I have lost my mind.
I knew I was headed toward a mental prolapse of sorts. After I gave birth to the wee poppet, my cerebral function began to slouch and never quite regained its proper posture. I suppose if a certain child would stop stealing my dreaming hours, I would regain lucidity. Or something close to it.
Anyway, I do a first-rate job at watching my language around the parrot. I slip up from time to time and let out a “what the hell” or “dammit” when a geriatric dumbass impulsively ditches the safety of the sidewalk and hobbles across the street wherever he/she so desires, even if there is no obvious destination on the other side. Crosswalk, be damned. Moses shall part the traffic.
Maya instantly repeats my bad phrases, which is (I’m sorry to say) hilarious, but not something a good parent should encourage. So, I try to make up something else when I catch myself sliding into a curse. Usually it’s something normal or slightly nonsensical. Shitake. Fookabo. Damage.
Yes, that’s right. This morning I said, “Chaka Khan” to replace a #%$&! Maya raised her hands in a what-the-hell gesture and said, “I don’t know, mama. I don’t know.” I don’t know, either.
But let’s see how I topped that: this evening I was feeling pretty damn good about myself, shaking my ass after my workout and snapping my fingers as I squirted sriracha sauce into my stir-fry, when I said it again.
Apparently in my sleep deprived world, “Chaka Khan” serves as a substitute for a swear word and as a way of telling the world that, at the moment, you kick ass. I have no idea why it popped into my brain, but it seems fitting. Still, I need to get it under control or people will think I’ve gone nuts.