Words aren't cheap, with these youngsters

By Sarah Littman

published March 22, 2005

I had a birthday recently, a fact to which the proliferating white roots in my hair attest. (Note to self: Make appointment with colorist.) It was a dual birthday of sorts -- we also celebrated the publication of my book, at Just Books Too in Old Greenwich.

I'd been somewhat miffed, because as excited as my kids were about the book's publication, neither of them had actually read it. I didn't want to force it on them, but that little voice inside kept whining, "Why don't my kids want to read what I wrote?"

So the best thing for me about the launch at Just Books, besides conquering my fear of speaking in public and having so many folks turn out, was that after they heard a few excerpts that I read to the assembled crowd, my kids finally decided to give old Mummy's book a try. I read the first chapter to Amie last week at bedtime. She laughed at the funny parts and, better yet, asked to read on herself when we'd finished. By lights-out time, she was already on chapter four.

"I can't believe you wrote this!" she said, as I tucked her in.

I'm still trying to determine if this was meant as a compliment. But for the sake of my ego, I have decided to take it as such. Joshua and I are going to read it together once we've finished "Son of the Mob -- Hollywood Hustle."

We'd just about finished eating the leftovers from my massive over-catering of the book launch. (I'm a Jewish mother -- Heaven forbid anyone go hungry!) It was time to start on the birthday cake, a fact complicated this year by the recent discovery of Amie's sensitivities to gluten, dairy and soy (like the poor kid doesn't have enough to deal with, being diabetic). But the so-called "Super Nanny" on TV has nothing on my nanny, Lindsay: With the use of gluten-free brownie mix and enormous quantities of Scharffen-Berger bittersweet, she concocted a chocolate extravaganza we all could enjoy.

And enjoy it I did -- till it came to the presents. The In-House Vice Squad (aka my daughter Amie) bought me a pewter money bank with "Swear Box" engraved on it. Accompanying this tool to correct my verbal turpitude was a tariff of charges. It started with the "H" word (which, in case you are wondering, is that unbearably hot place you get sent in the afterlife if you do things like, I don't know, saying a lot of bad words) -- $2.

I tried to argue the toss on that one.

"But what if I'm having a theological discussion?" I protested. "You know, about heaven and Š"

"Don't say it!" said Leader of the No-Swear Squad.

I read on:

"S" word - $3.50, "F" word -- $4.

"What if I drop a hammer on my foot and the "S" word slips out by accident?" I whined.

My daughter gives no quarter.

I questioned the "B"-word fine, too ($3.75, in case you were wondering). Lindsay and I call our dog Sandy -- who is female, albeit neutered -- the "Bitch Goddess." It's true: She earned that moniker more because of her attitude of entitlement and outstanding beauty than the fact that as a female dog she is, technically, a bitch. Nonetheless I tried to stand my ground on principal.

"But that's what girl dogs are called," I argued.

"You still can't say it," she ruled. I tell you, this kid has a bright future making the trains run on time.

Moving past the "A" word (rhymes with "gas") $2.50, we came to the "K" word. I searched my vast vocabulary of colorful language, in English and other tongues (when I was a kid, we engaged in the comparative study of world expletives -- boy, how things change!) but couldn't come up a "K" word.

"It's like "krate" but ends with "P" she explained.

Oh, I get it. But I don't even say that one. Must be the kids at school.

The list included a catchall "Other" ($1) for any words deemed offensive by the Pure Language Police. Very lawyerly. Time to take out a second mortgage.

The kids' dreams of toys and riches based on their mother's language lapses were crushed when I told them that the contents of the Swear Box were to go to charity.

As for me, according to Lindsay it could have been worse; fines initially contemplated by my puritanical offspring were in the $15 range. Holy "S" word!

Sarah Littman, who lives in Greenwich, is author of "Confessions of a Closet Catholic," published by Dutton Children's Books.