No Crying Over Spilled Sauce or It Takes a Lot to Make Me Blush

All of us are born with a sense of wanting to preserve our dignity. Throughout middle school and high school we try to act like and look like our friends, all in the attempt to not be embarrassed and ridiculed. In college we try to be different because in being unique, we are still conforming to a norm – but this one means that to be the same, we must be different. Just this week a college student explained to me that being called “basic” is a major insult – no one wants to be average. I thanked her for keeping me cool by updating my slang and smiled inwardly because not being “basic” is actually the same thing as trying to fit in and be normal.

So throughout most of our early years we strive to avoid publicly shaming ourselves. And then we have children. I had no idea that what would have embarrassed me in my early 20’s wouldn’t even register on my Richter scale now. Tripping and falling in public? Who cares! Walking around with a huge hole in my pants? Hey at least I’m wearing pants!

I’m not sure when we transition to being immune to humiliation. I think our adjustment starts when our sweet babies are born. Maybe it’s when we are delivering our babies and we have people all around our woo-hoos poking and prodding in there. Just think, when we were 21, we really tried not flashing our panties* while we were a little too drunk at that skeezy bar. And now people are huddled around that area quite matter-of-factly. And once we have that first baby, we’ve got lactation nurses in the hospital, grabbing our boobs trying to shove our nipples in just the right position. “Um, hey lady, my main goal for the past 27 years was to make it so that my nipple wasn’t out for the world to see. But hey, you just keep on going since you seem on a mission and my baby is screaming. Yes, I’m totally relaxing so I can ‘let down.’” And have you seen what nursing bras look like? That is a humiliation in and of itself.

As our babies grow, they strengthen our immunity to embarrassment. It’s like they are training us for a crazy adventure race. Once at a wedding reception (where we were sitting right by the buffet table) the Moose vomited, Exorcist style, all over me. Like he stood up, looked at me and opened his mouth and everything he’d ever consumed landed in my lap. To this day, I think he puked so hard that it went through me because when I stood up, despite being puked on in my front, I had puke on my back and butt. My neighbor apologetically wiped the back of my pants so I could careful walk out of the reception, with my drenched clothes hanging on me, my husband gagging at the smell, and the Moose skipping along asking when we were going to have dinner. At that stage of motherhood, I still felt embarrassed. Little did I know I was just training for that portion of the race where you crawl through the mud. We haven’t even started getting ready for the part where you run through the electric wires.

At that point I didn’t realize how many times I’d be puked on or pooped on yet. Or how babies only blow out their diapers in Target or restaurants. Or how you can be sitting in church and notice that your toddler is sticking his hand down your shirt. Dealing with these minor indignities prepares us for a day of spectacular portions.

It takes a lot to make me embarrassed now. Two weeks ago I was at the grocery store checking out and managed to drop a glass jar of spaghetti sauce on the ground. Of course it shattered, not only leaving glass fragments but spaghetti sauce EVERYWHERE. Clean up in aisle 10…literally. Moose was mortified. The Rock was bemused. And I looked down and thought, “So do I just keep putting stuff on the conveyor belt?” I did and we checked out minus one jar of spaghetti sauce. My lesson? Maybe I should start buying the cheaper sauce that comes in cans instead?

So I was feeling pretty invincible when it came to public spectacles. Oh friends, you and I both know that when you get cocky about life, you will get it shoved right back in your face. Just this week I was fortunate enough to increase my training level for my tolerance of embarrassing moments.

We were house hunting and visited a house that the owner was showing himself. We are looking around, making that friendly small talk that you have to make because you are in an awkward situation of judging someone’s home while they are there watching you. That’s when the Rock took off to go to the bathroom. “Oh, we are so sorry,” we said, and to be honest, it really wasn’t that awful. Rock needed to pee, no biggie. We continue looking around the house. Then I notice that the Rock is nowhere to be found. Where did this kid go? Was he climbing on the beds? Because he had just gotten a lecture about that at the other house we looked at! Oh but no, it was so much better (or worse depending on how you look at it.)There, with the door wide open, is my baby, sitting on the potty. Friends, it is one thing to pee in someone’s house. It is another thing to poop in someone’s house, especially a stranger’s. And I thought, “Yes, this is the tipping point. THIS is embarrassing.” Now we are apologizing profusely and really meaning it this time. Peter runs in to help clean Rocco up and I am still trying to smooth over this amazing moment in parenthood. The guy, who looks just as embarrassed as we do, laughs it off but we all know, we have made a name for ourselves. “Hey guys, you think selling your home is tough? Try having a preschooler crap in your bathroom!” It’s like we were homeless and looking for a place to tidy up.

Well played Rock. I now have a new threshold for being embarrassed. My new benchmark for awkwardness is now, well, is my son pooping in a stranger’s house we are considering buying? No? Then who cares! I’m sure this isn’t the worst thing that will happen. And I am depending on other parents like you to look at me and think, “Hey, no judging here! My kid doesn’t shut the door when he poops either!” I promise to be just as gentle minded when your kid does something even more impressive. And just remember as we dodge the mudpits and electric wires of parenthood, we are simply making special memories that will all come to light at their senior parties. Paybacks are hell.  

*If you have an issue with the word “panties” please read one of my prior blogs and get over it.

From Poop Schedules to College Or I Will Leave You Alone as Long as I Can Call You Whenever I Want

Dear Moose,

We are in a transition period. I know that you are growing up. Soon you will be eleven and in middle school. And because I am dramatic, I recognize that this means you are practically in college. Knowing that time is of the essence, I am already working on letting go, even if you can’t tell. I refuse to become a helicopter parent. I see it too much and it is not someone I want to become. But….it turns out, this is quite hard.

You see, I have been watching your every movement like a stalker since I found out I was pregnant. We were instructed to count your kicks every hour in utero. But micromanaging did not stop once you were born. I received weekly updates from overly helpful websites telling me exactly what developmental delays I should be on the lookout for. Your every move has been scrutinized and you didn’t even know it! Even in daycare, I would receive a daily sheet telling me what you ate, how much you ate, when you ate, when you slept, how many wet diapers you had and when you pooped. Little did you know that we have been tracking everything you do since you were born!

Of course starting kindergarten was quite the change because it turns out, kindergarten teachers don’t watch how much you eat or how many times a day you go to the bathroom. How am I supposed to know if you are safe and healthy if I don’t know these intimate details about you?! I’m just supposed to expect you to tell me? But when I asked you what was for lunch, you couldn’t remember. What? Argh! Did you eat? Are you wasting away? Naturally kindergarten was the first step as it forced me to let go a bit and rely on you to know how to take care of yourself when it came to your basic needs. I’d like to think you are fully capable of taking care of the base needs now, yet sometimes I find I still have to tell you that you need to wear shoes. But I digress…

Now you are getting to the age where you can be dropped off at places without me. Just this weekend I let you watch your friends play basketball and I wasn’t there. I know that very responsible parents that I trust were around. But while I may have seemed cool and collected on the surface, I was ready to text you every 5 minutes to make sure no one had drugged you in the bathroom and taken you across state lines. Obviously I made you take your phone. I can track you with it, which you may not know. Fun fact, did you know I literally hyperventilated the first time I let you use a public restroom on your own? I still actually watch the bathroom door waiting for you to reemerge. Sorry!

These are baby steps for me. Soon you will be driving. Wait, no you won’t. I can’t actually go there mentally so I’m going to deny that you will have the capability of being able to transport yourself to different location and come home on your own accord. Let’s skip over driving. Soon you will be going to college. I think you should go wherever you want, even if it is far far away. But you need to understand that weird shit happens in college. Although all of my weird stuff was from guys, I’m sure girls are just as able to stalk you, leave strange notes on your door and steal your underwear as well. And I won’t be there to protect you. I won’t know every detail of your day or even if you went home at night. Oh my gosh, don’t do drugs or smoke and always use a condom! If those are the only things you remember from your upbringing, I am happy. I’m going to breathe through this panic attack I’m having at the thought of college.

I know you will need to branch out. You will need to make your own decisions. I will not raise a son who cannot think on his own. Your wife would hate me. And I would hate me too. You have to be independent. And I am learning that this is harder on me than it will be on you. So I’m going to keep trying to let things go, because soon I’ll have no choice. You’ll be a man and your decisions will bear consequences only you can accept, no matter how much I want to take care of you. I’ll transition from someone who takes care of you to someone who supports you. There is a difference. And I think that’s what a good mom does – she finds that balance.

So here’s to the next stage in life. I trust that you are a smart kid and you’ll make the right decisions. And when you don’t, I’ll be there to help you out. And for goodness sake, remember to take your phone. I’m not cutting the cord entirely.

Love,

Mom