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Embarrassment Factor strikes early, lasts forever
By Debbie Farmer
I often wonder why, from all the parenting books I read during my pregnancies, not one ever mentioned the Embarrassment Factor. I learned a great deal about handling colic, what to expect during various developmental stages, and how to deal with temper tantrums, but nobody properly prepared me for dealing with two unreasonable human beings whose behavior hung on the fringes of normal society--most of the time.
I knew there were some things I couldn't control, such as when my daughter first discovered body orifices and tried putting cranberries in her nose at my inlaw's house during Thanksgiving dinner. Back then, I thought it would pass in time. Little did I know that the Embarrassment Factor strikes early and only increases with age.
When my son turned 3 he insisted on dressing himself. Each morning he'd emerge from his room ready to start his day, wearing a pair of patent leather boots (his sister's), his bike helmet and whatever Power Ranger pajamas he had worn the night before. I didn't see any harm in his creative play. In fact, I encouraged it, hoping to foster his imagination.
"Would you like to talk to grandma?" I asked when my mother-in-law called one morning.
"Desert Thunder, ready to rumble!"
I took that as a yes and handed him the phone. As I listened, I wondered if he would tell her about the fun he had at the park or about our latest visit to the zoo.
"Back off clay brain," he said into the receiver. "It's morphing time!" Then he hung up.
I had a feeling she didn't fully appreciate his blossoming imagination--or my superior parenting skills.
My daughter didn't cause overt embarrassment until she was 4 years old and saw the birth of a lion cub on Animal Planet. I thought it was a good time to have a brief discussion on the reproductive process, using the animal kingdom as an example.
I thought I handled the subject tactfully--until she began to approach everyone that came to our home and say, "Do you have a uterus?" as if it were a pickup line in a seedy bar. Then, if they unwittingly answered yes, she'd demand to know what size it was, where it came from, and if she could take a look at it.
Then she moved on from discussing organs to wanting information about the entire reproductive process--preferably in a crowded public place.
"Mommy, where did I come from?" she'd ask while I unloaded the groceries in line at the checkout stand.
"My tummy." I was proud of my honest response.
"How did I get there?"
It seemed as if everyone within 20 feet stopped what they were doing and waited for my reply as I frantically tried to think of an appropriate public, and biologically correct, answer.
"The stork," I finally whispered.
She pondered this as I finished unloading the cart.
"Nuh-uh!" she said finally. Then she gave up and turned to the lady standing behind us. "Do you have a UTERUS?"
Luckily for our friends and neighbors, she eventually outgrew her fascination with the reproductive process. In our naiveté, we also thought she had matured, so we took her out to dinner to an upscale restaurant that had full-size chairs and complete sets of metal silverware.
My children must've been in shock since the first 15 minutes went extraordinarily well. None of the other customers scooted their table to the other side of the room, or requested we leave. Then the meal arrived.
My 4-year-old son looked at his spaghetti and cried, "Look, snakes!"
"No." My daughter corrected him. "It's a pile of worms! Hahahahaha!"
I cringed as the people at the other tables began to stare at my dysfunctional family.
"Wait," my son cried. "It's guts!" He slapped his hand down on the table and burst into hysterics. "Bloody worm guts! Hahahahahahaha!"
"Shhhhh!" I hissed. "This is not how to behave in a restaurant."
They considered this for a moment, then looked down at their plates and burst into laughter again. In fact, they seem so impressed with their own jokes that I half expected them to pack up the food and complimentary crayons, and hit the late-night, talk-show circuit. I bet most of the people in the room wished they had.
Afterwards, my friends assured me this was normal behavior, but I secretly blamed the diet soda I drank in the final trimester of my pregnancy. Then my friend Jenny told me her 6-year-old daughter took her nursing bra to school for sharing day and lost it in the tanbark at recess when she went across the monkey bars wearing it. But I think she was just trying to make me feel better.
The real turning point came several weeks later when my daughter had a friend over to play Barbies. Her friend picked up a doll and casually announced, "My Mommy can't wear a bathing suit because she has cream cheese on the back of her legs."
No matter how bad things seem, I realized that they could always be worse.
Besides, I know I'll get revenge for all of the embarrassing moments my children have put me through--just as soon as they become teenagers.
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Sunnyvale, California Since 1994
