The Very First Time I Heard My Mom Drop The F-Bomb

The first time I heard my typically mild mannered, etiquette conscious mother speak the word “fuck,” I was in my late thirties, and we were barreling down the highway in my Dad’s oversized Chevy van.

To provide you a sense of scale, I once saw an entire family of five motoring through the streets of Bali on a single moped, so believe me when I tell you, a family of five could have lived very comfortably in this van complete with their own sloshing potty.

We’d spent a full day touring around Washington, D.C., my parent’s first and only visit. By late afternoon my Dad was visibly limping and to my surprise leaped at an offer made on my behalf by my Mom.

This particular day I was doing a rare thing. I was driving his van with him in it. My Mom, riding shotgun beamed at me confidently while my Dad lay resting on the bench seat in the very back. We pulled out of the Park-N-Ride with an optimistic pounce on the gas and a lurch, while I imagined his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Once on the highway, I became intent on keeping the van traveling relatively straight while it much preferred to sway and float through the rush hour traffic. Worrying I’d overcorrect the sailing land yacht, drift out of my lane and into another commuter, or worse, draw criticism from my Dad, caused my neck muscles to roll up like a sprung window shade.

Adding to this stew pot of anxiety, we were surrounded by a flood of pugnacious drivers out maneuvering each other leap-frog style in the hope of being the first to flee the Washington, D.C., rush hour alive.

Seated beside me in her own captain’s chair was my trusty co-pilot, watchful as the cars zipped in and out around us. She shot me an approving glance now and again and I was encouraged.

It must have occurred to us on some anti-patriarchal plane we’d landed in the catbird seat with my Dad safely “out of play” on the backseat and we were enjoying the hell out of it.

We’d no sooner shared one such giddy glance when my eyes darted back to the traffic in front of me. About six car lengths ahead the motorists in our lane began scattering left and right like the parting of the Red Sea.

As if a curtain had been raised on my worst nightmare, there, dead in the center of our lane sat a giant cardboard box, and like the show, Let’s Make A Deal, I had no idea what, if anything, was in it.

Moving at 60 miles per hour there wasn’t much time to think or react. I looked right, then left only to realize I was helplessly and ironically “boxed” in my lane by surrounding traffic. I had no choice but to hit the box.

As we neared impact with the box, the F-Bomb exploded from my Mom’s well mannered lips. Despite imminent disaster, my head reflexively snapped toward the passenger seat to see my mother un-belted and scrambling up the back of her captain’s chair while screaming “FUUUUUUCCCCKKKK!”

I don’t know how, but I held the wandering van’s course, straight and true despite the spectacle happening two feet away.

Bam! Thump. Scrrraaaape.

When we hit the box, I was filled with gratitude to find it empty and we were safe. Glancing peripherally at my mom as she primly settled herself back into the seat, I noted a slight grin which immediately broke into a stream of giggly relief.

The remainder of the trip to the hotel was filled with laughter as I teased her and replayed the events leading up to the F-Bomb explosion for my Dad in slow motion. From the back of the van I heard him chuckling too, as he added, “She’s said worse than that,” and for the second time on the commute my head swivel-snapped right to see her blue eyes twinkle as they met mine.

I never again felt one iota of puritanical repression in response to the word, “fuck.” Thanks Mom.

S Lynn Knight 2016