The F Bomb

Last night I was waiting in the uncharacteristically long pharmacy line for Moira's steroids to be filled. I was tired, the kids were slaphappy, and I had a cart full of melty things like popsicles. I was...impatient. The kids were...impatient.

As I explained thankfully but now forcefully to the pharmacist, Moira should not have a red flag on her account because she has never had a reaction to any medicine. She looked at me, willing me to remember what meds could have caused this red flag. I looked at her, willing her to give me the liquid and let me leave with my kids who were chanting random rhymes and giggling hysterically.

Sabra decided that simple rhyming wasn't getting enough attention from the gigantic line of people snaking the aisles behind us. She started yelling all the scandalous words she knows, including fart, tinkler, and stinkfartboogerbutt. She and Moira were red with glee. I kept giving them The Mom Stare and hoping they would be filled with fear. They weren't.

They combined the attention getting schemes, now making rhymes of 'dirty' words. They did elicit a few smiles from the toothless hag standing directly behind our cart.

I turned around to see if the pharmacist would PLEASE give me the steroids now when Sabra positively yelled at the top of her high-pitched voice FUCKAFUCKA!

I turned around, horror stricken. What a horrible rhyming combo to arrive at. Hopefully she would move on to 'puckapucka' and then 'guckagucka'. No such luck. For whatever reason, this word felt right. She shared it with Moira, and Moira liked it too.

Two children saying FUCKAFUCKA very, very loudly while the pharmacist tried to talk to me about the drawbacks of steroids in young children. Awesome.

At this time, the pharmacist went to go check something else on our account, giving me time to turn to my horrible little monsters and to put my hands on their mouths to illustrate that Mommy really meant that they were to cease their wicked devil conversation immediately.

Moira's face was subdued into a quiet grin. I removed my hand. Sabra's face was impassive, perhaps contrite...I removed my hand. And then, as if she had a bullhorn in her possession, she let lose with a string of FUCKAFUCKAFUCKAFUCKAFUCKA!!!!!

I looked around, expecting to find other customers smirking at the antics of my cute little 3 year old daughter. Instead I was met with a host of disapproving glares and furrowed eyebrows.

Naturally this brought out the hilarity of the situation, and I laughed maniacally while Sabra continued to yell expletives.

The pharmacist finally, finally caught on to the social cues that were pulsing around her throne room of medicine, and just handed me the bag and her sincere wishes that my night would be a good one.

And really, it was. My kids dropped the 'F' bomb at Target, but the popsicles didn't melt and Moira didn't grow face warts when the steroids touched her lips.

I dipped a few extra times into the Ben & Jerry's, though. It was called for, don't you think? I might write the company with a few suggestions on a new ice cream name.

What flavor should 'The F Bomb' be?