(I am currently out of town on business, so for the next few days I’m going to post some things from my archives that many of you have probably never seen. This following was originally published on December 12, 2005.)
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.