Fagnitall!

What does it mean? I have no idea but I know that it is a bad word to my three year old son. I think that it is a combination of fuck, damnitall and shit. He says it in the very same tone that I use when I revert to type and let loose with my lesser nature. He learned it from me of course even though I have never used Fagnitall! Ever until now. In his three year old mind, he knows already that there are those moments that just don't work out the way that we want them to…those moments that we just aren't able to summon a higher self and instead resort to damning the moment because it is the only tool that is always ready and at our disposal.

So I have accomplished teaching my three old to curse. Kudos to me! Every time he uses this word, I cringe because it is a vocal and sometimes loud example of my failure to parent well. I am not going to flog myself on the altar of perfect parenting but up until he was 10 months old I really believed that I was THE perfect parent. Patient, loving, present…then he began to move on his own…and everything changed for me. I did not find the newborn stage all that hard. I co-slept and nursed and to be honest I used to lay in bed with him for 12 hours at a time often getting myself back to sleep before he was even done nursing. When I awoke in the morning, I knew that mothers everywhere hated me. But if those first few months of life were easy for us, I have paid the price since. It seems that I was capable of complete sacrifice and loving adoration until this little being began to have a way of his own and a method of achieving those ways. Here is where fagnitall began for him.  The days where he would crawl over to the electrical outlet and just sit there waiting for my response.  He would move closer as my eyes widened in horror as I saw him move closer to death.  As I am leaping over Elmo, he delights in my panic and moves closer still.  As I plunge like a wide receiver over the couch, I arrive in the nick of time, for him to smile and crawl away.  Fagnitall! I am now sweaty and my heart is racing. He has peacefully moved on to the next thing that has captured his attention…the dog. Still reeling from our imagined fate, I say out loud FAGNITALL!

And so begins the cycle – Logan moving further from me and closer to dangers both real and imagined. My ability to deal is compromised. I over- react and set myself up for feelings of dismay. Fagnitall! Logan observes and knows that his mother is excitable and unpredictable. He knows that I am usually distracted and consumed with all sorts of activities that take me from the present moment and away from him. He knows now how to bring me back…FAGNITALL!

When I was single and parenting was strictly theoretical, I knew that I would be able to impart wisdom and respect to my imagined children. They would be well behaved and I would glow…all the time. And I guess I wasn't totally wrong, I do glow but that is usually from perspiration and exhaustion. These imagined children didn't learn swear words until they were at least 15 and never made up their own! So I bow my head in defeat and know that this is really a much harder job than I imagined. I get up every day and smile to myself and ask, "So what's it going to be today theoretical parenting or in-the-trenchs parenting?" And you know, some days I just have to say Fagnitall...but only quietly to myself.