#*&@#$^!

Warning: This post contains swearing. Read at your own risk of hellfire and damnation.

I'm a 3rd generation swearer. I guess it could go back even further than that, but that's not something generally recorded in genealogy books. My grandparents on my mom's side are hilarious swearers. Their swearing is never crude or crass; I've always found it rather quaint and charming. Paul loves to quote my grandpa, who once quieted down the beginning of a family gathering by saying, "For hell's sake, someone say the damn prayer!" My grandma's favorite phrase is probably "hell's bells" or "ah hell, Don" when she's chiding my grandpa, which is constantly. It's sort of a love swear, in my mind. Sometimes I say, "ah hell, Don" to Paul. Once when I was about 10 and playing at their house, I cut my ankle really deeply on one of their sprinklers. When I showed the gushing blood to my grandma - my tiny, sweet, sweet, funny grandma, she let loose a torrent of swears that simultaneously shocked me and made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. She was really upset about me getting hurt, and I knew how much she loved me.

My parents don't like to admit this publicly, but they are swearers, too. Once again, none of the really bad ones, just the old standbys. They applied to be on the Amazing Race, but were kind of relieved when they weren't chosen, because they knew they would have a hard time reigning in their swears. That's not really something my dad would like his coworkers at the Church Office Building to see. As a youngster I was very prudish and embarrassed by their swearing. Once when I was 11-ish, my dad was part of our Primary sledding activity. Some idiot on a snowmobile came racing through our big group of kids and it made my dad so angry he yelled after him, "ASSHOLE!" at the top of his lungs. I was mortified back then, but now I think it's funny and somewhat appropriate. That guy was a freaking asshole. For real. Then there was our infamous trip to Disneyland when I was 14, which probably should have been called, "The week-long bad mood in California." Jaime and I indignantly kept a running tally of my parents' swear words. I think the number per day averaged to about 17. It was a stressful trip. Wow, we were being turds. I see it now. Sorry mom and dad. If I recall correctly, their favorite swear was "dammit to hell" which packs a powerful two-swear punch, but I've always wondered, what (the hell) does that swear even mean?? It makes no sense.

So now it's my turn to confess. I tend to swear now and then (or 17). When I stub my toe, or something really aggravating happens, it just feels better to let it out. Apparently my kids have noticed, though, and are trying to reform me. Maddie gave an FHE lesson the other night, and she wanted to list problems in our home and come up with solutions for them. She said that Paul and I should stop swearing and watching bad movies. "Ah hell, Don," I said. Paul said, "Our movies aren't that bad, it's just that they're for grown-ups, like maybe someone gets murdered and chopped up into a million pieces. That's not bad." Good point. Another problem that was brought up was the yelling. The kids are always yelling at each other, and I'm not sure where they get that (coughpaul). So my solution was a yell jar, where if somebody yells, their name gets put in the jar, and at the end of the week we draw a name and that person has to do an extra chore. We were thinking of a name for the jar, and the kids decided on "The Yelly Jar." But I think it should be the "Hell's Bells, Stop the Yells!" jar. Yes? Yes.