Speaking of #$@%*!

Growing up you could instantly know the level of stress in our home by the amount of profanity in the air. I actually think it's genetic. Although if you ask most of my female relatives (especially my grandmother) they would swear on their lives that they in fact, don't swear. But get one of them in the kitchen burning the Thanksgiving rolls and you better hope you brought ear plugs for the kids.

Usually I am unaffected by the profanity gene but add in just the right mix and well...

This was a rough summer but there was a patch of a few particularly tough days. On one of those afternoons our neighbor pulled up in her car on her way home. Simon jumped in to visit with her kids while we talked. Before I knew it Simon was halfway out the window and the window was on it's way up. With in seconds my boy was trapped in a window determined to shut. He's screaming. My friend is frantically pushing all the window buttons in the car to know avail. And what am I doing? Oh, I'm standing there trying to use my muscle to push down the window while a stream of profanity is spewing from my mouth. And if that picture isn't pretty enough for you then know that my next door neighbors and their 6 children were all out unpacking their camper in the front yard watching and hearing the whole thing.

The very next day my stove caught on fire. As I put out the fire I opened the windows letting the smoke and the profanity out into the back yard where those same next door neighbors were playing.

Later that night I went in the back yard for something when all heck broke loose inside. I hear things crashing and children screaming. Running inside I left behind a trail of profanity for those blessed next door neighbors to enjoy as they pulled weeds together in their garden.

The next day was Sunday. Ahhh, the Sabbath. As the meeting begins the first speaker is none other than the eldest son of our next door neighbor and what is he speaking on? Profanity. I like to think I helped inspire him.