Droppin' the F-Bomb

It was bound to happen.

This week, my kids asked us what the f-word was.

At the tender ages of 7 and 9, they finally got introduced to the mighty and terrible mother-of-all-cusswords. Frankly, I am amazed that we managed to insulate it from them thus far in their lives. After all, that word permeates so much of our culture now.

“Where did you hear this word?” their mother and I calmly asked.

There were lots of answers that I expected to hear:

“From one of the big boys at the skateboard park.”
“From the TV.” You try and watch out for this one, but with cable, you never know, right?
“From some ‘Hell’s Angels’ biker who broke down on our street.”
“From Mom - she says it all the time.” Just kidding Michelle.

But, alas, it was none of the above. Where did my precious, innocent children hear the Mt. Everest of swearwords? It was from a soccer mom, living in our corner of suburbia, who was yelling at her own kid from her driveway. Apparently he had locked her out of the house, and she, on one side of the door and strongly desiring to be on the other side of the door where her child was, shouted “Open the f-ing door!!”

Nice, huh?

Makes me wonder where her kid first heard the f-bomb.