$%@&?@##$

T

There's nothing quite as exhilarating or relaxing as a good swing!

The innocence of childhood is a wonderful thing.

I was raised in a very strict household.  There were rules that had to be followed and standards to be kept.  One of the rules was my mother's 

NO SWEARING

rule.

This included the word "crap"... a word that innocent to me, offended the heck out of my mother.

Being the child I was, free spirited and determined to have things my way, I naturally was attracted to swearing the way ants are dedicated to finding sugar.

The ability to swear was one of the most attractive features at Ananda School... that and being able to smoke in class.  Its fair to say that I used that privilege to its utmost.  Perhaps even beyond that.

Swearing, like smoking is a habit hard to break.

But you know, there is something delightful about swear words.  The variety of ways that they can be coupled and the assortment of inflections 

give one a sense of satisfaction that reflects the emotion behind the statement.

We did not curtail our language all that much once we began to have children.  They were told that these were "adult" words that they could use too... once they were mature enough to use them.

Ha!

As if the use of swear words is mature.

But we were young parents and inexperienced.

Not that we ever changed.  But eventually we did get to a place where we used them according to socially appropriate conditions.

Along came a big day in our family... the first day that Boo, our oldest child would begin school.

When the letter arrived inviting us to attend with our child that first day we planned to go.

He was on that day, our only child.

As it happened, his sister decided to show up in the world on that very day.  We, his parents were unavoidably busy bringing Bear into our lives.

Emergency plans took over.  A series of drop-offs and pick-ups from school were arranged in a carefully planned schedule of aunts and uncles to make sure our darling blond headed, green eyed boy with the single dimple was delivered to his teacher and reclaimed each day for his first week of school.

Thus it came to pass that MY first day of picking up my child form school arrived on Monday of his second week.

I bundled up his new sister in the stroller and walked down to meet him.  Thoughts of my pride for my child, memories of my school days as a child and hormones gone wack-o got us there to the gate with me dabbing at my eyes as I stood amid the other moms to wait.

It was hot.  Most of the other classes had let out and children swarmed out of the gates.  

My excitement grew until at last... there they were!

Perhaps 20 or so darling little sweeties

dressed in their cute little school outfits with tiny back packs sporting Rainbow Brite or G.I. Joe.

They were led out by an older woman... the teacher, who had miraculously managed to arrange them in a straight line.

Like many others, my son beamed out a big smile and waved at me.  His teacher, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along with her.  She said something to him and his smile faded as his head dropped.

I thought:

OH CRAP!

The teacher then greeted the other mothers, one at a time and delivered their darlings.  As they dwindled, my mood began to darken.

When all others had gone, the teacher faced me, still clutching my son's arm.

"Are you the mother?"

Why yes I was.

She launched into a lecture on the importance of parent partisipation in a child's school life.

The series of adults that I had sent to bring and pick up my child was unacceptable.  It made it difficult for the school to insure my son's safety.

Our lack of interest in attending his first day of school parent and child orientation sent the wrong message to our child... that school was not important.

I'm certain that I listened to this with an open mouth.

Inside, anger began to well up and I was thinking some pretty bad words by the time she had finished.

I managed to stammer out that I was giving birth that day and felt it took priority and reminded her that I had sent a detailed schedule of the names of those who would be picking my son up.

Her response was to say that it was a shame that we could not attend.  Not a shred of forgiveness in her tone.  She then pulled my son, who had been lagging behind her forward.

She said:

"I want you to know that Boo said a word we do NOT use in school today.  I put him on the wall at recess and have told him that you will follow up at home and not allow him to watch TV for a week's time.  I hope you will not be sending others to pick him up from now on."

She then released my sullen child and began to walk away.

Now I understood that we used colorful words at home and any number of words could have come from my son's mouth that were not to be used in school, but the "F" word was the one set in my head.  So I closed my open mouth, gave my son a hug and we began to walk away.

After about a block, I asked what word he had used.

"Shut up!" he confessed sadly, ashamed.

"You TOLD your TEACHER to SHUT UP?"

I was astounded.  This was a very polite and well behaved child.

"No.  Everyone was yelling and she wanted them to be quiet.  So I told them to shut up."

Now that was a picture I could see in my head.

Boo was trying to help.  Under my breath I muttered

bitch.  Then I did the responsible thing and explained to him that while I did understand, he had to let the teacher take care of things like that herself and reminded him that we used the words be quiet or sssh instead.  But I was not mad.

As soon as we got home, I let him watch G. I. Joe.

Currently:

The job market is looking better.  I have several leads and three applications to deliver by Monday.

All are in schools.  Very cool beans.

And best of all, I found a real live person to talk to about them who answered all of my questions without having to endure an endless choose number... menu.

I feel much better now.

Still no puppy but we are going to look at some this weekend.  

YAY! YAY! YAY!

Tell me... what made you happy today?

Or say how you feel about swearing.

Or well... anything you want.