Keeping my Mouth Shut (Mostly)

I try to keep my mouth shut - really, I do. But there are just certain subjects, like using pesticides on one's lawn, where I just can't help myself.


"You're what?" I asked someone in my family who owns a dog named Quincy and is about to produce the Baby of the Century.


"Mom, our lawn is dead."


"Okay," I said, with that extra little inflection I sometimes use when it really isn't okay. Then I got off the phone.


The next morning I sent an email: 


Hi Sweetie,
I've been worrying about you using pesticide on your lawn. I really wouldn't, not with Quincy and the new baby. They say to keep off it for 24 hours, but the lasting effects are extremely toxic. What's a little crab grass? Please consider using something organic or just leaving it be. It's just grass, and the risks of pesticides are proven to be hazardous.
xxMom


"Oy veh," my daughter's response began. "Relax. It's not just a little crab grass - it's all brown and dead and looks terrible. I'll look into using lemon juice and vinegar as an alternative..."


I used to blurt things out. I just had to. I believed that keeping things to myself could quite possibly cause cancer. I also used to fire poison darts of emails and then sit back, fingers poised above the keyboard ready to do battle. Eventually I realized that emails sent in anger had far reaching consequences. First, they were preserved in writing and could be referred back to or forwarded on to members of one's family, which made small, interpersonal dramas much worse. There were those initial rapid pulse, heart thumping feelings of self-righteous indignation, but they evaporated leaving me deflated, vaguely guilty, and embarrassed. Ugh.


"You need to practice restraint of pen and tongue," a wise friend suggested. "Give it the three-day rule," she advised. "You can write it all out, but don't hit send." After several dozen false starts, this strategy worked. By the third day, I usually no longer cared; or, if I did feel strongly about a particular situation, I had time to fashion a thoughtful missive.


Back to my daughter. We were discussing the actual birth, who would be where, who would NOT (sigh) be in the delivery room, and I casually inquired would she be attending lamaze classes.


"No," she said. "I don't have time, and besides I know how to breathe."