In a tiny voice, echoing through the halls of a fairly empty Flatiron Crossing mall on Sunday, I hear, “I can’t fucking get this to work.”
“Momma, how do I fucking put the candy in here?”
What a little asshole, I thought.
Then I realized it was my kid, 3, trying to put candy inside her Cinderella Pez dispenser while I pushed her around in one of those mall strollers some person ditched in Forever 21. (Thank you, person. I’m too cheap to rent a stroller, and I’m too old to chase mini-wildebeest through lengthy corridors.)
People were watching. Teenagers were laughing. A grandmother with a young grandson glared at me.
“Where did you learn that word?” I firmly asked, attempting to alleviate the old broad’s scowl.
I know exactly where she learned that word. The Fantz in Your Pants household is chock-full of sailors. (Figuratively and literally. Husband was in the Navy.) But she was once tiny and didn’t understand or mimic our language. She hadn’t repeated our crude talk since last summer when Husband said, “Holy shit, it’s hot.” After we unloaded her from the car, she proceeded to run around Target yelling, “Holy shit, it’s hot,” for 20 minutes until I ditched my basket of tampons and diapers in the beef jerky aisle and hauled ass out of the store.
Oh, and then there was that one time she tumbled off the slide and said, “Shit.” (Cheers on context, kid.)
Tangent: Pez is the worst candy in the world. The dispensers should spit out cheeseburgers or Heath bars from Cinderella’s gullet. Plus, the candy looks strikingly similar to a form of fentanyl. The only thing worse is Necco Wafers.
Anyway, the baby turned 3 last week and overnight turned into a kid who shouts profanities in sheer frustration.
Now, picture me doing air quotes, like Chris Farley’s SNL character Bennett Brauer, for my next bit: Maybe I “bribe my kid with candy.” Maybe I “let her watch ‘The Simpsons.'” Maybe I “don’t feed her from all the food groups.” Maybe I “poop with the bathroom door open.” Maybe I’ve threatened “the police will arrest her if she doesn’t obey.” Maybe I’m not “conventional.” Maybe I “have a foul mouth.” Maybe I’m “not very ladylike.”
But jackassery aside, I’m a damn good momma. I could love on that kid for eons. I’m laid-back, loving, cuddling, smooching, self-affirming, positive, educating and an ever-loving sweet-as-shit broad.
But for fuck’s sake, I guess it’s time to clean up the language. This kid’s got a damn mouth on her, and we all know who the hell is to blame: Pez.
Make it easier on a kid, you motherfuckers. I can’t even get the damn candy in the dispenser without it shooting all over my face. Which was very similar to my evening with your dad last night.
I’ll go chew on some soap now.