HOLY CHEESE CURDS! How an Innocent Father-Son Bonding Moment Went Horribly Awry.

“Never change a CV boot with small children around.” 

I know this adage doesn’t sound as relevant as “Never give yourself a haircut” or “Don’t fry bacon naked,” but I beg all parents to heed this advice. I didn’t several years ago and I’m still paying the price.

You’re probably asking, “What the heck is a CV boot?” A CV boot is an ugly rubber boot that covers a “constant velocity” joint in your car’s drivetrain, and it can be a booger to change. I once spent two frustrating days changing one in my garage. My son Peter was three at the time. He always wanted to be by dad’s side, so he “helped” with the project. It was good father-son bonding time. This was a decade before I turned into the most oppressive and stupid man on the face of the earth.

I love working on cars, but getting that boot changed on my wife’s Chevy was a lot harder than I expected. During this arduous process I occasionally vented some of my colorful New York dialect, but I thought I was careful Pete wasn’t listening or near. 

A week after changing that part, Kate’s parents came to visit us in Seattle. I was out of town. Kate was eager to show her mom and dad the sights, so she took them on a tour with Pete in tow. 

During their outing, my lovely wife got turned around and was commenting on how difficult it was getting back on course. Sensing her frustration, Pete offered some advice. With his little legs dangling from his padded car seat and chocolate smeared on his face, he nonchalantly suggested, “Oh, ‘F-word’ it, we’ll never find it.”

This was immediately followed by my wife spraying a mouthful of coffee onto the windshield.

My in-laws are from Wisconsin, the land of wholesomeness and cheese curds. They’re devout Catholics and the most real, decent and nonjudgmental people I know, but that language from a toddler was a shocker. 

After a stunned pause, Kate’s mother uncomfortably asked, “What was that Pete?” She was hoping he said something totally innocent that sounded like the offending word.  

Without hesitation, Pete said once more, “Oh, F-word it, we’ll never find it.” Then he went back to sipping his juice box.

After another pause, everyone gathered their wits and tried what most parents would do in that situation. Kate, her mom and dad didn’t want Potty Mouth Pete to think he was on to something, so they tried to convince him the word he eloquently used in perfect context didn’t exist. While doing this, my father-in-law rifled through his wallet for his parish priest’s number. He wanted to call for a long-distance absolution.

Unfortunately, Pete was very sure and fond of his new word. 

Kate continued her mobile interrogation. Since she couldn’t convince Pete to stop using his newest conversation enhancer, she grilled him on where he heard “that fudge word.” 

This is where Pete un-bonded with his dad and threw him under the Chevy. He thought nothing of telling everyone that, “Daddy was yelling it when he was throwing tools at the wall in the garage.” That was the CV project. 

Not yet being a Green Bay Packer fan already had me on my in-law’s watch list, my son just moved me up to double secret probation.

When I got home a few days later, Kate met me at our front door. Boy did I get a talking to. Thankfully, Pete wasn’t in earshot of this outburst. If he was, he would have expanded his in-law offending vocabulary by leaps and bounds. 

Later that day, I had “the talk” with Pete. I explained that if he wanted dad to share “guy stuff” with him, like stupid male humor, how to annoy his mother, and the complexities of the family python dance, he needed to ask dad if these sacred skills can be shared in public. I also told him that under any future interrogations he should swear he learned any wayward behavior from our neighbor, Gene.

The Seattle Slur incident taught me a few valuable life lessons. First, I’ve learned to moderate my native tongue because kids are always listening. I’ve also broken some of my uber-frugal ways and now use contractors and mechanics for frustrating jobs. And finally, I now pick my bonding experiences more carefully. Playoff games are off that list until the kids are old enough to vote. These efforts have given me less foul-mouthed sons and a less irate spouse. Now if I can just figure out how to get my in-laws to stop shushing me in front of their friends and sprinkling holy water on me.