Stop. Talking.

I say that a lot. You think you say it a lot, don't you? I have a rambling mind, a rambling mouth, and an (almost) 4 year old little girl. I say it more. Some nights, after a 40 minute commute home with Jenna, I am in awe. I'll say things in happy-voice, "wow, girlfriend!! You never stopped talking that ENTIRE ride home!" She proudly acknowledges my admiration with 20 more minutes of straight talking. At some point, my attitude changes as my nerves sizzle, "Jenna. You need to give your mouth a break. Your voice has been working too hard and it's begging you for a break." Then, inevitably, I stare at her (wild eyed and crazy) and say, "Stop. Talking." I say it to myself the most, though. There's no denying that. I need to add in here a little bit about that rambling mouth of mine. I'm a cusser. I hate admitting it, but most of you know. I have an inexplicably filthy mouth. Strike that. Inexplicably is a lie. I come from a long line of over-cussers. Nothing public. Nothing other people would notice. But growing up, no one burned their hand or stubbed their toe without a quiet "shit!" I take it too far. I know that I do. But I get all rationalizing and justifying about it. So I say bad words. Who decided they were even bad? And then who ranked them? Why is a "mother f!*#^er" under my breath when someone cuts me off worse than a "oh, meanie!!"? (don't answer...I'm not really asking.) So, this morning, I had 2 bitter tastes in one 4 minute scenario. It went like this: Me: (ironing clothes, it's 6 am, we're running late, Jenna is on my bed watching me) ugh. These are the mornings I want to just iron the sleeves and collar of your shirt. The parts that stick out of your jumper. JK: you can, mommy. Me: no, babe. It'll be the one day you have an accident and have to change into shorts. And you'll be running around from 2-6 with a wrinkled shirt on. JK: (insulted) I won't have an accident! Me: I know. It wouldn't be your fault. It's just like wearing good panties in case you're in a car wreck. (right at this instant is when I silently begin saying "stop. talking.".) JK: we're going to be in a car accident? Me: no. (wait. I can't say no. I don't know. What if we were?) Well--maybe? I don't know. Point is we'd want to be wearing good panties for the ER. (oh my shit. Stop. Talking.) JK: (cry voice) I don't want to be in a car accident! Me: baby, just forget it. Clothes are ironed! Let's get dressed and I'll grab jake. I go get the baby and pray she's just let it go. Bring him down and toss him on the bed next to her. She looks at him with the most seriously concerned look I've seen her muster. JK: jake. We're going to wear good panties and ironed shirts for our car wreck today. Jake: (stares at her with absolutely No readable emotion) JK: (looks down at the bed. Sighs. And defeatedly says, "f!*k." Lesson learned, my friends. Lesson learned. Now everyone go and have them a "I'm actually a Really good parent" moment. You're welcome.