There will always be cussing

Saturday night, my own momma and I took The Daughters to see Steel Magnolias at our local university. It was a girls' night because of The Dad's monthly poker game, and my friend Denise was directing this great play about southern friendships. It was certain to be a great night. On our way to eat,  my own momma and I were talking about the movie, staring Julia Roberts (who, not to drop names or anything but she is in our town filming right now) and a whole plethora of brilliant actresses. We wondered how the stage version would compare to the film version, which everyone raves about still.

"It was a movie before?" Daughter 2 piped up.  I explained that it probably had been a play, then someone made it a movie and now Denise was making it a play again.  She wanted to know what the movie was rated.

"It was probably PG, I think," I said.

"For adult language?" she asked excitedly. I nodded. Probably. Probably adult language and bird shooting. It was probably PG for adult language, bird shooting and excessive ugly crying, but I didn't say that aloud.

"So there will be cussing in this play?" she asked way too excited.

"No," I explained, "It's a private Christian university, and they don't want anyone cussing while at their university."

"You're going to have to watch your language, Momma," she chided. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Daughter 1 sat next to me and questioned every little detail. She was into the play and followed the storyline. She was perfect. Daughter 2 sat next to my own momma. For a child who doesn't even sleep in one position for more than five minutes, she did very well. I'd steal glances at her and notice that she was drawn to the stage and the six wonderful actresses who were bringing the story to life.

As the last scene opened, Shelby was ominously missing. I stiffled a sob before the scene's dialogue even began. Daughter 1 glanced at me and, being perceptive, asked, "What happened to Shelby?"

I sniffled and glanced at Daughter 2. Her eyes were glued to the stage.

I sniffed some more and wiped my eyes and cheeks and chin. I wondered why my friend Jennifer, who was on my left, and my own momma had bragged about bringing tissues yet didn't offer me one. I cursed my decision to wear mascara. I stole glances at my daughters wondering if they understood how heart-wrenching this was for a momma to watch. Daughter 1 slid her hand into my hand.  Then the scene ended.

The Daughters got autographs after the show and a slice of bleeding armadillo cake, then we headed home.  My own momma and I commented on how well that final scene played out even in the staged-beautishop as opposed to the movie's cemetery scene when Shelby dies.

"Wait. What?" piped a little voice from middle seat in the minivan. "Shelby died?" Daughter 2 shrieked.

"Oh, ummm..." I started, "Yes. Shelby died. That's why she wasn't on stage in the last scene."

Then an uncharacteristic silence took over the minivan.

"Honey," I whispered, "You didn't know that Shelby died?"

She shook her head.

"I'm sorry. Does it make you sad?" I asked.

"Well," she started, "A little bit.  But, there was a cuss word, so it's all OK."

A cuss word? What was she talking about.

"You know, momma, they were talking about heaven and HELL."

Cuss words heal all wounds...