So we’re sitting at the dinner table trying to extract information out of Tall. “Tall, tell me about your day at school,” begins The Husband innocently enough. “Mommy mentioned that the entire first grade is putting on a play.”
“You’re not invited,” snaps Tall. “I don’t want you to come.”
I suppress a grin. Well, at least I’m not a victim of his wrath today.
“Or you,” he says, redirecting his gaze to me. “Neither of you is invited.”
What? What did we do this time?
“Why not?” asks The Husband. “We want to see you in your special play, and we want to take lots of pictures.”
“That’s why,” mutters Tall, “because you’ll embarrass me.” Now he has a worried look on his face, fast-forwarding to his performance, and his Parents Doing Embarrassing Things, things like taking a few photos of their son.
“Wait, Tall, you’re saying you’d be embarrassed if we took photos? Okay, we won’t take any photos.” This is a promise I can keep, as I know I can ask my freighbor to take shots of Tall when she takes some of her own son. Freighbor is a better photographer than me, anyway.
“Mom, I’m not even talking about just photos. You would do other things to embarrass me.”
“Like what?” queries The Husband.
“You know, like, you might call out when everyone is clapping at the end, you might go, ‘Hey! Tall! Great job!’ or something bad like that.” His little brow furrows, thinking of the devastation that would follow if his friends were to witness us complimenting him.
“I get it,” I say. “That’s fine, Tall. We won’t call out or anything. But we are coming to the play.”
He crosses his arms across his chest deliberately. A pout settles on his little round face.
“I have a good idea,” The Husband offers excitedly, “Mommy and I will say all the embarrassing things now, and get it out of the way! That way, on the day of the play, we won’t embarrass you in front of all your friends.”
Tall’s face registers a new look, one I’ve seen before: skepticism. “No. Don’t do that either,” he says firmly.
Too late. The Husband is out of his chair now, waving and pointing. There is much taking of imaginary photos with the imaginary camera. “That’s our son! That’s Tall! Hey, Tall, WE LOVE YOU!! Our son is the best actor and the best singer, and he’s the star of the show! Yay, Tall!” Next, manic applauding and foot-stomping.
I’m sucked in by his faux enthusiasm. “Yay! Yay, Tall!” I echo. “Woo-hoo! Go, go, Tall!” I have morphed into a cheerleader at a football game, “Tall is the one! The best! WE LOVE YOU!!”
Tall’s face is a sunset of reds. “Stop it,” he hisses.
The Husband taps me on the arm. “Okay, since we showed him what we won’t do, now let’s show him how we really will act on the actual day of his play.” The Husband is nodding, sending me mental telepathy messages of my lines.
“Do you know anyone in this play?” I stage-whisper to The Husband.
He shrugs. “Nope,” he whispers back. “Why are we here again?”
MOV
(“Mom On Vaudeville”)
Showing posts with label embarrassing moments. Show all posts
Showing posts with label embarrassing moments. Show all posts
Monday, February 14, 2011
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
166. Just Pretend You Don't Know Me
Apparently, my very presence embarrasses my 6-year-old son, Tall. I drove my younger son to preschool today (no bus, as we were running errands and simultaneously running out of time). By some inexplicable miracle of clocks and physics and the precise alignment of multiple moons of Jupiter, we arrived on time. Early, even.
Short and I pulled into the parking lot, which is adjacent to the playground shared by the preschool and the elementary school. As we got out of the car, I casually scanned the faces of the playground kids to see if I recognized anyone. I was somewhat surprised to notice Tall running around (as the reigning Queen-Of-Clueless-Parents, I have no idea what time my kids go to recess nor art nor lunch nor library nor anything else). Short and I did a quick detour and approached the gate. “Tall!” I waved at him enthusiastically, “Tall! Hi! How are you!”
One of Tall’s (soon-to-be-“former”) friends tapped him on the shoulder and pointed out the Nuisance that was mom and little brother. Tall finally glanced in our direction and immediately gave a look that can only be described as the look you would give if a garbage truck dumped a full load of smelly trash all over your front lawn, during a monsoon. The look was: disgust, mixed with inconvenience and dismay. But mostly disgust.
Tall sauntered over, laced his fingers through the chain-link fence and whispered (lest anyone hear us) through gritted teeth (lest anyone attempt to lip-read), “Do not embarrass me again, Mom. I am playing soccer with my friends.” Emphasis on friends, equivalent to I-can’t-talk-on-the-phone-with-you-now-because-my-boss-is-standing-right-here.
Wait, the friends were the boss now? I thought I was the boss. Since when had I been demoted?
And what’s with the “again”? How many times had I embarrassed him this week? Or were we just talking about today?
“Oh,” I stammered, with no hope of a better response springing to mind, “Uh, we, uh, we just wanted to say hi.”
I took Short’s hand (after enduring a lifetime of Tall’s withering attitude, he was somehow immune to his condescension). I started to think about my appearance. Was my shabby outfit the culprit for the “embarrassing” comment? I was wearing a mostly clean purple t-shirt, unwrinkled khaki pants (not too tight), and my new denim jacket with silver snaps. Huh. As far as I knew, that was acceptable. And for once, I had actually washed my hair, brushed it, and accessorized with a chic black barrette—no baseball cap here! Lipstick was even involved. The overall indisputable verdict: I looked fine, possibly even semi-attractive.
Later that day when Tall came home from school, I asked him what was going on. I decided to forgo the accusatory tone that I have perfected so well in the past six years. “Tall?” I began calmly, “Why didn’t you want us to say hi to you today? Why would that be embarrassing?”
“Huh? What are you talking about?” he said, distracted, as he threw his red fleece jacket and StarWars backpack in a heap.
“At the playground. When Short and I said hi.”
“Wait…. so you just wanted to say hi? That's it? You weren’t going to come on the playground and actually try to play with me?”
Why would he have that bizarre notion? Since when did I show up at school unannounced and join him for an impromptu game of tag on the playground? and certainly not ever in my new denim jacket that I did not want to get sand all over!
“No, Tall, we were not going to come in the gate….. I don’t think people are allowed to come in that way anyway without signing in at the office. We just wanted to say hi to you.”
“Oh,” he murmured, “I didn’t know that. Huh. I guess that would’ve been okay, you know, if you didn’t try to give me a hug or make a joke or meet all my friends or take a picture of us or anything……….” his voice trailed off as he considered all the other Potential Ways Mom Could Cause Embarrassment. “Saying hi is all right,” he finally determined after lengthy consideration, “just don’t do it again.”
MOV
(“Mores Of Vastness”)
Short and I pulled into the parking lot, which is adjacent to the playground shared by the preschool and the elementary school. As we got out of the car, I casually scanned the faces of the playground kids to see if I recognized anyone. I was somewhat surprised to notice Tall running around (as the reigning Queen-Of-Clueless-Parents, I have no idea what time my kids go to recess nor art nor lunch nor library nor anything else). Short and I did a quick detour and approached the gate. “Tall!” I waved at him enthusiastically, “Tall! Hi! How are you!”
One of Tall’s (soon-to-be-“former”) friends tapped him on the shoulder and pointed out the Nuisance that was mom and little brother. Tall finally glanced in our direction and immediately gave a look that can only be described as the look you would give if a garbage truck dumped a full load of smelly trash all over your front lawn, during a monsoon. The look was: disgust, mixed with inconvenience and dismay. But mostly disgust.
Tall sauntered over, laced his fingers through the chain-link fence and whispered (lest anyone hear us) through gritted teeth (lest anyone attempt to lip-read), “Do not embarrass me again, Mom. I am playing soccer with my friends.” Emphasis on friends, equivalent to I-can’t-talk-on-the-phone-with-you-now-because-my-boss-is-standing-right-here.
Wait, the friends were the boss now? I thought I was the boss. Since when had I been demoted?
And what’s with the “again”? How many times had I embarrassed him this week? Or were we just talking about today?
“Oh,” I stammered, with no hope of a better response springing to mind, “Uh, we, uh, we just wanted to say hi.”
I took Short’s hand (after enduring a lifetime of Tall’s withering attitude, he was somehow immune to his condescension). I started to think about my appearance. Was my shabby outfit the culprit for the “embarrassing” comment? I was wearing a mostly clean purple t-shirt, unwrinkled khaki pants (not too tight), and my new denim jacket with silver snaps. Huh. As far as I knew, that was acceptable. And for once, I had actually washed my hair, brushed it, and accessorized with a chic black barrette—no baseball cap here! Lipstick was even involved. The overall indisputable verdict: I looked fine, possibly even semi-attractive.
Later that day when Tall came home from school, I asked him what was going on. I decided to forgo the accusatory tone that I have perfected so well in the past six years. “Tall?” I began calmly, “Why didn’t you want us to say hi to you today? Why would that be embarrassing?”
“Huh? What are you talking about?” he said, distracted, as he threw his red fleece jacket and StarWars backpack in a heap.
“At the playground. When Short and I said hi.”
“Wait…. so you just wanted to say hi? That's it? You weren’t going to come on the playground and actually try to play with me?”
Why would he have that bizarre notion? Since when did I show up at school unannounced and join him for an impromptu game of tag on the playground? and certainly not ever in my new denim jacket that I did not want to get sand all over!
“No, Tall, we were not going to come in the gate….. I don’t think people are allowed to come in that way anyway without signing in at the office. We just wanted to say hi to you.”
“Oh,” he murmured, “I didn’t know that. Huh. I guess that would’ve been okay, you know, if you didn’t try to give me a hug or make a joke or meet all my friends or take a picture of us or anything……….” his voice trailed off as he considered all the other Potential Ways Mom Could Cause Embarrassment. “Saying hi is all right,” he finally determined after lengthy consideration, “just don’t do it again.”
MOV
(“Mores Of Vastness”)
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