Cancelled?

Yesterday morning this conversation occurred at my breakfast table.

Scene: Matilda eating oatmeal, passing out notes from school. Gertrude and Daddy eating Cream of Wheat (from separate bowls . . . Gertrude will later be told to eat her breakfast, ten minutes later she will come up to Daddy, holding up her empty bowl, saying, “Daddy, check it out”. But that’s later.) Mommy is wandering.

Matilda hands a piece of paper to Mom.

“Oh no, your Symphony field trip was cancelled,” she says with remorse. Our symphony is on strike because they aren’t paid crap. So, no field trip. No enlightenment for the fourth graders.

“What,” I say, being stirred from my wheaty reverie.

“The Symphony field trip was cancelled because of the strike,” Mom says.

“What,” I ask, disappointedly. “I can’t believe it. Last year it snowed and they missed it and now it’s cancelled again.”

Suddenly, Gertrude awoke from her fuzzy state. Something I said set her off.

“Cancelled again,” she bellowed with righteous indignance. “DAMN!” And she slammed her fist down on the table with authority and anger at the unfairness of the world.

I won’t say that I laughed. Laugh isn’t quite the word. I walked outside, not wanting to draw attention to Gertrude’s indiscretion (thereby encouraging her to do it again). So, instead, I stood outside in the winter cold and almost passed out trying not to laugh.

And, what’s more, later that evening when we were deconstructing the moment, guess who was blamed for teaching her that word? You guessed it. Daddy has been tried and convicted of having a potty mouth.

Sure as shit, I’m appealing that decision.