Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.
What do you get when one and three go to war? Lot’s of flying fists, hurt feelings and exhausted referees.
Into every new year a little profanity must fall and who better to give it to you than Il Duce? The shock value of naughty words spilling forth from tiny lips never lessens, but even I drew a sharp breath upon hearing his newly acquired profane utterance.
If you want an extreme reaction, make sure to call me a bitch.
If you want to make me cry watch my five-year old learn and use that word.
Number one and number three are forces of nature that suck the air out of every room they enter creating a vacuum that few escape. Sandwiched between these two is my gentle sweet heart who has learned to weather the storm and keep his head down.
Powerful personalities battle it out over Tokyo
Today I listened to all three call each other that word and waited for the piss poor parenting paddy wagon to pull up and cart me off.
Good work mom.
One too many viewings of the housewives of whatever county happen to be on and the word became legend over here where potty mouth is far too prevalent and three bars of lye soap are in demand now.
Filed under 1, am I doing anything right?, assholes, Bad cable shows, bad catholics, bad parenting, behavior problems in kids, buffoonery, crazy ramblings, discipline, kids and parenting, kids that like cursewords, parenting, parenting badly, please let him grow up to be normal
I’ve got years of bonafide Catholic molding and teaching to thank for my aversion to attending mass on Sunday. For years ,the promise of a kick ass Szchechuan chinese meal complete with succulent chicken in paper and prawns with garlic sauce kept me going to one 4:30 snore fest after the next, knowing that the wafer was only the first course in a night that promised culinary perfection topped with a fortune cookie. The enticing idea of a long luxurious brunch after the 10:30 a.m. helped me pass the hour fantasizing what kind of eggs I’d be getting with my bacon and wheat toast. But as I grew older a new and far more powerful draw kept me in the pews. The lure of the Irish Catholic male. In high school I attended mass in the school rotunda at lunch religiously to catch a glimpse of the boy I really liked ( and wanted to deflower) and even went so far as to attend his parish mass..WHERE HIS FAMILY WAS. If that’s not enough to turn the stomach of every good Catholic mother and father, then what I imagined transpiring between he and I while my eyes bore a hole in the back of his angelic head would be more than enough to make the contents of those stomachs spill forth on the floor. Later on, I would wonder why his parents disliked me so intensely, never imagining they probably had me pegged the first time I genuflected at the altar. Only a true harlot would dare skip into such a revered place with such vile intent, and truth be told I did stop going to church the minute we hooked up in the master suite of my best friends house , but these days my thoughts are not quite so depraved. I have three kids by a wonderful guy who counts himself among the happy atheists of the world and this lapsed Catholic and her God ignoring husband send them to Parochial school. That’s right. I’ve come full circle and realized all that browbeating, forced goodness and fear of God build some serious character and make for knee slapping stories as you grow older. My daughter is not yet old enough to be sneaking around looking for boys to chase, and she actually enjoys church while managing to listen to the priest unlike her mother who starts to daydream about warm doughnuts and piping hot coffee somewhere around the gospel.