charming anecdote: is "frickin" a cuss word?

There are so many “mommy blogs” full of cute stories about darling little toddlers and their antics.  I have a million such gems tucked away in my kids’ journals (you may have heard of these: archaic paper based books where I kept notes about my children with something called a ball point pen). 

If I’d been blogging in those distant times, I would have called it Schnook and Noodle and I’m sure it would have been marvelous.  Ahh, what could have been! 

I would have recounted all manner of amusing tales about how my bright-eyed and pudgy cheeked children asked questions such as, “do ants have tongues?” and “what color is the world?”  I would have proudly recounted the happy discussions that ensued as I reveled in the clever acuity of my children.  

But those days are gone. 

As a mother of an 11 and a 14 year old, the cute factor around here has about run its course.  So last night, instead of marveling together about the anatomy of an ant's mouth, my first born and I argued about whether “frickin” is a cuss word.

It matters, you see, because, upon learning that I had so brazenly presented his charming heinous with a vegetarian cabbage roll for dinner, he looked upon said roll in outward disgust and let a string of hostile mumblings came slithering off his suddenly fork-like tongue: “zishmbr blgrmp so stupid, mpgro brmpr a FRICKEN jokmprblr.”

“WHAT?”

He looked up in less than sweet boyish defiance.  “wuh?”

“Did you just call my dinner a “frickin jokmprblr?”

“No…Well…So?”  and here it comes: “frickin isn’t a cuss word!” 

I begged to differ, explaining that I didn’t think anyone who sits down to a table and uses any variation of the “f” word in reference to the food should be allowed to partake of that food.  And besides, what about the mysterious “jokmprblr?”  I don't think that was very nice either. 

So I sent him to his room without any dinner.  Just like the old lady who lived in a shoe.  Or no, didn’t she at least give the kids broth before banishing them to their prisons? No broth around here.  No bread either.

I know how this plays out.

Him: charming victim, child.

Me: old lady in shoe, bitch

But hey, after all: it was an organic cabbage.  A hold over from the co-op, so local too.  And the tomatoes?  The first of the summer canning. You don't mess with that, y'know? 

This morning, I told him in our post-explosion debriefing:  "A little respect for the cabbage roll is in order here, don't you think?"  Having regained his schnookish charm, he agreed with only a hint of a rolling eyeball.  But he  maintained his position on “the word,” insisting he’s even allowed to say it in school.  

I told him I didn’t frickin care.  Respect the cabbage.  

We laughed. 

And that’s my endearing anecdote about my darling little boy.