Every literary mama seems to write about this topic. Will that deter me? Hell—I mean, heck—no! So follow me into the confessional for that perennial, breast-beating lament of modern motherhood: My Kids Cuss Like Sailors And It's All My Fault.

This wasn't supposed to happen to me. Those other mothers found themselves in such an embarrassing fix because they were habitual cursers already. Their favorite modifier was "fucking." They muttered, "Damn it" at the least provocation. Their children never had a chance.

I wasn't like them. Before I had children, I cringed at casual cursing. I decried it as the mark of a deficient vocabulary, a disrespectful attitude, and a questionable moral character. Oh, cursing was acceptable—even appropriate—I believed, in certain situations. Situations involving futon frames falling on toes, new cars getting rear-ended, and the election of Republican presidents. In less dire circumstances, such as the discovery that the milk had gone bad, a simple "drat" would more than suffice. When I met my husband, the one drawback I detected in his perfection was the fact that he was a casual curser. At some point in those early months I told him it bothered me and he stopped. Just. Like. That. Would that I had the strength of character to do the same now!

I trace my downfall to sleep-deprivation. When a woman has been woken yet again by a baby desperate to locate the breast, when the mocking lights of the digital clock inform her that a mere 23 minutes have elapsed since she last got said baby to sleep…well, in situations like these, what instinctively comes out of a mother's mouth is a far cry from, "Heavens to Betsy!"

Even when my first son was a baby, however, my slide into profanity was limited to the nighttime hours. In daylight, Simon was such a charming, jolly, contented little fellow. And even when he developed a few pesky toddler behaviors (how many times did he dump out the wastebasket?), I didn't curse at him. Heaven forbid.

Enter Nate. There may be other mamas out there who are models of Mother Theresa-like serenity when contending with a three-year-old and a newborn. Not this one. (Come to think of it, Mother Theresa was never actually a mother, was she? That explains that). Sadly, it took no time at all for demands of a baby, combined with Simon's regular, violent meltdowns, to destroy the restraint of a lifetime.

I was surprised and disturbed to discover that in moments of extreme stress, what spontaneously came out of my mouth was a profoundly irritated, "Jesus Christ!" I've always respected Jesus, even though I'm not one of his followers, and I knew taking his name in vain was disrespectful to all the real Christians out there (Jim Wallis and Helen Prejean, I'm looking at you). But I couldn't seem to help myself.

From there, my descent was swift. Damn it. God damn it. Damn it to hell. I knew all about little pitchers and their big ears. There was no doubt that Simon was listening. But that hellacious first six months with two kids blew the goody-goody circuit in my brain right out. Yelling, "Fuck it!" or even just muttering it under my breath, came to be a natural response when confronted with yet another hour-long tantrum. It didn't make me feel better. It didn't help me cope. But I couldn't stop it.

Strangely enough, Simon never seemed to notice that his mild-mannered mother had developed the vocabulary of a longshoreman. This was a kid who regularly picked up adult expressions. His father and I delighted in hearing our little boy preface some remark with, "As a matter of fact," or "For example." But for some reason, he never repeated the curses that came out of my mouth. How could Simon be so oblivious? Or had he come equipped with a goody-goody circuit of his own?

Sooner or later, though, the piper must be paid. One summer day when Nate was two-and-a-half, Simon accidentally spilled his water at the table. An odd, tentative expression came over my five-year-old's face. Then he smiled. "Fuck it," he said.

I gasped. "Simon!"

He looked at me triumphantly. "But you say 'fuck it,' Mama."

"Fuck it!" repeated Nate enthusiastically.

"You say, 'damn it' too," added Simon.

"Damn it!" repeated my innocent toddler.

I pulled the tatters of my motherly authority around me and embarked on the age-old explanation about Words That Are Polite and Words That Are Rude. Yes, I admitted, I used those rude words. And I shouldn't do that. Those words make people uncomfortable, and I was going to try to stop using them, right away. And they could help remind me not to use them, and we could all try together to only use the Polite Words.

It was a fine speech, cribbed from mothers who have written about this topic, whose sensible words I had tucked away in my mind for this very occasion. But alas, the horse was gone. And I couldn't lock that barn door.

Oh, I tried. Really, I did. I attempted to follow the admirable example of Lee Snodgrass (Ma Generation zine) and use euphemisms. But "cheese and rice" never sprang to my lips as readily as "Jesus Christ" did. And the first time I resorted to, "Bucket!" in a moment of stress, Nate giggled and chanted, "Fuck it-bucket! Fuck it-bucket!" He took to yelling this unsavory phrase at dinner, at my parents' house, and in the grocery store. The raised eyebrows of everyone within hearing range made it clear that "bucket" in no way mitigated "fuck it." They knew, all right. Someone had been a bad influence.

The one thing I can take comfort in is that, for the most part, my kids don't use curses the way I, alas, do. It's true that when really riled up, Nate spouts a hair-raising (and hilarious) litany of all the "bad" words he can think of. (Try keeping a straight face while a three-year-old sputters, "You—you—you poopy-butt, fuck it bucket, for crying out loud, shoot-you-in-the-eye, poopy stinky!") But for the most part, Simon and Nate use curses purely for shock value. They know how I feel about it, and they use them to get a reaction out of me.

Even more, however, my boys have turned into the profanity police. "Don't say that word!" they admonish me, like stern little parents themselves, when I slip up. And it's this, more than any pressure I might put on myself, that makes me so determined to clean up my act. Maybe I can start with "cheese and rice" again, and work my way backwards. After all, I picked up "heavens to Betsy" from my mother. Why shouldn't they?

Kate Haas publishes Miranda, a zine about motherhood and other adventures. Kate's writing chronicles her past (apple picking, inner-city teaching, Peace Corps in Morocco), and the complexities of her current life as a mother. Her writing has appeared in Brain, Child, The Mothers Movement Online, and ImperfectParent.com. She lives in Portland, OR with her husband and two sons.