And I Uttered a Foul-Mouthed Little Prayer

For all of you who have kids I will say this:

I don't know how you do it.

I mean, I get the gist of things.  You have a child.  He or she is the light of your life, the apple of your eye, and, on occasion, the slightest pain in your ass.  But to have a child... this little version of you, running around, representing your skills as a parent, scraping knees, falling in love, falling apart... How do you handle that as a parent?  As a person who is hell-bent on protecting this precious and fragile thing while still being hell-bent on him learning his lesson, how do you step aside and watch him go?

I'm just a teacher.  I'm just a coach.  I'm just a summer camp director.  I'm not a parent.  I am without children.  But with thousands of children.  Tonight I went to catch a game at the high school my students feed into.  It was a fantastic game -- one of the best all-around performances I'd seen from the girls in a good long while.  It was a see-saw battle that literally was up for grabs until the last ticks of the clock.  In the final 1:45 there were 6 freethrows made (by both teams) and almost as many turnovers/bad passes (by both teams) and a significant injury to one of our best players.

Two of the starters tonight are former players of mine.  Super-talented players with enormously kind hearts, gracious attitudes, and smiles that light up the gym.  And skills.  Did I mention the skills?  But here they were, in an incredibly important game, and all I could see were their little junior high baby faces in too-big uniforms.  It melted my heart a little.  And then, when the late-game injury occurred, who did the coach bring in but another former Lady Mustang.  She'd seen only limited playing time in the first half and none in the second.  And here she was, stepping in, ice-cold, with 30 seconds left.  I prayed the only "mom-type" prayer I knew for her:

"Please don't let her eff this up."

Then I quickly wondered if God would be upset with that one but realized that He probably doesn't like take-backs anymore than he likes the eff word (even when abbreviated).  I felt bad for even saying it -- for thinking she might -- but all I could worry about was how she would feel if she were to make a mistake.  I couldn't bear thinking about how unfair it would be, to come in for only a few seconds, to that kind of pressure.

I turned to my fellow coach, a mom of 3, and said, "I don't know how you do this."

"Do what?" she asked.

"Sit here.  With no control.  And just watch your kids surf the rise and fall of success and failure.  I didn't give birth to anyone -- not one kid -- on that floor right now, and I feel like I'm going to vomit, I'm so nervous."  And then I quickly took my pulse.

"It's hard," she admitted, "but you just do."

I thought about that.  I am a teacher and coach and summer camp director.  I have no children, but I have thousands of children.  Do you have to give birth to a child to know their labor pains?  Tonight, I saw so many of my former students and athletes.  I lost track of all the hugs and smiles.  I heard college plans, updates on brothers and sisters (who were also former students), lots and lots and lots of grade reports and track practice complaints.  I saw the best of my best -- all the growing-up reasons I love to teach.  But I also saw a few who weren't on the crest but were in the valley instead.  Low or struggling or regretful; lost on "the wrong path" or dealing with things far beyond the normalcy of high school life.   In that moment, I found myself in the valley as well, and it was hard.  I found myself struggling with what to tell them.

I wondered again about what Terry had said.  She hadn't just stopped with "it's hard".  She also reminded me that "you just do".  So, I re-directed the wave, just as I had only a few years before, and tried to instill some motivation, provide some guidance, and reinforce the idea that, no matter what mistakes they make, I love them.

Do you have to give birth to a child to know their labor pains?  No.  No, I don't believe so.  Once you've chosen them, and they have chosen you, the two are linked somehow forever.  Somehow the steadiness of that link, the surety of that choice, makes the pain worthwhile.

Oh, yeah... And that precious little, ice-cold former Lady Mustang coming into the game with 30 seconds left?  She caught the ball under the basket, pivoted in, ducked an opponent flying at her full-speed, and took a completely unnecessary shot so high off the backboard I thought it was going to go over the top and out of bounds.

It went in.  I couldn't believe that flippin' ball went in.  I couldn't believe that she had the guts to shoot it; I wouldn't have.  I'd have played it safe.  I wanted her to play it safe.  I prayed a horrible, little, foul-mouthed prayer for her to play it safe.  The whole time I had worried about the chance of her making a mistake, I was completely ignoring the possibility of her joyous success.  The other team tossed in a couple of freethrows that could've tied the game were it not for that basket.  Her score kept us 2 points ahead -- just enough to pull an upset, thrill the crowd and her teammates, and prove something really important to me: 

I don't know how you parents do it.  I really don't, but I'm so very glad you do.  And also?  God doesn't like take-backs, but maybe He doesn't mind the eff word.  But to be safe, I think I'll avoid them both when it comes to asking for favors.

Swearing as a second Language

I have bad habits -- biting my nails when I'm nervous, mindless humming, hitting the snooze button one too many times. And I have vices, I suppose. Diet Cokes, Reeses' peanut butter eggs, all things carb-related, reality t.v. But even those I've tried really hard to let go of. Addictions? Rockstars have addictions. Crackheads have addictions. Tiger Woods, I hear, has an addiction.

And, apparently, I have one too. Or so I've come to notice.

Is it booze? Nope. Too many vodka tonics, and I'm either going to sob on your shoulder or vomit in your yard. Neither is pretty. Blow? Not a chance. I'm still not convinced that Tylenol PM isn't a gateway drug. Fame? Are you serious? I'm a public school teacher. I might be famous in the teacher's lounge. Might. Be.

I, my friends, am addicted to swearing. I... effing... love... it. Now, I don't go around with Sailor Mouth or anything because, well, that's just tacky and shows zero creativity. And, no, I don't cuss at school or around small children. I try to clean it up for those that I know never would never utter such a foul thing. I've even been sparing here on my little piece of the internet (and will continue to try to be so, making this post about swearing actually have very few swear words. But the internet is not real life. And my swearing just isn't as good without my facial expressions and dramatic arm waving.).

But in real life, swear words are my friends. One of my favorite movie quotes ever is from The Christmas Story:

"He worked in profanity the way other artists might work in oils or clay. It was his true medium; a master."

It makes me giggle every time because I think it's awesome. I aspire to be so adept. By nature, I'm a total rule-follower, so being profane is really my only form of rebellion. Growing up, my mother would cuss, and it just made her seem like more of a badass (and my mom is, was, and always will be a complete badass). Her favorite word was "shit", and she could use it as a noun, verb, adjective, adverb; it didn't matter. My brother fed me a pretty steady diet of inappropriate language and taught me the F-word (the only one not allowed in our house which made it delicious to say), but it was my Grandma Henrietta who truly made me understand the value of a well-placed expletive.

She was a bingo daubing, apple pie baking, silver-perm wearing potty mouth. She would probably die all over again if she knew I was revealing this, but then she'd smile her wicked smile and say, "That's my granddaughter. She's a regular horse's ass." Grandma Henri would smile and be polite and play the role of sweet granny... until you beat her at dominoes. Then, she would twist up her face, look at you through her little old lady glasses, and mutter, "You old horse's ass. Re-shuffle those damn dominoes." Her love of all obscenities ending in "ass" was clearly ingrained in me, for adding "ass" to any word is one of my favorite forms of swearing. In fact, I'd give up $1,000 out of my paycheck every year if I could just get away with calling someone (teenager or adult) an asshole one time each day without getting myself in a world of hurt.

There are those who would call foul language a sin... blasphemy... and a sure-fire ticket to Hell. It's crude and vulgar and entirely inappropriate. I get that. And they are more than entitled to their opinion, and, like I said, I will try to respect it although sometimes your shocked looks only encourage me. I used to worry over it and fear the results of my own slips of the tongue until I realized that for me, cussing is simply a stress-reliever. It's good for dramatic effect in story-telling. And sometimes it's just plain ol' fun. Haven't you just ever, in your car, screamed at the guy who cut you off, "I'm gonna kick your ass, you SON-OF-A BITCH!"? No? Try it. It feels outstanding, and it's way safer than, say, trying to shoot out his back window at 80 mph.

So, if a dirty mouth leads me to a river of fire and eternal damnation, then I should probably start packing my flameproof inner tube and the SPF 750.

Henrietta and I will be waiting for you, you old horse's ass.