Cursing in front of children? I swear by it

On the drive to daycare the other morning, my son was explaining that his friend, Peter (the fictional rabbit created by Beatrix Potter), was very funny because he runs fast. At least, that’s what I think he meant. He’s a toddler, so it requires some reading between the lines.

Anyway, as much as I appreciated this update, my attention drifted when I saw a nearby cyclist topple off his bike, prompting an impassioned but completely involuntary response on my behalf: “Oh, shit.”

What’s swearing’s secret? How do four-letter words move us in all the ways they do? Credit: Fiona Bianchinotti

Thankfully, the cyclist seemed OK, dusting himself off with mild embarrassment. No doubt he wanted to forget the entire ordeal and move on with his life, such is the shame that accompanies falling over as an adult. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for my son, who spent the remainder of the drive staring at me through the rearview mirror, parroting back my profanity: “Oh, shit.”

Oh, shit, indeed. Admittedly, I probably should’ve seen this coming; parenting books had warned me about the desire to mimic. Children are like sponges, they say, absorbing everything going on around them and recreating it in full. In reality, I think children are more like savvy thrift store shoppers, only collecting what’s of value and disregarding the rest.

I’ve never seen my kid mimic me being quiet during a movie. But: the chance to repeat a shiny curse word? Yes, please.

Rightly or wrongly, Australians have long considered swearing a part of our national identity. We idealise ourselves as relaxed, laid back and down for a laugh. If a sportsperson drops an F-bomb on TV or a politician begins teeing off in parliament, we cheer rather than condemn.

It’s fair to say our household is swear-friendly; both my wife and I revel in the joy of a well-deployed curse word. Obviously, swearing, as with all language use, is entirely context-dependent and context-specific. We don’t swear at each other, but we do swear to each other, around each other, and to make each other laugh.

And therein lies the joy of swearing: it’s the perfect verbal filler. It contains multitudes ranging from empathy to comedy, sympathy to glee. It can be used to express surprise or shock, to show solidarity or underline a point. That guy fell off his bike? Oh, shit.

Was I supposed to give up this longtime hobby for a child I’ve known less than two years? Well, that depends on who you ask.

Benjamin K Bergen, a professor of cognitive science, suggests swearing in front of children is less harmful than we think. “Children’s minds are resilient to profanity,” he writes in What the F: What Swearing Reveals about our Language, our Brains and Ourselves. Kids are resilient? No shit, Sherlock.

A swearing toddler? Both a blessing and a curse.Credit: Stock

Sadly, my wife preferred to ignore the professor of cognitive science in favour of the advice shared in her favourite parenting Reddit thread.

“It says here we should replace swear words with kid-friendly words,” she explained. “They’ve listed fudge, shoot, sugar, crackers and holy smokes as good alternatives.”

While the idea of stubbing my toe or spilling scolding coffee on myself and screaming, “HOLY SMOKES!” is very funny, it seemed unrealistic. At this point in my life, swearing is like breathing, an unconscious act crucial to my survival. To try and change that now would be like pushing “sugar” uphill.

So, rather than walking around saying different snacks – Fudge! Crackers! – we decided to make up a whole new word and stage a fake incident, complete with over-the-top reactions. I would pretend to trip and then yell, “Oh, woozle,” and then my wife would scold me in front of our son, fooling him into believing it was very bad. He would walk around saying woozle, and we would be free to continue swearing as required. Everybody wins.

On the night of the big performance, everything was executed with military precision. We played his favourite game – running around the coffee table – and after a few laps, I threw myself to the ground like the method actor I always suspected I could be: “Oh, woozle! Woozle! WOOZLE.”

Right on cue, my wife stepped in to do her bit, using her stern voice to explain we do not use that language in this house. In my opinion, she slightly oversold it, but that’s what happens if you don’t do the work beforehand.

Our son watched this whole charade play out with the typical aloofness of a toddler, leaning against the coffee table, stomach protruding. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking until he walked over to me, gave me a cuddle and said, “Daddy, oh, shit.”

Find more of the author’s work here. Email him at [e-mail] or follow him on Instagram at @thomasalexandermitchell and on Twitter @_thmitchell.

Find out the next TV, streaming series and movies to add to your must-sees. Get The Watchlist delivered every Thursday.