The Profundity of Profanity

Last month, after a particular challenging hour/day/week/month/year, I blew up at my kids with four million trillion F bombs. I was blinded with frustration, rage, frustrated rage and ragey frustrated frustration rage are you fucking serious with this fucking shit fuck shit fuck fuck fucking fuck what the fuck fucking fucking fuckity fuckfuck...

I would like to say that I am exaggerating, but for me, and for as long as I can remember, saying the word "fuck" when angry has been my exhale... I have gotten better at cursing less as I've gotten older. I do not cuss at my children or in front of them unless, well... unless I am unable to NOT. And then I explode. Which, is not ideal. 
That is not an excuse for my outburst, of course. I know that it was wrong of me to say what I said because I felt terrible afterwards. Their faces reflected my own frustration. And fear. They were stunned, mouths agape, nudging each other with their elbows.

So I apologized. I hugged them one by one. And then as a group. I explained to them how I was feeling -- why I lost it...

"I... sometimes I just feel very.... and I can't.... and...."

We ate our dinner in silence. I fucked up. But also... I felt... better? I felt... relieved to have finally gone there. To have quieted the noise in my head AND my house.

After dinner, we went on business as usual. I read stories. Sang songs. Said I love yous. Laid down with everyone individually until they fell asleep. Except for Archer who was staring at the ceiling as I climbed into bed with him.

He wanted to talk about what happened so that is what we did. 

"I understand. When I'm really mad, I say bad words, too. Not out loud, but quietly," he said. I whisper them..." 

We then went on to talk about the power of words. And when it isn't appropriate to use them. We talked about breaking points -- how we all have them and it's okay. It's okay to bust wide open sometimes. We all do it.. We talked about how sometimes it feels good to say the things we're not supposed to say. To break through the fence and go AHHKAHHHJHSJJAKDS! 
IMG_2300 via DORIS

Several weeks after my Big Blowout of 2015, I found myself alone with Archer after school, both of us working side by side at the kitchen table.

He had had a particularly frustrating day, made worse by two separate incidents that occurred back to back as he finished his homework. I thought back to the conversation we had had weeks ago, about bad words and wanting to say them sometimes. And I decided that the time was right to do something drastic and important -- to blow off some steam before we blew up at each other. 

"I'm going to count to 3 and then we are going to scream the worst of all the four-letter words at the top our lungs until we feel better."

"And you're not going to be mad at me?"

"Not if you're not going to be mad at me."

And that's how, on a Thursday afternoon, my 10-year-old son and I found ourselves screaming, "Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!" at the top of our lungs before sitting back down at the kitchen table to finish our work. 

You can read my whole post, here.