DON'T PLAY WITH YOUR KIDS!

Unless you are prepared to be seriously injured.

Okay it's not that serious. It just hurts like a mother f*ck@r.

And those last two words are the reason I'm writing this post. 

You see, I have a foul mouth. Evidenced by several of my posts, and by the many uncomfortable moments in mixed company, (that likely included someone's grandmother), where I could have chosen another word, but didn't.

However, the three people in this world I do NOT swear in front of are my kids. And they are not allowed to swear in front of me. (Just ask my 27 year old daughter...but she's not allowed to swear because she has a voice like Mini Mouse, which makes swearing sound ridiculous.)

BUT when your 11 year old son, who is freakishly strong, hurls a baseball in your direction, that just misses your glove, then nails your foot, and in an instant it feels like you are giving birth through your big toe, you apparently forget your swearing rule.

Instead you freeze, stop breathing and after you assure your darling child, who didn't mean to hurt you, that you are okay and it wasn't his fault, you succumb to the pain and become Joe Pesci from Goodfellows.

"Jesus Mother F-ing Christ!", you say in the early stages of toe labor. (You see, the nail of the toe acts like tourniquet. More blood is rushing to the area than can be released. Much like the baby-versus-vagina scenario.)

"Holy F-ing Sh*t Balls!", you scream with the next toe contraction. Then you quite ungracefully hop to the nearest picnic table because the park where you have just been injured is 40 minutes from home, your other son's baseball game just started and you aren't going anywhere for at least 2 hours. You need a place to prop your deleterious digit above your heart so you can get through this without an epidural.  

Finally, as you reach the active stage of toe birth and the DARK BLUE nail is crowning, you rip off a string of expletives that goes something like, "F-ing Mother of God Damn Christ. Why the F does this F-ing Sh*t hurt so much? Get me a C-Sucking gun!"

Suddenly, the triage team of your body's defense system retreats, things start to calm down, and as you open your eyes while still lying face-up on the bench portion of the picnic table, you can faintly see all the heavenly bodies you just verbally assaulted with their arms crossed, one foot tapping, leering down at you like you have just ruined your chances of ever getting in.

Then you look at your child who has gone from 11-41 in five minutes because of your bad behavior. His face is bright red. Not because he is scared or sad, but because he is so delighted that you have broken, nay, shattered your swearing rule so egregiously, that he thinks he can say whatever he wants in front of you for the rest of his life.

Then you both start laughing your asses off.

It's one of those moments the two of us will remember fondly forever.

Yeah, not exactly a Hallmark movie, but it's ours, so F-off.

Love,

Lynda

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