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Broke Wife, Big City
Apparently I
will do anything for love…even that
By Aprill Brandon
Meatloaf is a wise man.
Or maybe he’s not. I don’t know. I never met the dude. Maybe he’s the
kind of immature guy who unfriends you on Facebook because you never
hit “like” on the pictures of his cat Harold. Honestly, I was just
trying to think of a catchy first line that semi-segued to my topic.
Which is that I am at a point in my life that I, too, would do anything
for love.
But I won’t do that.
(And yes, you can stop reading now. That was a horrible introduction.
Less paradise by the dashboard light and more gray Indiana winter
endlessly whizzing by outside your car window. You deserve better. Use
this time to “like” Meatloaf’s cat pictures or something).
For those of you still reading (thanks Great Auntie Mildred! How’s the
sciatica?), it has come to my attention that despite all the sacrifices
I have already made for my son, I’m going to have to make another one
here shortly. A big one. HUGE. And as much as I love my kid, I just…I
just don’t know if I can do it.
I mean, wasn’t it enough that during the roughly 47 months I was
pregnant, I cut down from ten cups of coffee a day to just two? Or that
I stopped drinking Diet Coke so he wouldn’t grow a third eye on his
shoulder? Or that I gave up most alcohol completely? (I say most
because my doctor said it was OK to have the occasional glass of wine
and who am I to argue with science?).
Not to mention, I selflessly gained 50 pounds during his imprisonment
in my womb just so he would have an extra cozy living space. Because
that’s just the kind of caring mother I was right from the beginning.
And even once he was out, the sacrifices continued. My sleep. My
personal hygiene. My ability to talk to other adults in full sentences
and free of caveman grunts. I gave it all up for him. And I even did it
happily so considering one whiff of his head, which smells like flowers
and unicorns and mermaid glitter and ambrosia dipped in chocolate and
bacon, made it all worth it.
Still, you’d think all that would be enough.
But no. Because now, at 13-months-old, he’s asking me for the biggest
sacrifice yet. He’s making me…
…(Sigh)…
…he’s making me give up cursing.
Excuse me…I just need a moment. Come on, Aprill, get it together…
…(ragged breath)…
Yes, my baby, while not yet talking in words (or at least known human
words) is at that stage where he is mimicking sounds. Already he has my
frustrated Marge Simpson-esque growl down pat and can make the “fah”
f-letter sound thanks to an overly helpful Grover on an episode of
“Sesame Street.” He mimics the dog’s bark and my chipper “Hi!” that I
say every morning when I greet him. He even does a good fake laugh when
Momma is trying to entertain him and he decides to take pity on me and
my sweet 90s dance moves.
All of which is to say that I have to give up cursing, else his first
word be a non-Grover-approved f-word.
But here’s the thing, I’m not good at a lot of things (amazing stick
figure art aside). But I am a world champion cusser. I mean, I can take
one curse word and use it as a noun, pronoun, adjective, adverb AND
verb in one single sentence. I’m even up-to-date on the all the newest
curse words, picking a new one each day to use like some warped
word-of-the-day calendar.
Oh sure, I can turn it off when I need to. When I’m visiting with my
in-laws or I’m hanging out with “those” moms who can actually say
“H-E-Double Hockey Sticks” without collapsing into a fit of giggles
because of how dumb it sounds. But I’ve never had to give it up in my
own home. My cursing sanctuary. The place where I have always let my
four-letter word creativity blossom and develop in a nurturing
environment.
I’ve tried everything to curb my filthy mouth. For awhile I tried to
use alternatives. You know, like “dang” instead of “dammit!” or
“fartknocker” instead of every other single horrible word I use to
describe horrible people. I even tried yelling “Fudge it!” but that
just made me hungry all the time.
I also tried going cold turkey there for a bit, having my husband
monitor my words. Alas, that just made every conversation go like this:
Me: “I mean, what the h-…heck was that d-…person-head
f-fraking…thinking when they f-…freaking…oh my god…what was I saying
again? I can’t remember anymore.”
My husband: “Frak if I know.”
Me: “Smartass.”
My husband: “Ah, you cussed.”
Me: “Sorry. Dumbass.”
And also, cold turkey just made me hungry all the time.
But by golly gee, I’m going to do my darnedest to stop this dang bad
habit of mine. For my fraking son. Because it’s all fraking fun and
games until he calls his kindergarten teacher an A-hole because he
didn’t get a smiley face sticker on his Thanksgiving turkey hand
assignment.
So, I’m going to fraking do this. Even if it fraking kills me.
See you all at my funeral.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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