Lindsey Lohan's Tits

The boy invites his school and day camp chum, Daniel, over to play. I had heard about this boy from mine, how he frequently "uses curse words," including daily regaling the boys in the locker room with a song called "The Curse Song" which contains "the f-word, the s-word and both b-words, Mom!"

Look, I won't lie....my boy hears an occasional obscenity tumble from my mouth. Once, when he was three, I thought he was in another room and blurted out, "I don't give a shit!" to someone on the telephone. Out of nowhere, the boy came running into the kitchen pointing his finger at me and said, "Oooooo, Mommy! You said the s-word and there is a three-year-old child in the house!"

Around that time, during a walk in our neighborhood, which has no sidewalks, a car approached in the road and sped up instead of slowing when it saw us. I jerked the boy toward me and muttered, "Asshole!" The boy shrieked with laughter. "Ahahaha, Mommy said asshole! You are so funny, Mommy!" A month or two later, he asked me very matter of factly if he could see my "buh-gina" in a restaurant in Chincoteague. The elderly couple next to us laughed. I turned red and said, "No." "Why? Why can't I? I want to see it NOW!"

Still, while I don't condone the boy's occasional use of profanity, I realized pretty early in the game that the more I forbid something, the more he wants to do it. So when a "curse word" is emitted, I call him on it and then move on.

So Daniel comes over and they go into the basement and slam the door behind them. I hear raucous laughter and assume they're playing the Wii and trading Yu-gi-oh cards. I smile, glad they are happy, and take my New York Times out into the woods to lie on my chair and read. Everything is good. There is shade and a gentle breeze. Very good.

After a while, our Catahoula barks, and I realize Evan has arrived but cannot work the gate. "Hey, dude, what's up?" I ask. Evan is ten.

"You know, Suzanne, I rang the bell four times and no one answered. That's just wrong."

"Hmm...Maybe. But I didn't hear you, and the boys are in the basement. Come in, come in." As I open the gate to the new fence, he remarks, "I imagine this fence must have cost you a fortune. Am I right?"

"You are indeed. Go to the basement and behave yourself." I return to my spot in the woods.

After a while, I go inside for inspection and realize that there are four children in the basement, not three. It goes that way sometimes. If you turn away, you never know who is there. Frankly, I don't care how many children are in my house as long as they are all reasonably happy and not fighting with each other. Boys do that. Fight. And complain that everything is unfair.

Evan is unhappy. He comes upstairs to meet me in the kitchen. "What's up?" I ask. He claims my boy is bossing him around. "You know, Evan, I'm going to tell you the same thing your mother often tells you. Try to work it out, but if you can't, well, I'm not going to." He shrugs his shoulders, pouts and returns to the basement. After some years of mediating and negotiating children's spats and tantrums, I decided a while ago that I am too old to get in the middle. Besides, the conflicts always die down after a while and are forgotten, so why get agitated and concerned? It's kid stuff.

Eventually, Evan and his brother leave, and I take the remaining boys for hibachi. The boys are seriously foul in the restaurant. Initially, I'm unsure whether to discipline when Daniel lets loose with a loud version of The Curse Song. I have to look away so they don't see me smile and assume that I approve. Actually, I'm not sure I don't. It's funny. My boy shakes with laughter--and I don't want to spoil his fun. I get such pleasure out of seeing him enjoy himself. After a while, though, I suggest that they tone it down, that it's not appropriate to make such utterances in public.


A young couple sits at our table, so I have to at least pretend to be on top of the wayward behavior and occasionally tell the boys sternly to "Knock it off" and "Cut it out. I mean it!" I might as well be talking to the sushi. After a while, I apologize to the young couple, and the wife (who stifles laughter throughout the meal) says, "It's ok." I ask if they have children, and she says, yes, two boys, ages two and three....and then adds "Actually, your boys don't act too differently from ours." Now, that is funny. And accurate, I imagine.

On the way to Daniel's house, the conversation consists of such Daniel gems as:

"Yeah, remember the time that guy said he saw Lindsey Lohan's tits?" James cannot control himself and shrieks, "Oh my God!" and whispers, "You said tits."

"My [six-year-old adorable] sister is such a bitch."

"Oh, fuck, I just lost!" [while playing his video game]

"Mommy?"

"Yes, James?"

"Are you gonna tell Dan's parents?"

"Nooooooo."

"My mom is so cool." I am also, at various times, "crazy," "ruining [his] life" on a regular basis and the "cruelest woman on earth." So I smile. I'll take my kudos where I can get them.

Alright, so this other boy swears. But I like him. He's bright and cute and besides, who gives a fuck?