4-8-22 BODY LANGUAGE

When our kids were young, I enrolled them in a neighborhood summer etiquette class, taught by our friend Judy Peterson. Judy was the perfect person to teach this class. She was a passionate soul in a mild-mannered body dripping with creative artistry and genuine gentility. She taught my kids how to set a proper table, how to stand and walk with poise, how to engage in warm conversation… all the stuff I wanted them to know. She taught them, but I can’t guarantee how much they learned. Somehow, they all ended up having pretty good social skills, which includes a genuineness that always polishes social propriety to a nice palatable patina. Sometimes too much refinement can feel a little off-putting. They feel just-right to me. But I’m basically just a Pittsburgh Mill-Hunky.

My mom had this thing, when we were growing up, for always using the proper term in language, especially where bodily functions were concerned. I’m not sure where this came from. She was raised on a ranch in Southeastern Idaho. But I am told her mom was a refined lady plunked into a Depression-era desert spot. I never knew her, so I can’t really say. She died when my mom was a young teenager. 

We didn’t use colloquialisms or slang in our family. There was no such thing as a bum. It was “buttocks”. (a-la Forrest Gump.) If you were compelled to shorten it, then it was butt, but never bum. And even when my kids were in diapers, I couldn’t bring myself to say poop or pee. It felt like a betrayal to my upbringing. You either had a bowel movement or urinated. (I am a woman of many conflicts.) Our poor kids had to walk that delicate line between fitting in on the playground and being accepted at home. Oye Ve! Sorry kids. 

I hope I was less of a stickler about this than our mom was.

One day we were driving somewhere in our van full of kids. I was half asleep in the passenger seat, caught between the auditory lull of kids chatter and the hum of the freeway. Kate and Annie were in their car seats in the row behind us. John and Sarah were in the way back. I’m thinking maybe my sister Libby was in the car with us, because she still laughs at the memory. From the far back Sarah, probably age 7 or 8, called to the front:

“Mom, what is the proper word for fart?”

I’m not sure what I answered, but I believe, somewhere deep down inside, I had a witness that “a little gas” just doesn’t fit the description of that word… you know… the toot of musical fruit that pretty much everyone who speaks American calls a fart. If its silent, its just gas. But if you hear it, well, it’s a fart.

I know, I know, this is not really what one might expect to read in Lent writing. But it’s late, and I’m sick of being philosophical.

And, to be honest, I used pee and poop when potty training our grandkids.

Sorry, Mom.