I LEARNED TO SWEAR By Pam Vap I learned to swear twenty minutes before my first child was born. Since then, it’s been a handy habit to have around, and I expect God to turn his head. After all, he owes me one. It’s a trick to make babies look so good. The truth is they leak. And of all horrors, they grow. They only speak whine; they cry and complain and wipe snot on their sleeves. They spill dinner. They stir pasta into their milk cups and squish spinach between their teeth. They eat crayons and toothpaste. They call constantly. They call constantly. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mo-om. They inhale money, bang down stairs, and store dirty socks and sandwich crusts like hidden treasures in their closets. They lipstick walls; they swallow marbles. They break things. Yet, God (no doubt in his wisdom) has ordained that these crude creatures should sleep incognito: gentle quiet warm. I am fooled easily. Each night as I tuck covers around them and bend to kiss their sweet, sleepy faces, I don’t care that they used all the silverware in the garden. Let’s fill the house with angels, I whisper to my husband as I slip between the sheets.
Posted on: Sun, 04 Aug 2013 02:11:04 +0000
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