Batsh*t crazy

“Mothers are all slightly insane.”

From The Catcher in the Rye,

by J.D. Salinger

Me, age 41
Jane, age 12
Owen, age 9

Every year, I give up swearing up for Lent.

When I’m not knee-deep in these 40 days of solemn religious observance, I’ve been known to have a mouth like a sailor. (Never in front of my kids – but get me behind a closed door and I will let an f-bomb fly.) I’d like to think that Lent is a chance for me to purify myself, much like Jesus’s fasting in the wilderness, but I can only conclude that Jesus was a much better person than I. Because, oh Lord, I’m struggling without those razor-sharp words in my verbal arsenal.  

A few years ago, researchers from The Journal of Pain and a British university conducted studies on swearing and found that it can provide effective, natural, short-term pain relief. Participants in the studies were able to withstand an ice-cold water challenge for a longer length of time if they repeatedly uttered swear-words than if they repeated a neutral word. The researchers figured out that swearing helped the participants withstand the pain because of the emotional response (anger, aggression, etc.) the swearing produced. This emotional response actually led to a surge in adrenaline much like the body’s natural fight or flight response. The researchers called it “stress-induced analgesia.” I call it magnificent.

I never wholly appreciate this stress-induced analgesia until I am forced to live without it. Which, of course, is the case right now. It’s a real challenge for me, because there have already been multiple times today where a swear-word has begun to form on my lips. I’ve been able to choke all of them back, but I acutely miss the blissful sense of liberation that comes from hurling those plump, ripe curses into the atmosphere.    

My day started at the crack of dawn with my son, Owen. His desire to play Pokémon cards with his friends on the playground is so godda** intense that he sometimes wants to go to school a full hour before it begins. Today was one of those days. I had to physically block his way so he couldn’t walk out the door. Glowering, I held him by the shoulders and firmly reminded him that: 1. No one else would be hanging out on the school playground an hour before school. 2. It is technically against the rules to hang out on the playground (sans adult) until 15 minutes before school starts. My son holds little regard for rules or common sense, so I found myself in one of our oil-and-water arguments that always makes me want to bang my head against the wall.

Midway through this quarrel, it dawned on me that I needed to switch gears entirely and run upstairs to rouse my daughter. Unlike Owen, Jane does not like getting up. I know she’s at the age where she should be more responsible for herself, but these days I have to be a total bit** for her to even attain consciousness: I shout at her for a little while, pull back her covers, turn on all the lights in the bedroom, etc. This particular morning, moving at a glacial speed, Jane was not anywhere close to being ready (no breakfast, no teeth-brushing, homework scattered about, etc.) when her ride pulled into our driveway. The swear-words were knocking around in my brain, and I had to do some deep yoga breathing to stay in control. 

Being a mom is hard enough. Factor in a couple wacko kids and a morning from he**, and it makes me want to lose my sh*t.

I’m not sure why I torture myself every year by giving up effective, natural, short-term pain relief that is proven by researchers. I’d like to imagine that it somehow makes me a better person. But who am I kidding? Only 30 more fu**ing days until Easter. 

“There had been a Tupperware container of bad language sitting off to the side in her head, and now she’d opened it and all those crisp, crunchy words were lovely and fresh, ready to be used."

From The Husband’s Secret,

by Liane Moriarty