That Time My Three-Year-Old Dropped the F-Bomb In Front of My Mom

Read an excerpt from somewhere in my parenting memoir. Who knows where it will end up.

Hi, it’s me.

This week I tried to take a break from writing about my memoir-in-progress because UGH. I can’t even. I’m so tired of sitting at this stupid laptop trying to bleed words. Do you ever get tired of hearing your own voice? Are you tired of hearing mine yet?

(Don’t answer that. I’m just going through a whiny bitch phase. Don’t indulge it.)

My friend Giyen recently wrote about this feeling as if she were in my head:

Since the late 90s, I have been a letter writer, parenting blogger, syndicated writer, copywriter, screenwriter, and the dreaded policy writer. I want to add novelist and memoirist to that list, but it remains an elusive white whale. Reaching into the depths of your imagination and sustaining an enthusiasm for long-form writing is such hard work. It's easy to lose your way, and this week, I feel lost. 

Same, girl. Same.

When I was a small business owner writing and producing animated videos for my clients, there came a point in some projects where the back-and-forth revisions and mind-numbing meetings about markety and businessy things made me want to lie down in the road. And those projects were short by comparison – usually only six to eight weeks! I’ve been actively writing my book for over a year, squeezing it in between work and life, and I can’t see the end of it. I don’t know where this ends. Maybe I’ll be writing this book forever.

I am built for sprinting, not marathoning. 

Authors Neal Stephenson (L) and Cory Doctorow (R) at a reading I went to with Bryan and Thomas.

Last week Bryan, Thomas, and I went to a book event with authors Neal Stephenson and Cory Doctorow. Cory mentioned in passing that he wrote his book, Little Brother (which I read and loved), in eight weeks, and I wanted to cry under my chair. I recognize he’s a full-time writer, but still…I’m tired. And I have other books to write. Are they all going to take this long?!

So far I have all the easy stories written, the ones I had planned out from the beginning of this project. Now I’m down to a few topics that I don’t know how to organize, and I feel paralyzed. I think this weekend I’ll bust out my sticky notes and try different story combinations to see where it leads me. My husband Bryan, who is co-writing a book, suggested I pick three possible ways into a topic, then write for twenty minutes to see where it goes. Thomas, our 18-year-old who is also writing a book, reminded me that thinking about the story and planning it out is also considered part of the writing process, even if actual words aren’t typed.

All good ideas to get past a roadblock. Do you have any to add?

On the bright side, I recognize it was a good decision last year to start telling everyone I know that I’m writing a book. It was a good decision to start sharing chapter drafts and my writing process with you through this newsletter. Because now that I’m stuck on the last three chapters and want to fuck all the way off about this project, I know I don’t have it in me to just quietly disappear. After all the hype, that would be super embarrassing.

Blabber-Mouth Jen knew exactly what would motivate Quitter Jen to stay in it.

Thanks for reading.

Until next time,

Jen

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That Time My Three-Year-Old Dropped the F-Bomb In Front of My Mom

The following story will be worked into my memoir somewhere, though I’m not sure where, yet. It’s currently in my pile of miscellaneous stories.

When Ruthie was three years old, she dropped the f-bomb in front of my 70-year-old Baptist mom whose own worst word ever spoken was “dammit,” usually uttered while doing her hair. 

It was April 2006, a year after my stepdad Gordy died. My sister and the kids and I were visiting my mom for Easter. Ruthie had just turned three years old and Thomas was one.

On a beautiful Spring day in Minnesota, we had plans to visit Como Park Zoo. Ruthie had other plans, apparently? She refused to put her shoes on. Sitting on the couch next to her, she kicked and squirmed in defiance of foot confinement. 

What’s your deal, little girl?! I thought, or maybe I said it out loud. Hard to say. We’re trying to go do something FUN!

After several minutes of fighting me and ignoring the reasonable pleas of her sweet grandma, she finally slammed her body into slump, crossed her arms, tucked in her chin, and muttered, “Fuck.”

My eyes went wide and I sucked in my lips, trying to avoid laughter as my 70-year-old baptist mom gasped. She gasped! If she were wearing pearls, she would have clutched them! I could barely contain my laughter.

“Ruthie!” my mom scolded. “Do you even know what that means?!” At which point I had to turn away from her to avoid making eye contact over the visual of someone literally fucking, which is maybe what my mom was imagining rather than just a throw-away swear word.

To her credit, Ruthie used the word in the most appropriate way, which I was secretly proud of. I can’t stand it when people use swear words like punctuation, saying fucking this and fucking that. If you’re going to drop the f-bomb, make it mean something, for crying out loud. It’s too good of a word to just throw around indiscriminately.

After my mom passed out and regained consciousness, I reminded Ruthie that Mama uses that word when she doesn’t have a happy heart, and if Ruthie was using that word, did it mean she didn’t have a happy heart? She remained closed up tight with her arms crossed and her delicious round cheeks tucked down toward her chest. 

Eventually we pulled out of the spiral and enjoyed our day, with shoes on.

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News + Notes

We adopted a dog!

Meet Wiley. He’s about eight years old, and very sweet, though a little anxious. He has the most adorable ears of all the ears in the land.

Wiley came to us a few months after his person died from an illness. We understand grief, here. He’ll fit right in. 🥰