Embarrassing My Kid

No one ever prepares you for becoming a parent. There are no high school classes that teach you about being so tired you don't notice you've gone to work with regurgitated formula on your blouse. There are no books that tell you about the worry when your child has her first fever or flies head first over the handle bars of her bike. Likewise, there are no resources that tell you about the secret joys of parenting such as embarrassing your kid. These are things that must be learned through experience.

It's not that I seek to embarrass my kid. That would be cruel. No, the true joy comes from those innocent moments that result in embarrassing your kid. Those are the gems that make a memory worth keeping.

My daughter was eleven and as a result of my being a single parent, she was enrolled in every activity I could manage to get her into. During a three year period, she took tap, ballet, gymnastics, played in the band and orchestra, belonged to Brownies and Indian Maidens and performed in children's theater plays. We were running all the time.

She had a school concert in which she was going to play in both the band and orchestra sections of the concert. All the children were required to wear white shirts or blouses and either black pants or skirts, as appropriate. The idea was to lend a little formality to the occasion. Little did she know that her mother was about to embarrass her beyond belief.

The concert proceeded nicely through the usual classical pieces and obscure pieces picked by the music teacher because either he got a deal on the sheet music or his nephew wrote the stuff. Either way, some of the pieces were downright boring. The parents and siblings all sat in the auditorium, praying for an end when at last, the band began a lively and very recognizable tune compared to some of the earlier selections.

As the notes of "YMCA" spilled out of the instruments in front of me, my head started bobbing and toes began tapping. I began singing along, quietly at first, then a bit louder. By the time the band hit the chorus of Y - M - C - A, I was on my feet, arms flailing to form the letters and singing right out loud. I got through the second spelling when I noticed I was the only one in the whole auditorium with a Village People impersonation going on.

My gaze shifted to the little girl in the second row of the flute section. Strangely I couldn't see her and began to wonder if she had left! No, no. There she was. All that was visible was the top of her head and the tip of her flute as she hid behind her music stand. In a slow motion sort of movement I resumed my seated position.

As the second verse continued, she slowly rose back up in her seat, like some kind of creeping ivy climbing the garden wall. When the next chorus played out, I noticed several other parents stand and begin the arm-flailing that now accompanies the rendering of this American classic. And in our little corner of the world, I started it! I leapt to my feet to join my comrades in arms and we finished the song on our feet, clapping, singing and making letters in the air like a group of overgrown kindergarteners. The end of the number brought a rousing ovation for the band. This was lost on my daughter who could no longer be seen. She shrank so small that I would swear I was looking at what was left of the Wicked Witch's dress after Dorothy doused her with water. This was the first of many embarrassing moments she would face at the hands of her mother and one I cherish dearly. It is a gem worth keeping and now...sharing.