If You’re Worried About The Word ‘Fuck’ In The Title Of My Book — You Aren’t Paying Attention

If you’re worried about your children seeing the word “Fuck” in the title of my book, or across my chest, you’re not paying attention.

Worry about your children seeing you wide eyed not set boundaries in your life — observing you living out of alignment with yourself and then later mirroring this behavior—to become a people pleasing doormat, not living for themselves, abandoning themselves—because, mommy did it.

Worry about your children seeing you in a marriage you out grew 10 years ago, and then walking forward to out stay a love that isn’t loving in their future, living what they saw—to protect their kids from something they never needed to be protected from in the first place. Kids have bullshit meters, divorce is loving.

Worry about your children seeing you numb — dad crack a beer at 5 PM everyday, and mom pour a glass of wine every night making dinner —
and then to grow up and normalize their addictions and dependencies. Worry about them never feelings their feelings, and turning to the vices they see you life to your mouth everyday.

Worry about them having social anxiety and depression from living in their screens, after a lifetime of camera phones in their face and your faces as you document everything but their heart that is beating, waiting for you on the other side to pay attention.

Worry about your long work hours, that keep you from the quality time with your kids—to your children growing up and choosing some sort of ugly limiting belief, like “unworthy” making your actions about them in their head and then continuing on to choose partners, bosses and friends who don’t give them the time and love they deserve.

Worry about your daughter thinking her greatest asset is the fact she is pretty—not the brilliant fucking brain that she is after so much fuss being made over how her hair looks, and none over what lights her spirit on fire.

Worry about your son, refusing to touch his heart and ending up in therapy after hearing you take strips with the other dads off a man for crying about how “feeling’s are gay” and “real mean don’t cry”.

Worry about your daughter being one of the 1 in 4 cases of sexual assault and harassment, and not opening her voice to speak because we have a president that is a sociopath and doesn’t give a lick about women’s rights.

Worry about your son being an assaulter, after seeing dad touch the leg of the waitress at the restaurant and tell you, “It’s okay,” when he mentions her being uncomfortable.

Worry about your kids seeing you work a 9-5 job you hate, miserable—manifesting diseases and cancer from the emotions you refuse to look at while thinking you must ‘work to work to work to die’ and then enrolling themselves in a job they hate, because monkey see, monkey do and you were too proud to quit, to scared to go after your dreams. And now they’re working as a lawyer, staring out the glass—empty of the sustenance of their dreams.

The word ‘Fuck’ across my chest. The word ‘Fuck’ across my book is the least of your worries.

Monkey see, Monkey do.

What are you doing?