When I was really young, I'd get confused when some people would refer to French as the language of love. That's because when my mother would stub her toe or burn herself on a hot frying pan, she'd let fly with a few choice four- letter words, then after she realized my little ears were within earshot, she'd say, "Pardon my French."

For the longest time I didn't understand why anyone had to take French in a class, because I was getting a French lesson every time my mother hurt herself. I was also getting secondary French lessons from my older friends on the playground. By the time I reached third grade, I thought I was fluent in French. Imagine my surprise when I was sent to the principal for being bilingual.

I've tried to raise my three children without my version of a French heritage, but sometimes it's hard. Along with her pension for foreign languages, my mom passed on her talents for self- induced pain. I'm fighting genetics every time my foot slams into the sofa leg.

I'm not alone though. A friend of my wife's recently taught her eight- year- old son one of the most explicit words in my so- called French dialect. This friend is a fantastic mom, and I believe the fact her son hasn't learned this particular word as of yet is a testament to her parenting prowess. Unlike my mother, she did not ram her big toe into a wall or plant her forearm on the side of a hot wok. This woman witnessed her fully decorated Christmas tree come crashing down onto her living room floor. As she dove for cover and watched countless family heirlooms smash into a gozillion tiny shards across her hardwood floors, she let loose with a giant expletive. Little did she know Junior was walking by and tuned into the whole sordid incident.

I thought this story was very funny when I heard it - not because this mother's entire body of self- censorship came crashing down with the angel on top of her Christmas tree, but because I could relate. Certain moments call for certain words, but unfortunately we can't always control where our kids are going to be when those moments occur. Once those words are learned, it's kind of hard to un- teach them too.

After finding much humor in my wife's friend's demise, Karma decided it might be funny to test my self- control…

At about 10:30 pm last Sunday night (with apologies to Clement C. Moore) there arose such a clatter; I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the dining room I stumbled like a drunk, tripped over the dog and stepped in some junk. When what to my bloodshot eyes should I see, but a floor full of broken ornaments, and a flattened Christmas tree. With some little old karma, I threw a little fit. I slipped for a moment, and did say, "Oh %&*@!" More rapid than shoo flies my children they came, and they fussed, and shouted, and added to my shame. But I heard myself say, without the slightest flinch, "Happy Christmas to all, and please pardon my French."