IN THE CRAPPER AGAIN

I come from a long line of crappers. Not "shitters". Not “sonsofbitchers”. Not even “goddamners”. You know how some people will say "shit" when they're upset? Others use "fuck" as their all-purpose expletive? Well, I’m a crapper.

My Dad was a crapper – it didn’t happen often, but it did happen, usually in concert with nails and a hammer – enough to rub off. I don’t know how my husband became a crapper, as I have yet to hear his Mom say anything more than “Oh, dear” whilst wringing her hands. His Dad usually heads for the basement and surrounds himself with cigar boxes full of small metal parts for soundproofing before murmuring anything, so I can’t verify the origins of my spouse’s crapperhood. But, there’s no doubt about it, he’s a crapper, too.

If we get disappointed and frustrated – a good “crap” clears the system. Someone is rude to us on the road – a nice, full-bodied “crap” just makes us feel better. Rude salespeople are “crapheads” and the stuff they sold us was probably “crap”, too.

I don’t know when my husband and I decided to be a crapper couple. I’m sure it was during our dating years, lo, these many decades ago. No doubt we were on our way somewhere and his highly temperamental car took a crap, leaving us stranded by the side of the road, crapping away until we felt better.

We both held off pretty well when the children were little. Some things were “stinky” others were downright “poopy” and others, after the children were in bed, but possibly still listening, were “sucky”. On occasion, one or the other of us would say “dammit” or something even spicier, and we would have to explain to the children that that was a grown-up word, only to be used in cases of extreme distress, and only by grownups. Which, of course, meant that late at night, while we were watching TV and muting the sound during commercials, we could hear the sounds of childish voices practicing whatever salty language we had accidentally used during the day.

“Dammit,” we’d hear our then four-year-old son telling his teddy bear. “DAMmit. DamMIT, damdamdamIT,” he’d say while telling teddy about some frustration of the day. “SumumumaBITS,” our daughter would sleepily peep in her tiny pink voice, as she talked herself to sleep. Our faces red with shame and embarrassment, we’d look at each other and try not to point fingers, just clear our throats. Maybe the next morning, sometime before the PopTart brigade roused itself, we’d quietly agree to mind our tongues a little better around the little pitchers.

Our standards got laxer as time marched on. Somewhere around the time our youngest went off to elementary school, and the children came home with brand new vocabularies, we stopped being so strict. After all, now we could blame it on other people’s children! Gee, the bus rides must be pretty earthy, by gum, guess what the kiddies said today!

Now that all three kids are teens, we’re pretty much back to being our usual crappy selves. We do ask that language be monitored for taste and decorum at the dinner table, when on the phone, and in general interactions. Sometimes, if my oldest son has had a bad day, I have to remind him to watch the language and cut it down to only a few obscenities per sentence, or go into his room and let loose at his closet. We’ve been through teen phases of variations on the “f” word, a few startling moments of “holy moses, WHAT did you just say”, and those embarrassing times when one of the kids overhears an obscene word at school and comes home to ask what it means. I have to reach pretty deeply into my objective Motherhood persona to calmly explain the meaning of “gay douchebag m-f-er”, but then I follow it up with stern warnings about never wanting to hear anyone in MY family exposing themselves as undereducated boors by using such language.

However, I am strangely pleased to say that now our oldest son is a regular crapper, too. Our middle child, a modest and diligent girl, is an occasional crapper, particularly when she’s doing chores. And our youngest was overheard just the other day, frustrated by a Magnetix project gone awry, speaking forth in the privacy of his room with crappage as well. A fine family tradition lives on.