never uttered anything approaching profanity. She spoke intentionally in a soft Southern drawl; you could practically see her weighing every word before it came out of her mouth. Occasional exclamations of “oh, foot!” and “Heavens to Betsy!” were the closest she ever got to colorful language. 

I don’t really have a point in telling you about Mrs. Moore except to use her as an illustration—a foil, if you will. Because I am her opposite in every single way, right down to my command of the full breadth of the English language.

To be direct: I swear like a sailor. 

The first time I dropped an expletive was in the middle of a Chili’s at lunch after church with my entire family—grandparents included, naturally. In my defense, I didn’t know bastard even was a swear (I thought having four letters was a key requirement), but learned quick enough when my mom turned bright red and shushed me. That was the first and last time I—or anyone, really?—quoted Charlie Sheen from Hot Shots (Part Deux).

It feels important to state here that my parents have nothing to do with my foul language comfort levels. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard them swear, and most of those are taken up by my dad sneaking an off-color joke in at the dinner table. I assure you that somewhere my mother is reading these words right now, shaking her head in disappointment and feeling very strongly that she raised me better than this. You did, Mama. Sorry it didn’t take. 

That’s not to say some lessons didn’t take. In addition to learning the four letters thing was more of a guideline than a rule, I quickly grasped that there’s a time and a place for talking a blue streak. Just because I don’t consider any words off limits doesn’t mean they’re suitable for all occasions. For the most part, my swearing is confined to interactions with friends. Well, and driving. And any time I drop something, hurt myself, or get otherwise annoyed or frustrated. Oh, and sometimes I use it for comedic effect.

There are, well, there are a lot of swears around here I guess is what I’m saying.

My husband’s language is equally salty, so when our first child started talking, we had a conversation—would we swear in front of our kids or not? Jon was indifferent but I lobbied for censorship. Not because I have a problem with swearing (obviously), but I argued that context and control matter. Until they could understand when and where the words were and weren’t appropriate, it was best to omit them from our vernacular.

That decision lasted until we had a second child. To be clear, we’re still careful about the words that come out of our mouths in front of them. We’re just … less concerned about swears from other sources. There’s no Kidz Bop in our house and we don’t limit our family movie watching to G rated fare. 

My first grader’s current favorite song is Lizzo’s Good As Hell, y’all.

Before you absolutely perish at the horror, know that language is a constant vein of conversation. We pivoted from shielding our kids from profanity to helping them understand it. We don’t call them bad words, because I don’t like ascribing value to something as innocuous as a collection of letters. They’re grown up words. 

Context and meaning matter, we explain, and some people find certain words offensive. There is thought and intentionality that needs to go into the words we choose, and a time and a place as well. That’s a lot of nuance for a six- and ten-year-old, though, which is why I’ve warned them that the second they use those words to wound someone else, that’s the end of the Hamilton soundtrack.

I wanted them to understand that words have weight before they started throwing them around. 

I didn’t know I was focusing on the wrong ones.

***

I honestly don’t remember what started it. Could be that I told her to get in the shower or clean her room or do her homework. Whatever it was I asked her to do, my daughter didn’t want to do it, and said as much.

So, I told her again. And again. And finally I yelled, “you might think you’re stubborn, but you’re just the copy and I’m the original, and I promise you I will win. So go, now!”

She hurtled down the hall and slammed her door, reappearing a few minutes later—cheeks flushed and eyes flashing—to slam a notepad down on the kitchen counter next to where I was making dinner then stormed off again.

I glanced down at the notepad, and everything froze.

I hat you Mom
Hat,
Ellie

Jon walked in the door at that exact moment. He flashed me a grin as he set down his backpack, but his smile faded as he studied my face.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

I cleared my throat. Gestured to the notepad. He moved to the counter, his brow creasing as he read. He looked up, his gaze full of compassion.

I couldn’t take it—I felt too full of emotion already—and darted my eyes away, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Looks like we still need to work on that silent E rule with Els,” I joked, but my reach for humor went ignored.

“Oh, Love,” Jon said. “I’m sorry.” He folded me against his chest, and I stayed there, squeezing my eyes shut against the tears. I took a couple of deep breaths and then pushed back, offering a shaky smile.

“It’s fine,” I said. “Although if she hates me at 6, I’m a little nervous about what 16 is going to look like.”

“It’s not fine though,” he countered gently. “And she doesn’t hate you. She doesn’t even know what hate means. Let me go talk to her.”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. Jon has no problem with meting out consequences or laying down the law, but typically heartfelt conversations about choices and actions are my purview. I started to ask if he was sure, but he’d already moved down the hallway toward Ellie’s room. He reappeared a few minutes later, going to the refrigerator to grab the ingredients for Moscow Mules.

“How’d it go?” I asked. “Do I need to go talk to her?”

“Fine,” he replied, splitting a can of ginger beer between the two copper mugs. “But I’d give her a minute.”

I pressed for details, because fine wasn’t cutting it. 

“What did you say to her?” I wanted to know, and Jon shrugged. 

“I told her hate was a grown up word. Not like a swear, but the kind that means more than she thinks it does and that she hurt your feelings. I suggested she apologize.” 

Before I could ask any more questions, Ellie reappeared in the kitchen with the notepad clutched in her hand. She set it on the table, glanced over at me, and then walked back to her room. I crossed over to read what she wrote.

I am vere sorre.
You just hurt my feelegs.

And I smiled even as my eyes filled with tears, because she repaired the grown up word she hurled in anger with two more: an apology and an explanation.

I needed to do the same. I went and knocked on her bedroom door, opening it to find her playing on the floor with her toys. I asked her if she was ready to talk about what happened, or if she needed more time. She looked surprised, then relieved, at being given the option. At being allowed to choose, instead of being told which one was more convenient for me and expected to go along with it.

“More time,” she finally said. “Can we talk when you put me to bed?” I nodded and closed her door.

***

That night, after dinner and baths and books, we lie side by side in her bed. I turn my head to face her, and thank her for her apology note. She tells me “you’re welcome.” I say how proud I am that she used her grown up words and she looks at me in surprise.

“I thought grown up words were the ones we aren’t supposed to use,” she says. I smile. 

“Sometimes grown up words aren’t always appropriate, that’s true,” I reply. “But that’s not what makes them grown up words. It’s what they mean and, sometimes, how hard they are to say.”

I tell her that I’m sorry is a grown up word. It’s ownership and offering. It has the power to heal what’s broken, when you say it like you mean it, but it also costs us something to say—our pride, our sense of rightness.

Then, I tell her that I’m sorry—for raising my voice, for forgetting to ask rather than tell, for making obedience the most important thing instead of the relationship.

“It’s okay, Mom,” Ellie says, snuggling into the curve of my shoulder. “I forgive you.”

Those are grown up words, too.

“Thanks, Els,” I whisper. “Do you want your song now?” She nods, but before I can begin she tilts her head up at me.

“Oh, Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Good job using your grown up words,” she says, and I smile.

“Thanks. I’m trying.” 

She nods. “Me, too.” Then she tucks back into me as I begin to sing.