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Just a little colorful language

I curse.

A little bit?

Mostly during hockey games?

Well …

More than a little?

Primarily during hockey games?

OK.

A lot.

All the time.

I’m a terrible person with an even worse vocabulary.

Or I’m honest to a fault with poor impulse control. Because science.

Or I don’t care.

Let go of the pearls, y’all. They didn’t do anything to you – except make you look fabulous. Some people don’t like cursing, and there are some places where it’s inappropriate.

I get that, I do. (Mostly.)

This isn’t to say I don’t think people ought to be polite and courteous to other people, especially when we’re all in the same shared public space. (I’m looking at you, loud cellphone-talkers, especially when you’re recounting some interpersonal drama.)

I’m just saying that life is short, and sometimes some well-placed hyperbole, colloquialism or, yes, even cursing gets the point across. And that I prioritize differently than some people.

Among those priorities is shielding my kids from a lot of different things – I’m a helicopter parent who is terrified my kids are going to be snatched by some weirdo if I take my eyes off them for a single second – but salty language is not one of them.

Words can hurt, absolutely. But not when they are directed at that guy who crossed the yellow line, drove on the wrong side of the street, passing several other cars, then turned left just as I reached the intersection (after having waited my turn like a courteous human being) while also turning left.

He would be much more likely to be injured if I drove into his passenger side door, not expecting to encounter someone driving on the wrong side of the road. You can thank my virulent paranoia for your accident-free morning commute, sir.

Times like that? Cursing is stress-relief, thanksgiving and benediction all rolled into one. So, yes, I do curse in front of my children. Some people might think that makes me a bad mother, but my science-supported honesty compels me to tell you those people’s opinions don’t matter.

My honesty also compels me to inform you that my husband’s opinion does matter.

So when the Little Professor was playing Minecraft recently, and a creeper popped up to menace his 8-bit protagonist, he said conversationally “Where the (redacted) did you come from?”

In front of his father and me.

Without blinking.

Or evidently having any clue it was inappropriate.

The Long Suffering Husband was giving me enough side-eye to last me the rest of my natural life.

I knew I had to do something parental.

“Professor, you can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a curse word. And if you get in the habit of using them, then you might slip and use one at school and then your father will blame me. I don’t need that.”

“(Redacted) is a curse word?”

“Well, sometimes. Not when you’re talking about the metaphysical place of eternal torment. If you’re using it as anything but a noun, then it’s a curse word.”

“Oh. OK.”

Maybe the kid is just really honest.

(Wallace-Minger, a resident of Weirton, is community editor of The Weirton Daily Times.)

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