My Kids Are An Embarrassment
I am a pretty mellow, quiet, non-confrontational introvert. My dear lamb of a husband, Tony, is the complete opposite of all those traits in every way. He has joked for our whole 18 years together that our relationship is built on embarrassment- specifically the embarrassment that I experience due to his inappropriately hilarious behavior. He is the life of every party. Everyone knows him, and no one forgets him. In an attempt to sneak away from any social gathering and get home to my pajamas and books, I am usually slouching in his shadow, rolling my eyes but also laughing at his antics on the inside. His sense of humor is what won me over in the first place, after all.
I didn’t realize, and neither did he, that Tony was only gently preparing me for life with children. Watch out moms! They are seriously so embarrassing. Every little secret you’ve kept, is suddenly common knowledge to the world. Did you tweeze two whiskers on your chin? Now the neighbor knows. Did you fart in the comfort of your own bed? Now their kindergarten class has heard it in hyperbole form. Did you accidently call another driver a douche bag in a bout of road rage? Now your in-laws are asking if you allow such “nicknames” in your home (It was actually translated as Douche Bank in her five year old vernacular to be fair).
Now, children aren’t fearless little iconoclasts by any means, wreaking havoc on your reputation without a concern for their own. Oh no. They care. And you better not mess with their perfect standing in child society. Do not you dare put her ponytail too high, or someone may giggle! You better not pack that snack pack they can’t open without help, or the other boys will call him a sissy! How could you call your 10 year old by the name Sweetie and expect a hug? What were you thinking getting her a second kitten shirt? One is cute, Mom, but two? What is she now, a cat lady?
My daughters’ favorite place to invoke humiliation is Target, also known as Mom Headquarters. It’s our usual Saturday morning hang out. Picture it: an iced coffee, two cake pops, a few dollar spot items, my weekly list, and my dreams of one day decorating my house like a true Joanna Gaines. That’s the plan every week at least.
We get into the store and they peruse the Dollar Spot while I grab my highly caffeinated Starbucks treat. They are out of the little red cart cup holders. Dang it. My hands-free part of this Target dream is hindered a bit, but it’s fine. It's fine. It’s all fine.
We get a few feet down the women's section, and my darling daughters have now pantsed a mannequin. They think this is the funniest thing ever and laugh at their loudest volume, which I must admit, is very cute. And unfortunately, other customers think it’s cute too. People laugh and it’s cute. But those other, well-meaning, customers don’t realize that we just arrived. This is only the beginning. It only goes downhill from here. It’s going to get SO much worse than a mannequin butt crack! I grab their hands and try to calmly but threateningly whisper to them, “Quiet down, people are looking at you.”
Next comes the ultimatum. “Walk beside the cart, or you have to get in the cart!” Oh no. They will be perfect from now on, they say. We wander to the women’s clearance and they “accidentally” start a game of hide and seek in the clothing racks. I tell myself, “It’s fine! They aren't’ hurting anything.” And that is true until they run out of a clothing rack and directly into a woman’s crotch at full speed screaming “Freedom!” It’s not a mannequin this time. It’s a real lady with a real crotch that my daughter just Flash Gordoned into with her forehead. It’s time to get in the cart. I am checking my pulse and telling myself that this stress-induced heart rate elevation can be counted as cardio. I apologize and move away from the poor lady with the bruised groin who is muttering about manners and giving me a dirty look. I will have to avoid further contact with her on this lovely Target visit.
Soon, they are whining and pushing because they are getting too big to fit in the cart together. I refuse to admit this fact because it means my Target dreams must be modified greatly. Having big children that have to walk (and be chased) around Target doesn’t fit into my fantasy Saturday Morning Target Run. But then again, none of this fits. Now I’m pushing around 90 lbs of kid in a cart while holding a Venti Cold Brew. I realize then I haven’t even taken a drink yet.
In order to keep my angels calm and, more importantly, quiet in the cart, I give them my phone with the Neflix Kids profile up and ready. They actually agree on a show, thank the Lord! I head to the home section of the store. While I’m smelling candles and imagining I’m actually smelling the fresh ocean breeze as the scent suggests, I hear an argument commence over who has the better view of the phone screen and who is taking up too much space in the cart. I’m about to put a pillow between them to sit the phone on, (I know, perfect technique, right?) when I hear, “GET OFF ME, YOU PERVERT!” Those are the actual words yelled at full volume from the candle aisle. People are peeking around corners, undoubtedly judging every single thing about me as a parent, and maybe as a possible predator. An employee actually runs to us, RUNS, to ask if everything is okay. No, I’m not okay. I am dying inside.
I tell the sweet dears that they are no longer getting the fake fart machine they picked out in the Dollar Spot because of their behavior. This was a bad move on my part. They go from enemies, to allies. They have now joined forces against me. They both start wailing. “I just want it!” is moaned about 7,000 times. I am trying to console two psychotic freaks, and I am unqualified for this! In an attempt to save myself anymore humiliation, I speed walk the cart one handed to the dressing room, while guzzling my iced coffee in utter frustration, anger, and what feels like pure defeat.
I set down my drink in the part of the cart where a much smaller and surely much more well-behaved baby could fit, and pull both large crying children from the cart. Because they are almost half my size, this is a feat. One of their shoes gets stuck in the cart and as I twist to get it out, I knock over the rest of my Starbucks. The drink and all my hopes and dreams for this trip spill and soak into the Target carpet. I turn and carry both of their screaming dead bodies to the attendant. “We need a time out and there’s a spill over there,” I state without a drop of emotion. If I crack, I will crumble. No cracking! The poor girl just nods, with big scared eyes.
I take them into a dressing room, drop them, and lock the door. I tell them that they have to calm down. It doesn’t work. They actually get louder. This is when I realize that the dressing rooms are in fact echo chambers. Without any full length walls to seperate the dressing rooms, I am sure that the entire store is listening to this cacophony of horror. Finally, I strike a deal that works. They can still get the fart machine if they just shut up! I know, I’m a horrible mom. I just have to get out of that store with an ounce of outward dignity, even if inside I feel like the complete failure. I tell myself that when we are in the privacy of our own home, I'll discipline them. In all actuality I will probably just want to erase this hour from my memory and move on with my life.
We exit the dressing rooms and head back to get a new fart machine. Thank God for this life-saving fart machine, that will be lost, broken, or forgotten by the end of the day. As soon as it is in their hands, they are cracking up like nothing ever happened, like it’s the best day ever. Absolute psychopaths! We walk toward the check-out with exactly zero items from my list. I have to get out of there before the next wave of hysterical madness hits.
As we near the front of the store, we see a mom carrying a screaming child under one arm, whispering in frightening calmess, “You are not getting anything.” I look at her in awestruck wonder and respect. I want to be her when I grow up. My daughters look at me in horror. “Mommy, did you see that? That little girl is being so bad! Good thing we are being good so we can get this treat.” I look back at them in equal horror. It’s like they have amnesia. I’m actually thinking maybe they have tantrum blackouts. My voice is raised when I respond, “That was you literally five minutes ago!” I have now cracked and crumbled. I’m the one acting like a crazy person. It has just gone too far. No one in this store thinks I’m a decent mom or maybe even human being at this point. What the heck, I’ll just show them for myself. “You guys have been crazy the whole time we’ve been here. You should be the ones who get nothing! You don’t deserve this fart machine!” They look around and whisper in concern mixed with embarrassment, “Shhhhh Mommy, people are looking at you.”
I have a solid 40 minutes of elevated heart rate by the time we get to the car, so that’s a win. The girls are content with their new fart machine in the back seat, and they even keep saying “Thank you so much Mommy.” And “This is the best treat ever!” I tell myself that I’m not a total failure. At least they are being grateful… right?
Later, Tony asks how our Target run went, ready for the inevitable story to follow. He thinks it’s hilarious, of course. He gives them a congratulatory high five for building that bond of embarrassment. I know I’ll survive to Target shop another day. And I know I’ll look back on this and laugh... with my grey hair, mid-life stress acne, and aching back. Being embarrassed by my kids isn’t the end of the world, just the end of my pride. And that’s not a bad thing. I need to learn sometimes that life isn’t all about me or in my control.
In his book Raising Giant Killers, Bill Johnson says it is pitiful for the goal of parenting to be merely survival, that we are given the greatest gift and responsibility on Earth in raising our children. I agree with him... on most days. This job is huge and so difficult and so important. We must stay diligent and fight the right battles with our kids to teach them right from wrong. We have to be strict yet sensitive. Some days though, I’m just barely making it to bedtime. My example to them for that day is one in perseverance. Just keep trucking, because, well, giving up isn’t actually an option in this job. We just quit for the day, and start new tomorrow.
Happy Mothers Day, Mom! We are all in this together. And our kids are around here somewhere, probably in the bathroom creating science experiments with our make-up.
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