Bite My Tongue, a lenten sacrifice

For Lent this year, I’ve decided to give up something that actually makes a difference in my life, and the lives of those around me, rather than the requisite sacrifice of ice cream or hamburgers.

So for forty days and nights I will not indulge in the pleasure of . . . .

Making un-constructive negative comments

I am genuinely jazzed. I think this could be good. It is a tall order, to be sure, but note that I am free to say what constructive negative comments I want. I guess the rule is, if I honestly think it will make the slightest difference, than I can exude negative energy. But if, as is most often the case, nothing good will come of it, then I will opt to bite my tongue. Or, as my mother puts it, bite my tongue til it bleeds. The funny part about my mother using this expressive is that I’ve never known her in all my years, to EVER bite her tongue, even gently, I come from a people who never need to preface their remarks, “If I can speak freely” because they are ALWAYS speaking freely. This isn’t a problem in and of itself. I imagine if you were the kind of person who has a generally rosy look on life, a mild temperament, and a generous disposition, than it might be rather nice for you to freely express your positive thoughts. But my mother, grandmother, and regrettably, myself, hardly ever have something positive bouncing around in our brains. We are chronic complainers and control freaks, and our speaking freely is really a disservice to the world.

Thus, in the spirit of Lent, I think I’ll make the world a better place (and give my husband a break) by experimenting with verbal restraint.

David doesn’t think I’ll be able to do it. He, however, underestimates my religious devotion, and, more important, my desire to prove him wrong. If things get rough, there’s always the Sunday absolution rule, where I can break my Lenten sacrifice on Sundays. Not sure who approved that loophole but I’m sure its kosher. Thankfully, I don’t blog on Sundays, so you won’t be privy to the rampage of criticism, contempt and complaints I may need to unleash.

To my tongue, I can only say: sorry, but you’ve got to take one for the team.

Wash My Mouth Out

I just realized that Easter is almost here which meant Lent has pretty much come and gone without me noticing or observing in the slightest. If I had known, I’d have given up cursing. David thinks this Lent business is kind of far-fetched and wants to know what my not using the f-bomb has to do with Jesus.

“Oh don’t be so literal,” I say, evasively, “You don’t understand because you’re not a Catholic and you don’t know the meaning of sacrifice, like I do,”

The truth is, I’m not a hundred percent sure either. And my packed schedule chasing children out of traffic doesn’t offer my much time to reflect. Suffice it to say that it feels right to make myself suffer a little bit, in homage. I used to give up chocolate but let’s face it, those were the days when I was drinking and smoking and dating, one might say, liberally. Now, I need the friggin’ chocolate. I am not, believe it or not, a saint. The chocolate is all I’ve got in the way of pleasure. Let me amend that since David will be reading this: its all I’ve got besides mind-blowingly, wall-bangingly raucous, incomparable sex with my husband. The point is, I need that chocolate and I know that Jesus understands. But he’s probably wondering why I curse like a sailor, in front of my young children.

“Son of a BITCH,” Seconda said this morning, when she spilled her yogurt on her lap.

“What did you say?” I gasped.

“Son of a BITCH,” she enunciated more clearly, like she was the one teaching me how to talk. And then, with flourish, she added, “GodDAMNit!”

It can’t be good, I thought, that my two year-old talks like she’s in a David Mamet play.

This is when I realized I needed to tone the language down. It didn’t help that a week or two before, when Primo’s pencil broke, he exclaimed, “This fucking pencil won’t work!”

The worst part is, he was so earnest, with no sense that he was using a bad word, or crossing a line. He was just trying to find the appropriate word for that particular scenario, the same way he does when he invokes the phrase “my hideous bumps” to describe the eczema flare-up on his legs.And thanks to my modeling, he thinks that word is a four-letter one. .

“Oh honey,” I said somberly, “That’s not a nice word. And its Mommy’s fault because I use it too much, and I shouldn’t because it’s an ugly word and not nice at all, so I’m sorry.”

So, I’m not feeling like such a stellar mama today. I have single-handedly tarnished my children, flawless vessels of purity. Although, to be fair, Seconda doesn’t look so pure when she’s beating down defenseless infants on the playground with her sappy cup. And neither does Primo when we’re on line at the grocery store and he screams,

“You better get me those marshmallows, you SCOUNDREL, or else!” But, still . . .

Are there others like me among you, readers? What horrifying curse words have your kids whipped out in the least appropriate places?