Pay the Piper (Dammit)

Maggie inadvertently dropped a “damn” into our family dinner conversation recently. This is not unheard of for Maggie or me, so I was a little startled when Hope gasped dramatically and insisted that Maggie pay money into a cuss jar. But as surprising as Hope’s reaction was, even more surprising was the fact that she was operating under the delusion that we had a cuss jar in our house. As if!


In the Crandler house, the occasional “damn” or “hell” from one of the adults is not an uncommon occurrence. All the kids are old enough to understand that sometimes adults use language that is not appropriate for kids to use. The youngest is eight… not three. Chances are pretty good she won’t be scarred by an infrequent “damn,” “hell,” or even the rare, “shit.” It’s not as though we’re dropping the f-bomb on a regular basis.

Maggie turned to Hope and told her that we most certainly did not have a cuss jar in our house, and she would not be paying money into one, tonight or ever. Hope argued and they went back and forth a few times. After a few exchanges, I put my hand on Hope’s arm and when she turned to me I said quietly, “Hope, your mother would never have agreed to a cuss jar. Do you want to know how I know that?”

Hope nodded her head and I paused a moment, not only for effect, but also to marvel that she honestly didn’t seem to know what was coming next.

“Because, honey…your mom is not a dumb-ass.”

Hope’s eyes widened and her mouth formed a tiny “o.” “Lori! Now you owe the cuss jar!”

“Oh honey, no I don’t. I’m not a dumb-ass either.” And then the voice inside my head added, “Plus, a cuss jar is a really fucking bad idea.”

That night when I went to Ben’s room to say goodnight, I glanced at the bumper sticker on his door and giggled.

As much as I hate to admit it, the kid's got a point. (For fuck’s sake.)