#294

I've noticed parenting is often "do as I say, not as I do" or, in a word, hypocrisy. So be it; between parent and child, it's always been this way ("Never fight a mammoth, Son. Now where's my spear so I can kill that woolly mother-f*cker," and so on and so forth, for millennia.... I know that wasn't funny, but effort is important; at least that's what I tell M 'n' m.) So this morning's hypocritical act for me goes like this: I always tell Michael to cover his toes when he's moving heavy objects, mowing, working in the yard or the garage (otherwise, he often lazily stays barefoot and I visualize one of his toes getting gashed or crushed like a grape). So a few hours ago I was prying off paneling in the basement and I dropped the pry bar on my... bare foot. Hurt like a mother-f*cker. Blood and bruising. Okay, I'll shut-off the foul language, but bad words have an artistic place in the contemporary writing I find clever and moving. It's all about being cool, right? WRONG! M 'n' m, it's NOT about being cool. Profanity, which will never escape your lips or be scribbled by your fingers – is about emphasis and the purest conveyance of feeling, raw, unfiltered, the ugly no more hidden than the pretty. It's about connection, honesty, and the spectrum of reality, about the flexibility and flaws, beauties, and extremes of expression via language. And, as I mentioned above, from parent to child, for eons, it's been 'do as I say, not as I do.'"

Megan goes to Kansas City every summer for a long grandparent visit. I miss her. Michael goes too, but I feel more connected to him when he's far away. He calls me; I call him; we're good. It's not so with Meg-o. She's just not an Olympic-caliber long-distance communicator. When she's in Kansas or Minnesota I'm certain she'll call. I wait. And I wait. But no. So I call her – about once a day – and she's terse and distracted. And she's not even a teenager yet. Can I use the F-word again? It's funny, now I'm wondering if my parents are reading this and judging me; although Papa Mike is a man of oaths, for sure, and M 'n' m have heard his colorful best – I'm Mr. Rogers compared to Papa – so even though parenting is hypocrisy, remember, Papa Mike won't cuss me for cussing. I digress. Back to Megan. She'll be home soon and I'll give her a crushing hug and smother her with kisses, none of which will graze her cheeks or her lips because she stubbornly exposes only her forehead – an instinct or habit I'm okay with I suppose. Besides, my favorite spot to kiss her has always been right above an ear on the side of her head. I know when she changes shampoos. 

"I had heard that word at least ten times a day from my old man. He worked in profanity the way other artists might work in oils or clay. It was his true medium; a master." – Ralphie, A Christmas Story, 1983, genius