The one word you can’t say in front of my dad

My parents are vastly different in their anger.  My mother is a tornado.  You can hear it coming, but she is very precise on where she lays down her path of destruction.  If you battened down the hatches, listened for the warnings, you’ll survive; if you decided to ignore the warnings, you’re a dead man.  My father is a volcano.  It builds and builds until he erupts taking out everything in his path.  I shiver from my mother’s screamings; I sob under my father’s quiet “I’m disappointed in you.”  But they agreed on punishing for language, and that punishment was the good, old fashion soap.

I was home for my first winter break from college.  I was helping decorate the living room for Christmas because with my parents working and I not being there, my brothers had done little but put up their favorite ornaments on the tree.  All ten of them.  As I was picking up a glass ornament older than my mom, I dropped it, shattering it.

Me: Goddamnit!

My dad was in the room.  He looked up.

Dad: Fae.  In the bathroom.  Now.

Me: What?

He got up slowly with purpose, much like a jaguar stalking prey. 

Dad: You heard me, Fae.  In the bathroom.  Now.

Of course, this jaguar was as big as a grizzly and walked like a cop and talked like my dad.

Me: Dad.  You got to be kidding.  I’m eighteen.  I’m in college.  I don’t even live here.

Dad: You’re my daughter.  You technically do live here.  I’m not asking again.  Get into the bathroom.

Son of a.  I marched into the bathroom, believing this was all a joke.  I was eighteen, an adult.

Dad: Sit on the hamper.

Yup, just like when I was eleven and stupid enough to say “shit.”  Smart, Fae, smart. 

My dad shut the bathroom door, a small mercy to shield my punishment from my brothers who will hear about it soon enough.

Dad: Liquid or bar?

I always felt this was a trick question.  I was so sure the bar was better because the liquid could run down your throat, but maybe that’s what he wanted you to think.

Me: Bar. 

Ok, I’m not brave enough for the liquid.  I can’t believe he’s making me do this.  I’m an adult.  I voted.

Dad: Open your mouth.  Stick out your tongue.

Fine.  We’ll see how far you can take a joke.  Ahhhhh.

He rubbed the bar on my tongue in two circles, then scrapped it along the back of my upper front teeth.

Dad: You won’t be using that kind of language in my house, young lady.  Rinse it out any time.

He left the room.  The rinsing out is the worst part.  It turns the solid soap sitting on your tongue to liquid, filling your mouth with that oh-so-wonderful soapy taste.

That was the day I learned I could say “God” and “Damn,” but I could never EVER put the two together.

The day after the F word incident, The Husband and I were having yet another money talk.  We had a lot of those in December because I play CFO to The Husband’s CEO in money issues.  He tells me the money he can give me and questions where the rest went, and I supply him with all the answers and tell him I need more.  Like most CEOs, The Husband has no idea how much money it takes to run things.  Like most CFOs, my solution is get me more money (and cut out those CEO lunches).  If I was a real CFO, you know who liked numbers and money, I would have an ongoing spreadsheet showing every single purchase, but I’m not and would rather eat soap then be that crazy organize.  (Crap that almost sounded like intuition. Ahhhhh!)  You can imagine how heated these conversations can get.

The boys were playing toys in the floor between us as I like to get as far away from the breathing fire as possible (though The Husband does calm down after a few minutes of rational thinking; he’s just quick on the fire breathing).  I finished submitting my report.

The Husband: GODDAMNIT, Fae!

I launched back with more detail logic to his fiery ourtburst.  I hate being broke too.  I hate spending this much on bills.  But that’s how life is, and I cut all I could.

Meanwhile.  There was Sean in the background of my monologue.

Sean: Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.

Me: (finishing up my speech) Oh, and thanks for teaching our two year old that lovely new word.

Sean: Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.

The Husband: You’re welcome.  Oh. Cr-

Me: Don’t say it.

The Husband: Right.  Ok.  Um.  Ok.  I can do this.  I just can’t get over how much we spend.

Me: Trust me.  We’re cheaper than we used to be. 

Sean:  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.  Goddamnit.

The Husband: Sorry about that.  Should we talk to him?

Me: No.  Hopefully he’ll forget it in a moment.  Hey, Sean.  Do you want some popcorn and juice?

Sean: Juice!  Corn!  Juice.  Juice.  Juice.  Juice.

The New Vocabulary

I was doing dished.  I know, in the day!  Weird.  Cleaning up after breakfast.  I know, before lunch!  Weird.  When I watched Evan walk into the family room and accidently drop his toy.

Evan: F-it.

Me: (In the Voice) What?

Evan looked around, feigning confusion.  I walked into the family room, kneeled on one knee, and looked him in his eye.

Me: What.  Did you say?

Evan: (in a meek voice) F-it.

Me: Why. Did you say that?

Evan: Because Daddy does.

I arched one eyebrow, stood up, took Evan in one hand, and marched to the closed office door.  I knocked.

The Husband: (muffled and distracted) Yes?

Me: You better come out here and join me in a talk with Evan.  He just used the F word and said it came from you.

I might have still been using the voice because I heard The Husband drop his earphone set and roll the chair as soon as I finished talking.  He unlocked and opened the door, staring at us.  His eyes read “I don’t know when he heard me say it.”  But he wisely didn’t say the words because I just glared at him.  Because I knew Evan got it from The Husband.

The Husband: Let’s talk.

I sat Evan down on the floor and joined him.  The Husband followed suit, trying on his best I’m-an-angry-dad-don’t-push-my-buttons look.

Me: Evan.  Do you know what that word means?

Evan: No.

Me: If you don’t know what it means, why would you say it?

Evan: I don’t know.

Me:  There are some words out there that aren’t good to use.  They don’t work well.  Often they make the person saying them look stupid.  The word you used is one of those.  You’re not allowed to say it.

Evan: But Daddy does!

The Husband opened his mouth to say something.

Me: I don’t care if Daddy says it.  I’m not talking about Daddy.  I’m talking about Evan.  I only care if Evan says it.  If you say it again, you’ll be going to time out.

The Husband: If you hear Daddy say it, you can put me into time out.

Me: Do you understand me?

Evan: Yes, Mommy.

Me: Now I want an apology and a kiss and a hug.

Evan: I’m sorry, Mommy. 

He stood up to give me a kiss and a hug.  He ran off to play with Sean.

Me: Do you think it’s time you watched your language?

The Husband: I haven’t said that in a while.  I don’t even watch football games here just in case.

Me: You used it yesterday when you were yelling at one of the employees over the phone.

The Husband: You can hear that? 

Me: Babe, back when we lived in the condo I could here you yelling all the way down the stairs, out the garage, and across the street at the trash bin.  You only have a hollow door between you and us.

The Husband: So, I guess it’s time for me to watch my language.

Me: Yes.

Wet Accidents

We’ve been having a little trouble in the household lately.  By we, I mean, Evan and me.  Evan has been peeing his pants.  And I have been trying not to be so damn frustrated over it.  It’s been months since he’s had an accident, excluding the weekend The Husband was watching him.  Actually I can’t remember the last time he peed his pants.  Before if he had an accident, it was just a little because he couldn’t hold it any more, and I would send him into the bathroom to finish, and he would cry out of embarrassment and frustration.

Last week, he peed in his pants when we were at my parents’ house.  He came up to me nonchalantly and told me.  I removed his pants, scolding him, asking him why he did it, and put him in some spare underwear I carry just in case.  Accidents happen, right?

Then Sunday when we were at my grandma’s house, he peed his pants again.  With the same flippant attitude he told me.  I wanted to wring his neck.  Why, Evan?  Why?  Why didn’t you stop playing to go potty?  I checked the diaper bag to learn I forgot to replace the spare underwear and walked to my parents’ house to get into my car to pull out the spare spare underwear.  Apparently I forgot to replace those.  So he free balled it in some shorts. 

Then Sunday night at my parents’ house, we were playing.  He was behind me as I sat on the couch, trying to reach Sean, so I would sit back, pressing my weight against him, mentioning what a soft but loud pillow grandma had.  Then I heard an “Uh-oh” followed by a warm, wet sensation on my back.  EVAN L-!!!!!  I swear to God I’m going to kill this child.  What were you thinking?  Why didn’t you go to the potty?  Why didn’t you listen to your body tell you went to the potty?  I had no spare underwear, pants, or shorts.  My mom suggested swimmers, but Evan jumped at that idea.  So I slapped on one of Sean’s diapers on him and took him home. 

Yesterday I reminded him to use the bathroom all morning.  I sent him off to school.  I didn’t even think it would be a problem.  He’s never had an accident at school.  He would be too embarrassed.

And I would be wrong as the teacher beckoned me over and discreetly told me about Evan’s accident as she handed me a plastic bag of urine soaked clothes as Evan scurried out from between us with pants obviously too small for him.  Lord, help me.

We had a talk about it.  Again, he pleaded he was too busy playing.  I know this is a common issue for boys, but three accidents in two days? 

I’m making him go every two hours, whether he wants to or not.  Mainly not.  I’m kicking myself for giving away my potty book because I read the whole thing and learned the program, why do I need it?  Famous last words, Fae.  Famous last words.

Could it be the new baby coming?  Possibly, but Evan is fascinated by babies.  He has to talk to them and their parents whenever he sees one.  He’s been carrying a baby doll around pretending to be Daddy.  But he does have his moments when he wants to be a baby, making whiny noises, flopping around when he doesn’t want to do something.  Then I remind him babies take two naps, babies eat baby food, and babies wear diapers.  That cures it.

Could it be The Husband has been gone for over a week and will be gone for at least one more, if not two?  Possibly, but The Husband has been gone for longer period of time without Evan having accidents.

So, yeah.  I have no idea.  Like every other parenting issue.

The Top Ten Best Things About Being Pregnant

1. Cravings must be obeyed at all cost, even if it means eating a sundae every day.
2. When deciding on a restaurant, you have final and ultimate say.
3. When restaurants give a loaf of bread cut with one more piece than the party or the appetizer has one more than the party, you get it.
4. If your significant other has something on his plate that you want, you get it.
5. Most of the time you don’t have to worry about your weight and every little thing you put in your mouth.
6. Everyone will tell you how good you look, whether it’s true or not.
7. Nap time is back!  And every one understands.
8. Shopping for baby stuff is quite fun.
9. You have the ultimate conversation starter.
10. Feeling that baby kick you. (Until the last month when you just yell at it to stop.)

So does any one else have anything to add?

Things that bug me

The fact that I couldn’t write because I was spending the day at my parents’ house where my mom is addicted to computer games.  Does she seek help?  Nope.  No matter how many emails I send her about programs.  She just stays on the computer all afternoon, and I can’t write.  I prefer it if she would go back to her nice safe reading addiction.

The fact that I pulled four maternity shirts out of the laundry to find them stained.  This is probably my last pregnancy.  I didn’t want to buy anymore clothes.  It was bad enough most of my maternity clothes are summer based without sleeves, so now I have to buy some more shirts.  Dang.

The fact that when I’m pregnant I have no self-control.  It’s not one cookie; it’s a half a dozen.  It’s not one helping of mashed potatoes; it’s two large portions.  It’s not a scoop of ice cream; it’s nearly the whole carton.  I really need to find some exercise routine.