Yesterday while pushing Leta through the grocery store in a cart that had a car fastened to its front I accidentally backed the entire 600 pound vehicle over my right foot. A woman and her child were waiting several feet down the aisle for us to move out of the way, and for the first time in many, many years I actually thought twice about bursting into flames of profanity. The first string that came to mind was SHIT DAMN GEFILTE FISH FUCK.
A part of me recognized this self-censorship as an inevitable consequence of parenthood, of not wanting my tiny tape recorder with pigtails to play back my vulgarity in public, but a bigger part of me felt possessed of The Spirit of The Lord, a burning within not unlike a urinary tract infection. Parenthood has tapped into the latent overachieving Mormon in me, and for a few seconds yesterday I stifled the urge to curse because IT WAS THE RIGHT THING TO DO.
Yuck.
