It’s F.A.C.!
A lesson in not taking life too seriously.
**We have a bunch of new faces around here (hi!), so this week, we’re taking you back to the very first piece we ever wrote for KNOCK IT OFF (2.5 years ago!). In short, it explains why we are the way we are. Hope you enjoy!**
Every child has a unique experience growing up, shaped in large part by the people who raise said child. We grew up in a happy home with both parents, never wondering whether we were loved. Our Dad, though, had a particularly unique way of showing it.
He was born in Detroit, Michigan as the only child to a Vaudeville dancing couple who had exited the entertainment industry and set up shop later in life as dance studio owners and instructors. He used to “MC” the recitals as a boy, perhaps his first taste of performing for an audience.
Sadly, Dad lost both of his parents at a young age which required him to move across the country to Denver, Colorado where his aunt and uncle—the new guardians—resided. It was there that he met our mother at the age of 16 over a shared affection for Jack-in-the-Box tacos (extra sauce). So, in the fast-food drive through line, their life-long courtship began.
After Dad graduated from Colorado School of Mines in Golden, Colorado and mom graduated from University of North Colorado in Greeley, Colorado, Dad’s first job took our parents to Yuma, Arizona. There, they had four children before you could say “failed birth control.” (We may be exaggerating a touch here for effect. They claim they always wanted a big family.)
Dad worked in the mining industry as an engineer/superintendent/manager and spent a lot of the time in the field with the mine employees. He has always had a quirky sense of humor, undoubtedly shaped by his various life experiences and innate wit. This translated into very entertaining sessions under “Dad-watch” when Mom was working her shifts as a nurse in the local hospital Labor and Delivery department, “catching babies” as he lovingly called it.
When we were under Dad’s watch, we had very different rules. For instance, he once instituted “left turns only” in which, no matter where we were headed throughout the house, we had to get there by turning left. This could require twirling our bodies 270 degrees in order to enter a particular area that would normally require a right turn (such as “the crapper,” a/k/a bathroom).
The meals were always different with Dad, too. On occasion, while waiting for our mother to return home from the nightshift, we would be permitted to try a small pinch of our goldfish’s food. Other noteworthy delights included “Kipper snacks” (lightly-smoked herring fillets in small aluminum cans) and roast beef hash (also from a can). All of these were luxuries.
As we tasted the delicacy of the day, Dad would look out the window, point, and exclaim, “There she isn’t!” This resulted in a collective groan, then giggles as we learned how to quickly play the joke on one another.
Once our parents completed procreating, the fresh family of six moved to Boise, Idaho, the next gifted adventure of a mining industry unit. Idaho’s climate was a stark contrast to the Sonoran desert of Yuma, which bordered the Northern edge of Mexico. In Idaho, we quickly learned, IT SNOWED. Semi-frequently. And it got COLD. Frequently. Enough so, that Dad promptly introduced the latest family phrase:
“It’s F.A.C.!”
Whenever Dad made this exclamation, typically outside the presence of mom, all four children would squeal with glee. We knew it meant something very special: one of us, and only one, would get to say out loud what F.A.C. really meant. And so it would go, Dad would say it, we’d all raise our hands and jump up and down yelling, “Me, me, me!!” And he would select somebody. The proud one would declare, “It’s freezing ass cold outside!” The one time when cussing was permitted. A sort of “free” cuss.
One day, things didn’t go quite as planned. Dad declared, “It’s F.A.C.!” which yielded the typical Freudian response of all of us jumping up and down begging to be the special one. Dad turned to our younger sister, approximately age 4, and picked her to be the lucky swearer. She perked up, knowing this was her time to shine. She smoothed her hair, straightened her dress, and bellowed:
“IT’S FUCKING ASS COLD OUTSIDE!”
That may have been the one time our home was quiet enough to hear a pin drop (for a few seconds).
These stories, however odd (dysfunctional, maybe?) they may be interpreted, imprinted upon us a very important life lesson:
Don’t take life too seriously.
With living comes many discomforts in a variety of forms. We can find ways, together, to laugh with original creativity and find humor in nearly any situation.
Dad has never put it in so many words, but he had to learn early to find humor and joy in the everyday because of the difficult hand life dealt him. For him, it was a necessary survival tactic.
In our own childhood, the hard things we dealt with paled in comparison. “When will mom be home?” “My tummy hurts.” (Go figure.) Those sorts of things. But with Dad’s quirky humor engrained in us, over time when the hard things got harder, we had our own built-in survival tactic.
Take Bethany’s “free-form” style when her husband is away. She doesn’t claim to be the mother saint, the epitome of patience or the June Cleaver of home-making. Frankly, the thought of being alone with three children of various ages terrifies her. However, in order to make the most of the…adventure… she often will institute a declaration of a “🎶Can’t Nobody Tell Me Nothin’🎶…NIGHT.”
Adapted from the hit song “Old Town Road” by Lil Nas X, these three white children being raised in suburbia know this to mean there is (semi) free reign when it comes to dinner/snacks and screen time, so long as their chores get done. They love it. They sing it. They ask for it far too often.
For Kara’s part, her family has adopted moronic terms for seemingly boring items. For some examples, deodorant is “pit juice” and underwear is “bunderwear.” Anytime someone is upset, they’ve “gone pookie.” In the solitude of the car ride home with her older child, she may permit a “free cuss” here or there (so far, it’s only gotten as far as saying “stupid” or “hate,” but with time will come cussing advancement). Dinner time is filled with laughter, even if it means egging on the two-year-old when that’s the last thing he needs.
The end result is this.
Whether we’re faced with a real life problem or even just the every-day grind, we are going to tackle it with pizazz.
Let’s have a little fun with it!
Here are five tips from two unqualified and quirky moms to consider implementing immediately for heightened joy:
Begin sharing favorite movie quotes amongst yourselves. You may spit bubbly water when your child lands one with seamless timing during a conversation.
Come up with silly jingles or alternative labels for common household items or mundane tasks. “Mucking out your closet” (cleaning the closet) is one of our many family classics.
Dub one song THE song. The song that sparks an immediate reaction whenever it comes on. And decide what fun reaction you want from it.
Allow a “free cuss” every now and then. Experience tells us the kids will think it’s amazing.
Be vulnerable with your kids about your gastrointestinal upsets. This pays dividends later.
How do you find joy in the day to day? Let us know in the caaaawments!
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📰 This week’s highlight from the archives. A real life spooky story.
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Interesting storyline, enjoyed it!!❤️