Swear Jar

Oh, it has happened. All the shit hard time I have given Jason about his potty-mouth has caught up with my ass tushy. Truth be told- its not really him with the problem... Its me.

I should have known it was coming. So many times I have told Jas, "Just you wait until they say something at school. You will be the one going to that parent-teacher conference." Yea, I think I should be the one clearing my calendar...

So, the other day my mom comes to pick up Luke for a play day, and he has been stalking her at the kitchen window, waiting... As soon as she pulls up, he turns to me and says, with clinched fists raised in excitement, "HOLY CRAP! Mimi's here!!!!" Now, I am the worst disciplinarian in the history of the world- only because I think my children are so funny, and I cannot look them in the eye and keep a straight face when they have done something wrong that could be perceived as humorous. (I know it is a fault of mine. I am working on it...) So when he says this declaration, I just about spit my coffee across the room and then have to bite the inside of my cheeks until the are bleed-ing to stop myself from laughing. But he knows. He's seen that face before and he says, "Wha so fun-nee Momeee?" with the precious smile. Ugh! So have to keep a straight face and tell him "'Crap' is a very yucky word. We don't say that word." and he says, "Yes, oooooooonly when we play MarioKart." Damnit! I mean, Shoot!

So I should have known it was coming. Something was going to come out of his mouth at the wrong time at the wrong place. Sure enough. Today after school, we had to run a few errands- one of which was up to the little post office place run by this adorable old couple. They are so nice and cute and southern, I always expect to walk in there one day and see them sitting in rocking chairs, offering me a glass of homemade lemonade out of a mason jar... Well, I had quite a few tasks to accomplish while we were there and suggested that the kids play with the toys that they keep in little bucket by the counter. Luke and Miss O start playing with the blocks and get into a bit of a tiff, if you will. I tell the sweet women, "Excuse me" and dip down under the counter to try to stop the squabble as quickly as possible. I dig through the bucket and pull out an old beat up train. "Here, play with this!" I say through clinched teeth, trying not to loose it. To which my precious son replies, "No! That one's CRAP!" Oh, sweet Lord. I stand back up very slowly, scared of the look I will find on Mrs. Sweet Postal Lady's face. Yea. It was pretty awful. "Oh, ha, ha, silly kids! They say the darnest things," I say, kicking Luke under the counter getting back to business. I am dying, by the way.

So we are almost finished, and I ask the kids to clean up and Luke wonders over to the rack of cardboard mailing tubes. One day, weeks ago, Luke was bugging the crap hooey out of me, begging me for cookies. To have some comic relief, I grabbed the empty paper towel roll from the holder, and did a little trumpet sounds and made a very official announcement: "NO. MORE. COOKIES!" He thought this was hil-ar-i-ous, and now every time he sees some sort of cardboard roll, he feels compelled to do his own "No more cookies" announcement. He decided this needed to be done with one of the HUGE tubes at the postal store. Well, he had a tough time getting it out of the rack, and in the meantime he knocked over three or four, causing a huge ruckess, and what do I hear out of his sweet little mouth? "Oh, shit!"

Yes. Its official. I am the WORST Mommy in the whole world.

"Luke!" I yelled, "We DO NOT say that word!"
"Right. Oooooooooonly when we play MarioKart."

Needless to say, I didn't look that poor women in the eye for the rest of the trip. I was so embarrassed and fumbly, wanting to get the hell heck out of there that I actually left my debit card on the counter with the receipt I signed. I am thinking of just leaving it there, out of sheer embarrassment, and going to the bank tomorrow to get a new one. And while I'm there, I may as well start a high yield savings account for all of the money that I will be pouring into the Swear Jar I have made for myself.

Oh, the shame. The shame.