I’m no expert. Wait… yes I am…right? If I’m such an expert of childhood development then why did my 4-year-old bitch slap me in the middle of the nail salon? There I was, squatting down at eye level with a determined and furious preschooler. Sullen and on the verge of meltdown with the notion that I was to carry her royal majesty out the salon door. No regard for my own painted nails and dare not let her walk on her freshly painted toes. Naturally, as any matriarch would do- I attempted stern logic paired with crouching down to her eye level, raised eyebrows balanced with a firm whisper asserting that she needed to be a “big girl” and follow me out the door. After all, that technique had always worked in the past with other impertinent children I had encountered. But in this case, while in the midst of my matter-of-fact lecture, the back of her cherubic hand swatted across my face like I was an insolent peasant. Yes, it was the smack heard round the nail salon. Witnesses relaxing in their massage chairs sat up and gasped in shock, the manicurist dropped her tools, and the background elevator-style music halted. I squatted there mouth agape in bona fide shock. It was my first official bitch slap. In slow motion I swerved to gaze upon a room of disapproving middle aged women with pursed lips shaking their heads in tragic remorse as if saying: “What a pity…that child will live to be an ex-convict”.

After practicing psychotherapy now for over 11 years it’s hard to throw me the proverbial “curve ball”. It takes a lot to make me gasp and grimace over something eccentric. I’ve observed a lot of behaviors in people and have grown quite desensitized to what has been flung at me. Oh let’s see- I’ve been bitten, smacked, boobs honked, vomited on, pooped on, and even once dry humped. All the while keeping my professional demeanor, my linguistic decorum, my charm and grace. Of course, those were the intern days…ahhh memories. Don’t ya love intern hazing? However, before I was an intern, I was a Nanny and I really enjoyed it too. I had the unconditional loving temperament of Mr. Fred Rogers, the wackiness of Pee Wee Herman, and the wisdom of Mary Poppins. My semantics were immaculate. My verbal repertoire made Pollyanna look like a common hillbilly. Moreover, I had adorable little expressions for every type of stressful fiasco thrown at me. Such as “Oh Fiddlesticks!”, “Oh my goodness gracious!” “Heavens to Betsy!” “Go fly a Kite!” “Ishkabibble!” Yiddish was a great accomplice to my vernacular. My only one epic fail as a Nanny was when my impressionable 8-year-old charge walked in to my room and caught me singing and dancing to Sir Mix A Lot’s: “Baby Got Back”. Cut to me having the embarrassing task of explaining to her parents why their impressionable child now likes big butts and cannot lie.

Moving forward to the day when I had my first child, I thought I could handle all that was thrown at me. “I’m an expert”, I condescendingly re-assured my husband delivering it with a smirk and roll of the eyes. I know how to treat and care for children. So when the day came when my seven-month-old daughter toppled over hitting her head on the coffee table before hitting the ground, I did not refer back to any of the aforementioned expressions in my catalog. No. No, instead I blurted out with explosive rage: “Mother Fucker!” I can only disclaim that this indiscretion came out involuntary. It was instinctual, if you will. It was loud. It was decisive. It was obscene. It was…wonderful! Oh “F” word where have you been all my life? It was if I had discovered the ultimate cathartic remedy for all my maternal anxiety. I felt as if I could somehow displace all her pain and distress and channel it into my verbal wrath. So I picked up my daughter, gave her a thorough inspection, held her close and sighed with relief…and felt better. Of course, for my penance I watched her sleep all night…no blinking, and said ten Hail Marys. First born syndrome…you know how that goes.

From then on,  the “F” word became my new go-to in terms of cathartic relief. There was the classic default to: “Oh Fuck”! There was good ol’ “Mother Fucker”, “Oh for Fuck’s sake!” And on rare occasions I dabbled in a little “Fuckin-ay!” But that was only used for real emergencies like when the baby rubbed sunscreen in her eyes before I could stop her. But “F in A”… meh…that was a little rich for my blood. Smooth ride out the mouth but strong ambiguous side effects. As you can inevitably imagine, my children got older and naturally receptive minds will pick up whatever they hear. So I had to scale it back. It was time to reel it in, cut back, and be careful with what I said. But I was in deep. I tried to return to my old terminology but it was too weak, no more passion, like sawdust in my mouth. No alleviation from everyday stressors. I had habituated to a lifestyle of pervasive potty mouth. Damn. I had to have daily hit at least. So when I dropped my two-year old’s sippy cup and it cracked and splattered apple juice all over my floor, I covered my mouth, dashed in to the pantry, closed the door and yelled “Fuck!” Epiphany: The pantry will now serve as my “F” word release room. And why not? It had well served diverse purposes in the past: food storage, games of hide-and-go-seek with my kids, sneaking M&M’s, and quick (very quick) intimate liaisons with my husband while the kids were distracted with TV. Sincere apologies to Nutella, Frank’s Red Hot sauce, and various canned goods. You have seen things that cannot be unseen.

So from then on, I went to my pantry to curse as often as motherhood dictated. Which is kinda a lot. Although it requires me to suppress a bit and sometimes I slip up but overall I got a handle on it. That said, use it in moderation Moms! Embrace the “F” word. It’s a great way to purge maternal angst.

There’s good news and bad news here: The good news is that I get to curse all I want via pantry. The bad news is that I may have developed Tourette’s syndrome.