Heater, Mother of Lance

What an excellent day for an exorcism

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.


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Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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