Death by Humiliation

There are probably 65 billion kajillion complicated reasons why I had kids, not the least of which was an irresistible biological urge that made my ovaries clench and my brain cease to function rationally whenever I saw someone else's sweet little drooling baby.  I won't talk here about any of the reasons I had going in to that adventure.  I'm also not going to talk (much) about the hardship and difficulty that goes along with making a helpless little baby into a functional human.  I knew about that (theoretically) going in, though really no one could possibly warn me about the uncontrollable sobbing on my part when I cried out in desperation in the early hours of the morning "Three hours sleep.  That's all I want.  Three hours sleep.  Is that really so much to ask for?"

Apparently it was.  At least for a while.  Now I understand why several species eat their young, and why God was demonstrating His ability to be all wise and all knowing, because if babies weren't so stinking adorable a whole lot more of them would be left out for the dingoes during hours of maternal desperation.

I'm glad I'm a Mom.  I didn't know it was possible to love another human being quite as much as I love my children.  I had no idea how fun it would be to watch their brains develop and their bodies grow.  Although I couldn't have imagined the depth of those things, I was sort of aware that they were going to happen.  They've been written about quite a bit.  So I won't reinvent the wheel here, especially because sappiness and being heart-felt is not my literary specialty, and there are plenty of others who have done a better job at that.

No, I'm going to write about the unexpected benefit that came with being a parent, the one that makes every bit of heart ache, every interrupted shower, every meal that ends in someone being sent to their room worth it.  Yes, I'm talking about the pure joy in thinking up and then executing ways to embarrass the bejeebers out of my children.

I don't know why it didn't occur to me this would be so much fun.  After all, I was raised by one of the masters.  In the early 80s, when designer jeans first became en vogue, and labels plastered on your shirt became a mark of coolness, my father rebelled against what he saw was insanity.  He saw no difference between a pair of Guess Jeans and a pair of Lee Jeans except the number of digits on the price tag and the triangle with the question mark on the back pocket.  So he drew a triangle with a question mark in it on a piece of notebook paper, cut it out, and paper clipped it to the back of his pants.  I honestly cannot remember if he ever wore it outside of the house, or if it was just in our kitchen, but I do remember feeling horrified.  He imitated a number of fashions he thought were dumb, including the stuffing-your-socks-into-your-pants fashion that was thankfully short-lived.  When my sister got her driver's license, and decided that my father's car was preferable to the clunker the children were assigned to drive, he effectively prevented her from 'borrowing' the better car by putting a large "Vulcan Science Academy" sticker on the back window.

When my son was born, back when I was too overwhelmed to have a sense of humor about the whole thing, my father broke my Jacob in on the humiliation trail.  When Jacob was about six months old, we went for a walk in a park.  Coming upon a fire hydrant, my father insisted on taking a picture of his beloved first grandson (propped up on Papa's knee) lifting his leg in front of it.  I put that picture in his scrapbook with the caption "This is one of the first photographs Jacob will show his therapist."

I don't think my father's goal was to humiliate us.  I think he just has a twisted sense of humor and was trying to entertain himself.  Me, I’m proud to be my father’s daughter.  Entertaining myself is my primary goal, but I've learned that embarrassing my children is the best party game out there.  And the older they get, the easier it is.  For example, the Loganville Middle School Band had a fundraiser at Johnny's Pizza.  Karaoke was available.  I knew my children and their friends would want to do it.  I passed the time by wondering aloud which song would most make my children want to sink in the floor.  Was it Joan Jett's "Do You Wanna Touch"?  Or maybe a duet with my husband -- Sonny and Cher's "I've Got You Babe"?  I can't sing for squat, but I also am old enough not to let shame stand in the way of a good time, so I'll belt one out if it gets a laugh.  Even if I'm the only one laughing and the rest of the room is looking on in horror. 

Lucky for them, the karaoke machine broke before I got a chance to sing Pink's "So What?"

Other opportunities present themselves every day, so not all was lost.  I get to demonstrate my ability to do the Electric Slide more often than you'd think.  The older they get, simply yelling "I love you, Sweetie!" works like a charm.  Calling a nine year old "baby girl" in front of her friends?  Pure poison.  Actually speaking to other kids when I visit the school, thus making my very existence obvious and unavoidable, is as desirable to my children as brussels sprouts. 

I wrote earlier about my children's first forays into the land of social media via Schminstagram, and how my screen name has the word "embarrassing" in it so that I cannot be accused of pretending to be anything other than what I am. I can only hope I live up to the standards I have created for myself.