Chickens coming home to roost

I sort of identify as a writer, though that waxes and wanes. It’s a craft, and I have a certain workman-like capacity, on good days. That being the case, I am ultra-aware of just how many people out there are real, natural-born writers, and I admire them so much because whether they are making us see, making us cry, or as below, making us laugh, they make it look effortless.

Lesbian Dad is one of those folks:

See, we were driving back from her preschool the other day, the lil’ monkey and me, and she was fiddling with some little thing where she sat in the truck’s “jump seat.” What it was isn’t important. Maybe it was one of those little ponies, I don’t know.

“F#cking car,” she says sweetly.

Up go my eyebrows into my hairline, and I direct all my nerves toward the pressing matter of NOT zigzagging into a passing tree trunk, then a garbage can, then a bicyclist, then a bus stop bench and parked car.

I compose myself. I take in a long, slow breath; breathe it out “through a straw,” like how we learned in our childbirth education class, back in the heady long ago before our first child, when it was easy-peasy to be a perfect parent.

In case I might not have heard her the first time, the lil’ monkey gently presses the button a few more times.

“F#cking car, f#cking car.” All with this no rancor in her voice – she’s not angry or irritated, she just knows it’s a choice adjective.

“Yegods, it’s happened!” I think to myself. Then I think: “Think! Think, man, think!” Which of course crowds out all other, actual thoughts.

“Where did you learn that word, sweetie pie?” I ask, gingerly.

Even as I ask the question, I am saying in my head “Don’t pick me, don’t pick me, don’t pick me!”


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