I am known among my circle of friends for a lot of things. My off-kilter sense of humor. My dramatic storytelling. My ridiculous addiction of saving lost animals. But, perhaps my most infamous trait is my potty mouth. There are merchant marines who have asked me to “clean it up a little”. I thought I had tempered my language for naughty words as I became a mom; however, a couple of situations with my children proved otherwise.
When my oldest son was four years old, he was in a great Montessori school. The headmistress at this preschool did not mess around. To say she lacked any evidence of a sense of humor is putting it politely. She was not unkind to the children, but she had zero tolerance for any monkey business.
So, as I sit at my very open desk at UBS Warburg Energy, my co-workers hear me say “Oh Sh!t” as I see the school number appear on my caller ID. They then perk their ears for my side of the phone call from the Take-No-Crap-Montessori- Headmistress:
“Yes, this is Evelyn.” “He said what?” “Oh my God.” “Um, yes, I will come to the school now.”
My co-workers do not have to solicit an explanation.
“My son had a friend grab a toy away from him. So my child, and in loud voice with perfect enunciation, looked at the playmate, and said ‘F%^& You.’ I do not know if I am horrified or slightly impressed that he used it in proper context.”
Not to be left out, my youngest had his moment in the cussing spotlight. Several years later, we took the boys to a Texas A&M football game. My youngest was four years old (I sense a trend). This child has understood football since he was two. As an infant, if you turned the TV channel off of a football game, he would cry until you returned the channel to the game.
My kids had their handheld game devices to help keep them occupied. The Aggies were playing Colorado, and the game had been very close – trading the lead over and over.
At the end of the fourth quarter, A&M was ahead, but in the last seconds Colorado tied the game – so we were headed for overtime. We are surrounded by old Ags, and there was audible disgust that we did not hold the lead. As the stadium sounds quieted around us, my youngest, in coke bottle glasses, adding to his appearance as an innocent child, glances up from his Gameboy, and at full volume declares:
“Colorado scored! Son of a b*tch.”
Everyone in our immediate area busted out in laugher. My husband shot me the “I wonder where he heard that” look, just to cover his butt.
So, me and my mouth have managed to leave quite a trail of stories. And as “offended” as some people will pretend to be, they often request I tell these stories over and over. What can I say? Love me, love my mouth.
