By the moon and the stars in the sky...

I swear.

No - not the lyrics to a John Michael Montgomery song... I actually mean that sometimes, I swear. I really try not to... but situations just bring it on. You know, like driving. And letting the dog out to go potty and having him bolt through the giant hole in our fence. (NOTE - said hole in fence is now fixed. Yahoo!) So when situations like this arise, sometimes the only sure thing is to let out a good ole G-dammit.

So I'm in the kitchen on Saturday and Pat is working outside and the dog has just been let out and I hear Josie ask where Brewster went and I say something to the effect of "outside to go potty" or "in the yard with Daddy," and she goes to the sliding door to look and I hear "G-dammit!"

Oops. So I pause.

And I hear it again. So I decide that I should probably address the situation. Or should I? But then I hear her say it again. Yup. I should.

So I step to Eve's bedroom, and Jo is leaning against the rocking chair, looking somewhat sheepish, and I ask her, calmly, politely, what she just said. And she tells me. And the funny thing is, she says it with this tone and look on her face like she knows that it's a bad word and shouldn't be repeated, without me even having to say so.

At this moment I'm feeling much more parental - at least in an authoritative, I-need-to-teach-you-right-from-wrong, way than I really ever have before, although also somewhat like I'm drowning, because geez, Martha, I don't know what the heck I'm doing.

So I simply say, "Jo, that's not a nice word and we shouldn't say it. Mommy and Daddy shouldn't say it, either."

And, bless her little soul, she simply says back to me, "okay, Mommy. I won't." Could I be any more lucky??!! We'll see if it sticks.

So like I says, the fence is fixed. And the laundry is done, at least for an hour or so. And we had a pretty low-key weekend. I have this image burned in my brain of the girls in the Barbie Jeep in our yard last night, Josie with her foot firmly fixed on the gas, Eve in the passenger seat, holding onto the windshield and the biggest smile you've ever seen in your life plastered across her face, and Pat racing along beside them grabbing the steering wheel to make sure they don't inflict bodily harm onto their little selves.

Then Monday morning comes. And I'm chatting with co-workers, and my spy-phone rings. Okay - so I'm not really a spy, I just play one on tv. But I do have a display phone at work, so if I ever don't answer when you call me, it's probably on purpose. So I look, and see that it's DB. G-dammit. DB only calls if someone is bleeding. And even then, maybe only if they're bleeding profusely.

So I throw up a little bit in my mouth because I know this isn't going to be happy news, then pick up the phone. Eve bumped her head (big surprise) and has a gash above her eye. DB got the bleeding to stop, and put a butterfly bandage on it, and Eve is fine. So I delegate stitches-duty to Pat and off he goes. And that's pretty much all I know for right now. He got the runaround at our clinic and I think he's at the ER with her right now. ***UPDATE. Just got angry call from angry husband. Still waiting to be seen. Daughter getting angry. ****UPDATE. Finally seen at ER. Glued cut closed. Seriously? We pay people lots of money. To glue my child. I'm in the wrong profession.

Like sands through the hourglass...