Confession Number 70: Sometimes 'Crummy' Won't Cut It

I'm not a potty mouth.  I'm really not.  Excessive cussing really drives me up the wall. However, I do strongly believe that sometimes "shoot", "fiddle", "dang", or in the words of my mother, "fooey dooey" just won't cut it. 

Sometimes you need to drop a word for effect.  I *might* have whispered in a few teenage ears, "if you don't stop acting like an a*s I'm going to make your life miserable".  Normally that got a chuckle and their behavior turned on a dime.  Yes, I have great classroom management skills.  I might just write a book on it someday.  And I might have just ruined my chances of ever getting a job in education again.  Another of a million reasons why I like big kids, not little ones. 

Sometimes a certain word makes physical pain a little easier to bear.  Wanna know the first time I EVER dropped the f-bomb?  I ran, shin first, into the point on a marble top coffee table in my parents house at night.  Unfortunately, I was a teenager and mom and dad were in the room.  I think they laughed.  I have a permanent dent in my shin bone from that damn coffee table. 

Sometimes you just can't do justice in explaining your day to people without using a specific word.  For instance, Mom called the other day.  It was a little after noon and I was trying to get the house ready for company and a New Year's Eve gathering.  The conversation went something like this....

Mom:  So, what are you up to?
Me:  Oh, just trying to get things done around here.  It's kind of been a sh*tty day.
Mom:  (Giggles)  Well, okay.
Me:  Literally.  A sh*tty, sh*tty day.

Let me explain.  We've had issues with KJ and her, um, bowl movements (not sure why I'm being so politically correct all of a sudden) for a while.  You may have read about some of our issues here, here or here.  I guess I really like to write about poop.  Anyway, I knew she needed to go, so I sat her on the potty.  And left her there.  For like 20+ minutes.  Before you go calling DHS on me, I didn't LEAVE, but I knew she wouldn't go with me sitting there, staring at her, getting us both more frustrated by the minute.  So, I went in the baby's room, which connects to the bathroom and would check on her every couple of minutes. 
Well, I guess she had gone a little bit, but not enough for it to fall into the potty and when she squirmed around her seat it got all over her and the toilet.  Great.  Clean up job number one.  Yes, I said number one.  I clean her enough to get her into the tub, then proceed to clean her bathroom from top to bottom.  While I'm at it I might as well, right? 
After I was finished she still wanted to play a bit, so I told her I was going to go move the laundry over and I'd be back and we would get out.  Fast forward all of about 2 minutes.  I turn to corner into the living room and meet her, soaking wet, with brown hands.
 
KJ:  Mommy, mommy, I went poo poo in the potty!
Me:  Greeeeaaaattttt.

I guess what she meant to say was that she went poop, but didn't quite make it to the potty, so she picked it up and put it in the potty, but it was on her hands, so she proceeded to try to get it off of her hands by wiping them all over the potty, then tried to clean herself up by crawling back in the bathtub.  So, I cleaned her bathroom from top to bottom for the second time and moved her to my bathtub where I bathed her for the second time in like, 10 minutes.

Crummy, poopy, messy.  Nope.  None of them cut it.  It was just a sh*tty day.