Defusing an F-Bomb
A father admires his daughter’s response
Last Friday night, I found this letter on my nightstand:
Ok, now for some context. Claire is ten years old. She is a bright, dynamic, funny kid who loves the world and whom the world loves back. Her sister Georgia is eleven, smart, athletic and beautiful. They are wonderful and I’m lucky and proud to be their father.
Are they fucking shit-heads? Of course not.
Did I call them fucking shit-heads? Nope.
Did I refer to them as fucking shit-heads? When I thought they were well out of earshot? Because they lose many, many things, refusing to look for them, whining to their mother or me with an air of entitlement, “Mom/Dad, where is my [insert lost item]?” In a moment of frustration prompted by Claire’s discovery, seven minutes before lacrosse, that she had lost yet another mouthpiece, one we had custom-made by a local orthodontist?
I might have done that.
Embarrassing and regretful to be sure, but you can’t unring a bell. Thus the letter. As I read it, I noticed a few interesting and impressive things:
- She had seized the opportunity to let loose with an A-list conjunction curse word. How often does a ten-year-old girl get to hit her dad with fucking shit-head — in writing no less? Notice that she gets it in twice, but not thrice. This is in keeping with the guidelines set forth in Geoff Barnes’ excellent The Art of Cursing, something I’m fairly sure she hasn’t read but somehow innately understands.
- She describes how my outburst made her feel. This is classic T Group technique. Stay on your side of the fence, since how you feel about something can’t be disputed. Well done Claire; you have a bright future in marital “discussions”.
- She (correctly) speculates that I don’t believe she and her sister to be shit-heads of the highest order. In so doing, she hops the aforesaid fence, usually a dangerous maneuver, but in this case she does it to let me off the hook, rather than to attribute nefarious motive as is usually the case. I’m tried, sentenced and pardoned in one fell swoop.
In trying to figure out how to respond, I realized that Claire had wrapped up the whole episode so effectively, there wasn’t anything left for me to do. She tied the whole thing up in a nice package, complete with a very parent-like closer:
I hope that you learn from your mistake and not ever call Georgia or me that name again.
Unless it resurfaces later in Claire’s life, on the couch of her therapist, the Case of the Fucking Shit-Head is officially closed.
