The dangers of owning, and living with, your very own talking Parrot

No one warned me when I first had children, that there was going to be a danger that they would, one day, be capable of behaving just like a talking Parrot. And repeat almost every single word I dare to speak out loud; even the not so desirable ones. The first instance of this occurring happened quite some time ago, and it happened with my little madam, who would have been no older than two-and-a-bit. I realised, at this point in time, that I must learn to express my frustration in ways other than using colourful, and perhaps undesirable, language. It's amazing because, until she began shouting from the back seat of the car, "Bloody hell, bloody hell!", I had no idea that traffic (or perhaps it was the fact that I'd encountered YET ANOTHER red traffic light) had such an impact on me.

Unfortunately, like many regrettable incidences, I managed to put the firm reminder to myself out of my mind (in other words, forget that I mustn't use swear words in front of my children - particularly my little madam). So the other day I found myself rushing more than normal (due to a variety of small factors which caused me to run behind - including a rather hasty tidy-up of the bathroom floor following the removal of everything, yes ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING, from the bathroom cupboard, thanks to a very inquisitive little man). I was due to have dinner with my family - my sister and brother-in-law had returned that day from their overseas holiday - and I was really looking forward to seeing them. I guess in an effort to leave the house in an as orderly state as possible, to avoid having to clean up later that night (when I knew I'd be in no mood after a couple of drinks and the rather hearty meal I was expecting), I'd been running around for a good half-an-hour-or-so, collecting toys and other bits and pieces off the ground (including the ENTIRE contents of the bathroom cupboard, of course). I wasn't trying to achieve perfection, by any means, however, was trying to ensure that when I left for dinner, the house did not resemble a post-kids-party zone.

I'd just about finished my clean-up, when I discovered my little man (after forgetting to close the laundry door - yet another lesson so easily forgotten - after delivering some washing to the rather overflowing basket a few moments earlier) in the cat food. I'm not sure what he could possibly find appealing about little brown
pellets that apparently have a chicken and rice flavour, but I - who was a little
more flustered than usual - expressed my disgust by muttering (or perhaps
mutter is putting it mildly - I can't really remember) a rather profane word (a
word beginning with the letter "F").

Now I have to admit that, as I do have a rather exceptional vocabulary, filled with an array of rather filthy and disgusting words, I have had to really try hard, since having children (particularly since the incident in the car I spoke of earlier), to avoid expressing my frustration using these words. After all. I do not want to be the parent that receives a phone call, when my littlies eventually attend school, from a disgusted and rather annoyed principal telling me that my daughter or son's language - some of their vocabulary, perhaps - is unsuitable for use within the school grounds.

I also recall vividly, a story told to me by my aunty (she's my "cool" aunty, who I admired - and still do, of course - greatly as a child, thanks largely to her rather uncensored use of colourful language in certain situations...not to mention the fact that she's told some of the best rude jokes I've ever heard), who was once sitting at the bus stop with my cousin, who was aged around four at the time. Apparently, my young cousin was reciting a rude version of the Captain Cook rhyme; it included a verse that went something along the lines of, "Captain Cook knocked his c*** on a rock" - or something to that effect. Anyway. An elderly lady, who was also waiting at the same bus stop, asked my young cousin you taught him the rhyme he'd been reciting. And, to my aunty's horror, he had no hesitation in proudly revealing , "My mum!"

Now you're probably wondering, What sort of upbringing has this mother had? Well, I'll spare my parent's the disapproval now. I can say, with all-certainty, that
I had a very respectable upbringing. In fact, I grew up in house where the most profane word uttered (I'm certain) was "bother". No kidding. I even remember vividly the horrified faces of my parents when they first heard me utter the "f" word. I would have been at least eight or nine years old at the time, and I hadn't even used it in context. I just decided to share the new word I'd learned with them. I don't even remember where I'd picked it up. School, most likely. And, aside from school, I guess I picked up the use of foul language (in context) later in life, when I was a rebellious and horrible teenager.

Anyway. I immediately regretted using "the F word" on this particular day, because standing right behind me was my little madam. Who, right at that moment, decided "being a parrot" was in. Sadly, it wasn't the first time she's heard me say this word. Nor the first time I've heard her test it out (not that she understands the meaning of it - or at least I don't think she does - I'm pretty sure she just says it to get a reaction from me - because reacting is what I tend to do when I'm reminded of the fact that it's entirely my fault my little madam is already familiar with "the f word"). Because she began to utter it repeatedly, with a larger-than-normal grin across her face.

I guess she was waiting for me to laugh at her. And I could have. After all, it did sound rather funny (and terribly odd, of course) to hear my little madam, who turned three not so long ago, to repeatedly utter a word which she has no idea the meaning of. But, you'll be proud (or relieved at least) to hear I didn't laugh. "You are not allowed to say that!" I said sternly and hurriedly, as I collected my little man off the floor and wiped the brown muck that was dribbling out of his mouth from his chin. Although, I'm certain now - perhaps because I was distracted with the revolting task of removing soggy pellets of cat food from my little man's mouth - my stern warning was about as effective as giving her a lollipop and a pat on the
shoulder, because she continued to say it with increasing volume.

Now I had to think hard. How could I make it clear to my little madam, that the use of this word was unacceptable? After all, mummy had said the bad word first. I decided that, on this particular occasion, I'd remain calm and not react; try a bit of the old, "ignore it and it will go away". Thankfully, on this particular day, at this particular time, this strategy worked. I guess she was looking forward to dinner with my family as much as I was, so she quickly forgot her game and we were soon out the door with no further undesirable language uttered from either of us; that is, until I dropped my car keys only metres from the car! Well. Come on. My arms were practically falling off as I struggled to hold on tight to two large bags and a one-year-old.

No. Just kidding. The truth is, I hadn't forgotten my lesson that quickly. What I
did, though - and have been trying to do ever since my little madam brought
about the realisation that I express myself using my rather colourful
vocabulary (ie. swear) far too much - was use a replacement word. I decided that, after dropping my car keys, it was time to express my frustration in a new, innovative way; by naming a really revoltingly sugary breakfast cereal (aka - fruit loops!). I can't promise, though, that I'll keep this up too long. After all, I caught myself (just this morning) muttering the good old "f word". Thankfully, my little madam and little man, were far from being within earshot. But as I've said before, I am definitely human (not to mention often distracted by the endless supply of
washing in the washing basket) and, therefore, more than capable of forgetting;
even the most horrific experiences and well-learnt lessons.

Thanks little madam for reminding me, once again, the
dangers of living with my very own talking Parrot. Love you!