Choice Words: Why I Want to Cuss Out My Children

I love to see my friends’ Facebook posts about their children’s latest accomplishments or the funny thing they said. I adore when they post the letter their child wrote about how her mommy is her hero. I’ll admit that I’m guilty myself. I posted a video on Instagram of my son’s first long walk from the TV to couch as we all cheered him on. He looked like a drunken sailor making his way back to the boat after a long night at the bar, but he was walking, dang it! Kids are just so awesome, and I particularly favor mine, but can we all just be honest for a second and admit that there are days when we want to cuss them out?! What’s that?—you have no idea what I’m talking about? Well, clearly you’re a much better and more patient parent than I am, because there are days that I want to cuss in their faces and walk away.

There’s a sneaky reality of being a parent that no one dares to post on social media. God forbid someone actually realize that we’re human and have our limits. Can you imagine the horror of people knowing that we don’t completely adore our kids 100% of the time? No doubt we love our kids, but let’s face it, we don’t always like them.

I like to get up at 4:30 A.M. each morning and spend some alone time—just me and a hot cup of coffee. It’s so beautiful. It’s like a super romantic date every single morning. At 6:00 A.M. it’s time to wake our herd of children, kiss Daddy goodbye, and get the day rolling. I’m usually pretty peaceful since I’m filled to the brim with java. Most mornings I turn on the lights, let them know that breakfast is ready, and ask them to start getting ready for school. I’d say 90% of the time they all get up without a fight and sweetly start dressing and eating. Then there’s the other 10% of the time…

Child: “I think I’m coming down with the flu.”

Me: “You’re not coming down with the flu. Get up.”

Child: “But my leg hurts, and I can’t walk anymore.”

Me: “Shake it off and put your clothes on.”

Child: “Obama told me it’s a school holiday.”

Here it goes. Here’s where I reach my limit:

“What the deuce! Get the freak out of bed, you little mother truckers, before I put my foot in your icehole. I’m amped up on a pot of coffee and have the reflexes of a highly trained ninja. You don’t want to screw with me today, toot faces.”

But we can’t do that, can we? I choose not to and instead ask again nicely that everyone get ready for school so we’re not late. I may or may not shoot them the bird after I close their door, and sometimes I wonder if they don’t do the same back.

After I get the younger kids to school, I head back to the house to get the teenager up and out the door to school. If you have a teenager then you know how mornings can go. If she rolls her eyes one more time, I swear I’m going to scoop them out with a soup spoon while she sleeps. I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I would never waste a perfectly good soup spoon.

Teenager: “Can we go to the Whataburger drive-thru and get breakfast?”

Me: “No, I made muffins.”

Teenager: “Ugggg! I amdkcjo kold zxbiel sjsh.” (Sorry, I can’t translate the teenaged, smarter-than-everyone, under-the-breath mumbling.)

Here it goes. Here’s where I reach my limit:

“Oh h-e-double hockey sticks, why don’t you drag your skinny little pooper to the car and shut the farkle up? Shove a delicious muffin in your complaint hole while you’re at it. I’d hate for you to starve at school today, you little diarrhea head!”

But we can’t do that, so in this case I choose to remain silent, mostly because she completely hates when I do that.

By 8:30 A.M. it’s just me and my sweet one-year-old baby boy. Oh, the joys of snuggling and nap time. He can do no wrong. Well, that’s what I tell everyone on Facebook. The truth is this kid can pull every single pan out of the cabinets in 3.7 seconds. I think he can actually sniff out Barbie shoes to choke on, and if there’s a crumb of anything on the floor he’ll find it and consider it a lunch.
I find him hiding in the cabinet after he has emptied all of its contents.

Here it goes. Here’s where I reach my limit:

“Motherhubbard, what the farfegnugen is going on in here? You little son of a biscuit eater! Stop taking the flip-flapping pans out of the cabinet. Take a nap for crying out loud, you minature nincompoop!”

But we can’t do that, so I calmly remind him that we don’t play in the kitchen (he doesn’t understand a word of it) and take him back into the living room. I turn my head for two seconds, and he’s back in the cabinet.

“Holy Hannah Montana, child! Stay out of the fargin’ kitchen!”

He’s lucky God made him so super cute.

I’m optimistic that the girls got all of their attitude and energy out at school, and I don’t for one minute feel guilty that their teachers had to deal with them. It’s actually irritating that they’re so well-behaved at school. I want others to feel my pain.

They load into the car.

Me: “How was school?”

Them: “Fine. What’s for dinner?”

Me: “Food.”

Them: “I want pizza.”

Me: “Good for you.”

Them: “But I want a PB&J.”

Me: “I don’t care.”

Them: “You need to go to the store. I have a project due tomorrow, and I need poster board.”

Here it goes. Here’s where I reach my limit:

“Sugar honey iced tea, it’s good to see you too! Mother of Pearl! You can’t even say hello before asking for something?! When we get home you jack donkeys will do your homework, clean the poop palace you call your rooms, and go the frack to bed!”

Sometimes they’re just straight-up witches.

But we can’t do that, so I stop by the store, grab some poster board, and head home. I make a dinner that everyone can agree on and help them with the clean-up. After they shower I go into each room and kiss them good night, reminding them how much I love them. I gently shut their doors, shoot them the bird, again, and head to bed.

On these days bedtime is 6:30 P.M., for their sake and mine.

When my husband gets home and asks how the day was, I like to spare him all the details of how his little heathen children have acted and just tell him everything was great. He’s been hard at work all day, and I’m not about to complain that his little fart-knockers behaved like sewer rats. I tell him how lucky we are and how precious our children are. But we all know that’s a bunch of bullbutter!

It’s all fun and games when Daddy’s home.


Candice Curry is a born and raised San Antonio mother of 6. She and her husband escape their kids by taking backroad drives in the Texas hill country seeking out the best whiskey and coolest antiques. When she grows up she wants to own an ice cream truck and travel around Texas selling ice cream and french fries with her family.


  1. Oh my, I laughed at this post, especially ‘shooting them the bird’. I thought I was the only one who did that!! (Mine are only 2 and 1).

    Thanks for the great read.

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