I am relatively ladylike in person. I don’t curse a lot. I sit with my legs closed. I wait for doors to be opened for me. I was raised right — by good, Southern, God-fearing parents.
Then, I had children.
I don’t curse in front of my kids, but I curse in writing all the time. Husband gets texts pretty often that say “this is BULLSHIT!!” referring to one problem or another. My girlfriends, bless them, are subjected to MANY an F-bomb daily. Something about spending all day with kids, restraining myself, remaining pleasant despite very unpleasant circumstances, using self-control lest I completely lose my shit in front of them, forces me to be very, very honest in written form.
I don’t have a choice, people. I can either scream “GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP!” at my children, or I can type it and send it to someone who isn’t four years old. I realize once my kids can read, this may become a problem. But for right now, it seems to be working for me.
Today, I tried to cram our beast of a double stroller into the back of our Chevy Malibu. I am sure on a different day, given a different set of circumstances, I would have been able to handle the situation better. But today, I screamed “I HATE THIS FUCKING STROLLER!!!!!!” as I slammed the trunk shut. Unfortunately, the nice lady who lives next door to us, a retired schoolteacher who once paid us a special visit to inform us she doesn’t celebrate Halloween because it’s the Devil’s Day, was in her backyard when I threw my temper tantrum.
Husband then received two texts. The first one said, “I AM TIRED OF BEING A MOM.” The next one said “I am never putting that f-ing stroller in our car again. That is bullshit. We either need to switch cars, or get an f-ing van.”
No response. But boy, do I feel better.