When I was about 2, I was in the backseat of my parents’ Buick (class, sass, and a big ‘ol ass – what? That was beyond weird. I take it back.) in my car seat. I was probably sporting a huggies diaper and some cute frilly dress. Because I was really fucking cute.
It was pouring rain and my dad was sitting in the driver’s seat, pulled up to the curb at the local Jewel Osco waiting for my madre to finish picking up a few groceries. After what was supposed to be 10 minutes tops but actually ended up being probably closer to 30, my father began to get – how shall I say this – annoyed as shit. As the traffic cop bleeped his little horn and lights behind El Buick to warn Daddy-o that it was time to move along, the annoyance level reached “code red” status. Through the rain, my father could just glimpse into the store’s window. And lo and behold – there stood my mother chit chatting with someone’s uncle’s cousin’s widow’s sister twice removed who she probably knew through her mother’s brunch club and Sundays at church. And I guarantee they were discussing a bunion removal.
My father bit his tongue, groaned in irritation, and finally let out a “C’mon Sue, what the fuck?!”
A moment of silence passed. Then, from the recesses of the forgotten car seat in the back came a squeaky little angel voice, “C’mon Sue, what the fuck!”
My dad had no choice but to crack up.
And so began my journey into the world of no-holds-barred profanity. I would of course continue on to become a classy broad who, for a solid chunk of time, attended church and sang solos each Sunday about Mary and Jesus and all that other Bible stuff. But my profanity would live on, untouched.
Every time I visited home from college, I’d be in the midst of a convo with the madre when I’d let something slip like, “seriously, he was such a fucking asshole.” My mother would immediately stop whatever she was doing and go into full-on shock mode. “(Insert massive gasp) MEGAN!!!!! DON’T TALK LIKE THAT!!!!” This horror-filled utterance was of course whispered, despite the fact that we were standing alone in our kitchen. “THAT IS SO UNATTRACTIVE. NOBODY IS GOING TO WANT TO DATE YOU WITH THAT MOUTH. YOU NEED TO RESPECT ME WHILE YOU’RE IN THIS HOUSE AND REMEMBER WHERE YOU CAME FROM!!!!”
“Right. Uh. Sorry. He was such a…mean head.”
This little dirty word dance continued for the next four years. But at each passing f-bomb, I could tell she was slowly becoming numb. It started with her allowing it to exist without reaction when – and only when – I was truly upset. Then it graduated to her just simply ignoring it 90% of the time.
And then came the Big Kahuna.
We were driving in my hometown and some idiot cut her off and almost caused us to swerve into a ditch.
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING????? ASSHOLE!!!!!!!”
I stared at her, speechless, with a lopsided and impressed grin slapped on my face.
Mom turned to me quickly with embarrassment creeping up her neck…
“I’m sorry. I take that back. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry for swearing. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Whereupon I reached over and high-fived her. I knew 9 months in the womb connected us on some level.
B.A.M – bad ass momma. Tell ’em Suzie Q.
Happy (belated) Mother’s day to all the baby mommas out there. Or as AJ likes to say, the day upon which we bestow our greatest blessings for the miracle that is women’s vaginas ripping to allow human heads and bodies to pass through, never again to be in a prime sexual state. How touching.