My neighbor, Val, (whom you might remember) invited me to lunch on Saturday with her father and her five year old daughter. Being around Val and her father is always a good time because Val spends most of her time being completely embarrassed by her father. He’s an odd duck, to be sure, but also a nice guy who means no harm. The degree to which Val is embarrassed by him is clearly related to the fact that he is her father and nothing else.
So there we were at lunch, and her father was being his natural, odd, nice self, and Val was being her embarrassed, squirmy self, looking many a time like she’d just like to crawl under the table. And her father explained to me about how children start to become embarrassed by their parents around 12 or 13 and how this waxes and wanes as the years go by, but never completely goes away, and I smiled, thinking about how embarrassed I am by my mother, and then it hit me: ONE DAY I WILL EMBARRASS MY CHILDREN.
I was filled with warmth and happiness! Oh yes, my dear little ones, the tables will turn, AND THEY WILL TURN FOREVER. Oh, glorious day! I will welcome you! Just knowing that you are coming makes it all easier!
Like when we were potty-training the girls, and I had to walk around in public with a potty seat hanging off of my backpack. Or, during that same time, when one of them would just go ahead and pee right on the floor in the middle of a store. Good times, good times.
Elsie is currently going through a nose-picking phase. Her finger spends most of its time obscured from view inside of her nostril. At home, we don’t fight it, but in public, I try to convince her to keep her finger out of her nose. She tries to convince me, with a nice volume to her voice and very clear diction, that BOOGIES TASTE GOOD.
It’s also great when one or the other of them explains to complete strangers that, when they cry, they must go into “the back room.”
But really, the pièce de résistance thus far has got to be when we were hanging out at our friends house, and Quinn lay down on the ground on her back, spread her legs, put her heels up in the air, and said, “Mommy, can we play this game?” To which our friends, understandably, asked with some trepidation, “Um, what is she talking about?”*
I feel better about all of these things now. Much better. In fewer than ten years, it will be my turn. I know Val’s father doesn’t try to embarrass Val, yet he does. I, too, will be able to embarrass my children through no effort of my own. And just imagine the degree to which I will be able to embarrass them if I just try! I don’t believe I’ve ever mentioned here the dozens AND DOZENS of pictures I have of both girls grinning proudly while standing beside a potty featuring their very own poop. But you can be sure I won’t forget to mention these lovely pictures to their prospective romantic interests. Which reminds me, I really need to buy a photo album…
*For the record, Quinn was referring to the game where I (or Majka) lie on the ground on my back, with my legs together, and Quinn lies down with her body along my shins, and I raise my feet up and down in the air, bouncing and swaying her around while holding onto her hands. Now, of course, we call this activity The Let’s Call Child Protective Services on Our Friends Game.









