Thanks to the Hannah, I have been made to be accountable for my sins:
Apparently, girlfriend doesn't like it when the mama swears.
I would not think of myself as a foul-mouthed fiend. I don't swear in casual conversation with friends. I do not ever swear at my children in a fit of temper. And I have yet to fling any expletives at the Husband during marital, ahem, disagreements.
But occasionally, a mild swear slips through my fingers on the keyboard and ends up here as a joke. Or I drop something heavy on my foot and grumble a less-than-choice word in frustration.
Like the hell word.
Or the damn word.
Very rarely, maybe a version of the son-of-a-beyotch word.
Most certainly never the F word. [Unless that word is the frick word. Guilty of that one a lot.]
But on our recent trip to Utah, my lack of appropriate language when joking with my brothers brought Miss Hannah to tears. Her little heart overflowed with worry for my soul. With pleading green eyes, she looked up at me and softly asked why I keep breaking the commandments.
I had no answer.
Clearly, saying to my brother on the phone, who was leaving work to meet us all for dinner, "Hurry up, dammit!" does not a joke make in the mind of
And so I have acquiesced. After all, were those same words to escape my children's lips, there would most certainly be
So consider this my formal resignation from the use of bad language on this blog.
No more hell. Or damn. Or even frick.
[Shoot. I just totaled up the number of quarters alone this post is going to cost me, and I think somebody will be a few dollars richer by the end of the day.]