And
then, just like that, your team blows it.
You jump
up and scream, “WHAT THE ….!” But in a rare feat of restraint, you actually
stop yourself from dropping the unholiest of swear words.
The
only problem: Your two-year-old son finishes the expression for you.
Oops.
Such
was the case this afternoon, as my beloved Bulls fell flat once again, leaving
me in sports-world anguish. My emotions got the best of me, and I couldn’t help
but voice my displeasure.
I
should have considered my audience.
My boy
is speaking more and more. He’s putting more complex sentences together. It’s really
a joy to watch to hear.
But
that also means he’s picking up more social cues from me, and I can’t get away
with some of the same things I used to. The truth is, I should have been getting
my act together a lot sooner.
The
absolute last thing you want to happen, is for the entire family to be at a
more serious function, and for your child to steal the show by interjecting a mouthful
of filth—the same filth he learned from you. Suddenly, your child is the “bad
influence”, the child that other parents don’t want their kids to be around.
But it’s not your child’s fault. It’s yours.
So I’ve
found something I need to work on in my house. No more potty-mouth. No more
swearing like a sailor. It’s time to clean up my act.
For
f@&king real.
