THE FIRST WORD

Jackie Clements-Marenda

“. . . my second grandson Patrick, despite our purchase of various ‘First Word’ books, decided at the age of ten months to pick his own first word. Not Da-Da, not Ma-Ma, not cat, not dog. No. It was the “f” word. Yes. The one that rhymes with duck and truck.”

I stood in front of a display of Children’s Books, my eyes searching for the newest addition to The Diary of a Wimpy Kid series for grandchild #1. Two women, one extremely pregnant accompanied by another woman who I assumed was her mother, were rifling through the books piled on the display table between us.

The mother-to-be held up two books, ‘My First 100 Words,’ and ‘First 101 Words: A Highlights Hide-And-Seek Book With Flaps.’ “I don’t know which one to choose,” she sighed as she patted her belly. “I really want her to say Ma-Ma first, but my friend Rosemary with the five kids, - you know who she is, Mom – all her kids said Da-Da first.”

It was not my business to burst her hopeful bubble, but my second grandson Patrick, despite our purchase of various ‘First Word’ books, decided at the age of ten months to pick his own first word. Not Da-Da, not Ma-Ma, not cat, not dog. No. It was the “f” word. Yes. the one that rhymes with duck and truck. This was not planned, not encouraged, but if you ride with Grandma in New York City, the let’s-forget-all-rules-of-traffic capital of the United States, you will sometimes hear me articulate my anger and frustrations in some unladylike, but very-appropriate-at-the-time, lan- guage.

Children are great mimics; it’s one of the ways they learn. If they are given attention, a reaction, when they say or do something wrong it will encourage them to say, or do, it again. Patrick’s single mother who, along with Patrick, lives with us, knew that if we ignored it, in time the “f” word would be replaced with another word. She shrugged it off, but great-grandma Flo? At the age of 86 she developed a full-blown case of denial.

“He has a lisp,” she insisted. “He is trying to say truck and duck.” In an effort to enforce this fallacy, she purchased a selection of small trucks and ducks that she kept in her pocketbook, ready to whip out in case Patrick said the offensuve word in front of her friends. “Yes, that cloud is shaped like a duck. Do you want to play with the blue truck or the red truck?” She’d coo.

Patrick did not have a lisp. He just liked the way this particular word rolled off his tongue and he used the word as an answer to every question. “Do you want your bottle?”

“F... ..”

“I’m going to give you your bath now.”

“F... ..”

“It’s time for bed.”

“F.. k!” planned to grab the water-filled spray bottle I used to mist my house plants and squirt him. Both had been her weapons when the dog misbehaved. Instead, she dialed a number on her cell phone and asked, “Is this the rectory at St. John’s church? It is? Good. I’d like to order an Exorcism. How soon can a priest be here?”

Great-grandma Flo, who for years had been searching for an excuse for her age-related conditions of high-blood pressure, diabetes, and shrinking an inch-a-decade, blamed all her woes on her great-grandson’s foul word. Refusing to believe that, as Patrick’s vocabulary expanded, he would forget the word, she sprinkled Holy Water throughout the house; then left to spend the winter with friends in Florida, vowing to write me out of her will while she was there. Note: She did not have a will.

I don’t know if she intended to have the Devil cast out of me and my husband, or Patrick. Probably never will. Fifteen years later we are still waiting for the priest to arrive.

When she returned several months later, Patrick had forgotten the word and was happily stringing other words together to make simple sentences. Uttering a sigh of relief at this news, great-grandma Flo sat Patrick on her lap and asked, “And how is my handsome boy?”

Patrick patted her cheek and clearly replied, “Son-of-a-b.. ....”

Yes, the “f” word had been replaced by the S-O-B word, thanks to my husband’s rantings the day he slipped on the ice, fell, and broke his shoulder. Of course, this explanation and the fact that her son-in-law required surgery meant nothing to her. No. It was all about the words.

Great-grandma Flo handed Patrick to me. She got to her feet. I didn’t know if she was going to roll up the newspaper lying on the table and whack my husband on the nose with it, or if she

About The Author

Jackie Clements

Marenda is a frequent contributor to numerous Magazines and Newspapers. Living at the Jersey shore, Jackie can often be founding walking alone the shoreline with her four grandchildren, gathering sea glass and watching the horizon for the sudden appearance of Mermaids. ◆ ◆ ◆