Motherhood. A Life of Humility.

Motherhood has taught me many things. Right up there on the list is humility… It’s hard to be proud when you have little ones in your midst.

 One thing I’ve learned about my kids… They will humiliate me every step of the way. If you have children, be prepared for your cool-factor to drop 10, no…  20 notches. My cool factor is in the toilet. It’s not as if I had far to fall… I remember when I was in my 20’s I decided one month to spend a large portion of my paycheck on a pair of (what I considered to be) absolutely fabulous platform slides. Nevermind  they were extremely challenging to walk in. Nevermind I walked to work. They were great shoes. The first day I wore them was a sunny San Francisco morning. I took the cable car down to the Financial District and hobble-walked three blocks until I was just across the street from the office in which I worked. My feet hurt already. I waited at the crosswalk debating whether I should take off the shoes for the duration of my journey to the office. No, I thought. I’m wearing these stupid damn shoes because they’re beautiful. And because I sacrificed a good deal of my grocery budget for them. Halfway across the intersection I accidentally kicked off a shoe. It flew a few feet in front of me. I stumbled in the crosswalk and had to limp the rest of the way to work.

I only tell this story to assure you, my humiliation as a parent is not completely unfamiliar ground.

I remembered this moment because just the other day I was carrying Owen through the crowded parking lot in to Trader Joes. We were darting between shoppers pushing their carts, cars trying desperately to find a parking place, and other pedestrians heading in. Owen grabbed my tank top, and with all his baby strength, pulled it out as far as his baby arm could reach. Which felt like 10 feet. In actuality it was probably one good foot – but certainly enough to view every stitch, piece of underwire, each thick strap and seam of my bravado nursing bra. I quickly and deftly pulled my tank top back. At which point Owen, realizing my hands were momentarily occupied, seized the opportunity to grab my sunglasses off my face and throw them on the ground. I found myself scrambling on the parking lot ground for my glasses, while trying to balance Owen and my diaper bag. The lady walking next to me tried to crack some commiserating  funny jokes, but I think what she was really saying was, “sucks to be you. lololol.” Owen is very good at these types of antics.  A few days earlier I was talking to Brooklyn’s kindergarten teacher before the kids filed in for class. Mrs. S, as best as I can describe, is a mix between a Disney princess and J.Lo. She’s lovely, and I think all the little boys have raging kindergarten crushes on her. Brooklyn emulates her quite a bit when she’s at home. She sets up her little “classroom” in the living room with all her dolls and stuffed animals and “teaches” them, all the while speaking just like her teacher. It’s very cute.  At any rate, in the middle of the conversation with Mrs. S, Owen sticks his fingers all the way up my nose. This hurts – don’t try it. I kind of gasp and pull his hand away, and then he grabs my neck skin and twists it. Brookie’s teacher, who doesn’t have kids of her own, looks rather aghast and just then the bell rings and they file in to class.

Speaking of Brookie, she is no stranger to embarrassing her mama. Recently at the grocery checkout Brookie was rifling through my purse looking for some gum while I was paying. She didn’t find any gum, but she did manage to find a tampon that had dropped to the bottom of my purse. She pulls it out and carefully inspects it. “What is THIS?” she wants to know. “It’s nothing,” I tell her, trying to pull it out of her hand. The young man at the checkout gets a good look and turns away, pretending he didn’t see. But we both know he did. “What IS it, Mommy?” Brookie insists – clearly not letting it go. “I’ll tell you later,” I semi-hiss. But this isn’t good enough…  “Well what does it DO!?” I blush in spite of myself. I really do – 40 years old and a rogue tampon from my purse makes me blush.

Pure humiliation.

Quincy doesn’t do this. She’s my middle child and sometimes it seems she can do no wrong. My Quinny angel...

Peyton is capable… But in the sense that she is more likely to say something sassy or snotty right after I’ve publicly explained how well behaved she is. She is generally very sweet and kind, but if I happen to tell somebody that, it seems inevitable that she will prove me wrong on the spot.

It’s okay. I laugh – at myself, and at my kids. They humble me on the daily, but it’s all good. Life with kids is never dull. And often hilarious.