it was going to happen sooner or later

The children had eaten breakfast. The meal which, thanks to Miss O's earlier years, will be forever pronounced BREH-FIXT in my head. They had eaten their seven grain rolled cereal (looks like oatmeal, tastes considerably better) with yogurt and dried fruit, and had clambored up the stairs to brush their teeth.

It's not that they actually care about dental hygiene. It's that we instituted this Chore Chart when Auntie Teff came to throw all of our crap away organize our house, and they get one penny for every chore on the chart that is completed, and if they do every chore every day? They get upgraded to a WHOLE DOLLAR!!!! They are all shooting for that dollar. It's an almost fifty percent increase in the amount they would receive for completing ten tasks, seven days a week. They don't understand percent, per se, but they do have a grasp on MORE.

And everyone's suddenly much more useful.

But I digress.

They were upstairs, I was in the kitchen, scrambling to start the sponge for my bread. I keep my yeast in the refrigerator, because I like when it works, and I was moving other rotten foods jars of pickles and jam to the side to reach it. A jar of canned plums fell off the shelf, pouring its sticky, purple syrup all over me.

And I said THE bad word. Pretty much loudly. I am confident that you are familiar with the word of which I speak. Even if you, personally, do not use it.

And my mother-in-law said, So what are the kids doing?

And then I said THE bad word again, only silently and without moving my mouth. Nineteen times, because, oh my word, when did she come in my house? I didn't even hear her! Unfortunately, I can't guarantee she didn't hear me.

Here's the thing about the potty mouth. I reserve the potty mouth for when I do things like try to bathe in stupid canned plum juice. And the time I cut the tip of my finger almost off with my Henckels knife. Or when I grabbed the oven rack in the preheated oven with my hand.

Okay, I do say crap. A lot.

But the potty mouth is one area in which I am experiencing huge personal growth. I used to practice a dialect that could bring crusty old truck drivers and, you know, pirates and guys like that, to their knees, weeping for their mommies to help change their panties.

And now? I can't even get my kid to lie on the floor to allow me to change his wet pants if I bribe him with cookies and meat. Cutie Pie Dimple Head really likes the meat, and will do anything to get some except get his pants changed.

That last sentence is going to score me some street cred with the googles, I just know it.

I'm not sure what kind of cred F-Bombing in front of my MIL is going to score me.