Humiliation Must Run in the Family

I hit another mommy milestone. Recently, my oldest daughter, Paige, told me I embarrassed her last year.

Last year?

Apparently, I sent her to school with a “baby book” for "Book-a-Ween," an event at where all the kids dress as a favorite book character and participate in a parade. Her teacher, after the parade, asked the kids to share their books with the class. Paige picked the costume and character, and I found her the book. 

I told her I was sorry. I told her she needs to toughen up and promptly shared with her some of the most embarrassing moments of my teenage years that involved the trials and tribulations I endured being carted around in my father’s beat-up old truck. 

Cry me a river, kid, a “baby book” has nothing on this.

Growing up, I lived in a wealthy community. My circle of friends consisted mostly of "rich kids." My rich-kid friends had the newest Big Wheels, the shiniest bikes and, eventually, the fanciest cars. Most of my friends drove nicer cars than my parents did. 

My father drove a Ford Thunderbird. It was a nice car, always clean and reliable, but nothing fancy. I had no beef with the Thunderbird; it was a fine car.

He had another mode of transportation. Calling it a "vehicle" would be generous. It was his work truck, and it was a secret I kept from my rich-kid friends for years. It was loud, because it had no muffler. It wasn’t painted, just primed, and there was a gaping hole in the floorboards of the passenger side. I remember watching the road whiz by under my feet as I hung my head in shame and embarrassment, trying desperately not to be discovered lumbering and grumbling through the tiny town in this beast of a truck my dad affectionately referred to as "Big Black."

I think the highlight of riding in it was being treated to the ear-numbing “boom” of the backfire that occurred nearly every time we came to a stop.

I remember hoping that one of the local sheriff’s deputies would spot me, a helpless minor strapped into what would surely be deemed an unsafe vehicle, rescue me and shove the junker off of a nearby cliff.  Sadly, that never happened.

My dad used to chuckle at my embarrassment. “It’s only a truck,” he would say. 

I missed the bus maybe twice in my life. Nothing promotes being on time for the bus like the threat of your father dropping you off at your rich-kid school in a smoking, clanking, hideous pile of bolts. My highest priority in the mornings was to get on that bus, no matter what the cost. If it meant I went hungry or sported only one shoe, so be it. On the one or two occasions when I did miss the bus, I had to endure the trip but implored him to drop me at the bottom of the hill, safely out of sight of my friends. I walked the last quarter mile, just to avoid embarrassment.

I don’t know if sharing my stories with Paige made her feel any better about the horror of being sent to school with what she considers a “baby book," but I do know it made her laugh and realize she doesn’t have it so bad. 

Take that story to your "Book-a-Ween" parade, girly.