Prologue: Foul Mouthed Forest Children

“Holy Moly That Scared The Shit Out Of Me!”

…said my 6 year old son. Ah, from the mouth of foul mouthed babes.

As bed time drew nearer and my sober hands became a little edgier, a knot in my daughters ridiculously long hair was unyielding. The bewitching hour was nigh and I had managed to keep the plot loss to a minimum with every tool in my dysfunctional parenting belt. But then I hit a snag. Literally. Krakatoa erupted shriekingly so.

A bit of hairy history. My husband and I both come from thick crop growing stock (to clarify – upon our heads) and subsequently have bred little hair farmers of our own. My son was born with receding black tresses which randomly grew into the most majestic honey curls. The Balinese would call out to him with glee “Mee Goreng! Mee Goreng!”

I never set out to be a long-haired-hippie-boy-child kind of Mum – it kind of took on a high maintenance life force of its own. Chewed through a lot of hair product too.

He made for quite the pretty toddler who was often confused for a girl. It wasn’t a big deal until someone called him a her in front of my husband. That combined with photos from a dodgy dress up day of our bouncing baby boy was enough to tip the shears. So with much manliness, father and son swaggered to the barbershop for a chop-chop and it was farewell forever to our beautiful Blue Curly Sue.

The daughters hair took over from where the sons was hacked off and has grown into an irrational hybrid of Rapunzel and Medusa. It was okay when I had a shred of control. Now it’s like hunting down a hairy monsoon for a brush every damn day. And god forbid I plait it like Elsa when it should be like Anna and vice-bonkers-versa. But I digress.

So I’d managed to secure the target for a few minutes thanks to some strategic tv plonking. All was well until the knot I’d been working on fought back and the abnormal peace was disturbed by tangles and screeching. I jumped and before I could beseech calm my son channeled my thoughts. Verbally.

It’s funny when you hear a profanity come out of your child’s mouth, clearly and in context. It’s funnier when it’s an entire sentence you know has come out of your own mouth many times before. Not so funny when you do the sums and realise how many of those times have been in front of said child.

“Holy, moly…that scared the shit outta me.”

The reaction. Hysteria, tears of hilarity from me and absolute mortification from him. Poor little man. He had no idea what he’d said but immediately knew it was wrong.

I think I was more in shock that the day had finally come. There had been minor moments in the past six years where a few fumbled “truck”‘s, “spit”‘s and “banker”‘s were corrected and innocently brushed off.

My reliance on swearing as a means of communicating has always been an Achilles heel. If there is ever an opportunity where I can write over speaking I’ll take it every time to avoid exposure of a speech impediment I’ve developed because of it:

Foulmouthinitis Syndrome

It’s totally a thing. Watch this space for fundraising merch available for purchase soon, all proceeds go to the cause. Signed note of appreciation from my children for every donation over $10. They thank you.

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