Young kids are good at a lot of things. Few of these things are productive, but they can sure be entertaining.
One of the things they’re best at is embarrassing you. Or so I hear. I don’t embarrass easily, at least not at the hands of my kids. In fact the only thing that I’m regularly embarrassed by is any “On this Day” Facebook memory that pops up from 2009.
“Melissa Milne is watching Miss Congeniality!!!” “Melissa Milne hates tequila!!!” “Melissa Milne thinks anyone cares to know this!!!” Melissa Milne used too many exclamation points.
I’m frequently embarrassed when I think about pretty much anything that 20-something Melissa did or said. But it’s pretty hard to make 30-something Melissa blush.
Take last week, for example.
The last few times we’ve been to the pediatrician, he’s been running late. It’s probably the crowds of other patients in the waiting room, but another theory is that he knows the list of inane questions he’s about to walk into with me and finds reasons to dawdle.
I mean it, I’m ridiculous. Last time we were there I asked him no less than 17 questions about Alex alone, including but not limited to “he’s got a bruise on his shin, do you think he has Leukemia? Can you throw in a test for that?” and “He’s pretty repetitive and gets super attached to routines. Does he have an addictive personality? Do you think he’ll struggle with substance abuse when he grows up?”
He’s pretty good about laughing my questions off but I think I caught an eye roll or two the last time. I managed to schedule Evelyn’s 4-year, Alex’s 2.5-year and Lottie’s 9 month for the same day in October, and I’m in the process of securing his personal address so I can send him an encouragement card beforehand.
Last week was Lottie’s 6-month appointment and it was the first time in documented history that I didn’t have a SINGLE question for him. Not one. This was a huge deal. It felt like sitting down for the ACT’s and knowing without a doubt that you’re prepared. Or at least I assume it’s a similar feeling, as that was never the case with me and the ACT’s. Is a 600 a good score?
But last week, I had it together. I was excited to pleasantly surprise the doctor with my silence.
But then he walked in the door and Evelyn hit him with a question of her own.
“I need you to look at my Other Butt. It has LOTS and lots of scratches.”
“What do you mean your other butt?” he asked her.
“You know, my bagina.”
This would have been my moment to be embarrassed. I opened my mouth to apologize, or laugh … but then I closed it again and then joined her in looking expectantly at him.
I was actually pretty curious myself. She’s right. She’s constantly scratching herself. I mean constantly.
That last one is at church. When she’s scratching herself in God’s house it’s time to draw a line.
She says she itches constantly … but I’ve checked and found nothing. The doctor checked and also found nothing. “Throw some Vaseline on it…” he suggested. “Maybe that will help?”
Sure, sure, let’s draw more attention to the area. That sounds like a good plan.
It’s been getting a lot of attention lately, as I’m hell bent on teaching her to wipe her own butt. (I feel like that sounds like an obvious answer to the issue right there, but I really don’t think the two are related. The doctor agreed, after in a shocking turn of events, I questioned him about it.)
There are pictures I could share of all the toilet paper that seems to get … wedged … but suffice to say we’re not quite there yet.
And if you don’t believe me, you could ask anyone who may have happened to see us today at the farm where we went raspberry picking.
I sent Evelyn into the Port-a-John alone — a huge mistake, as she came out a few minutes later with her dress hiked up and her underwear around her ankles. She casually sauntered up to me where I was standing in line to pay, immediately assumed a lineman’s position and demanded that I wipe her butt.
If I’m going to let my kids embarrass me, that would have been my moment, hands down. Literally hands down.
But I just happened to have a wipe in my hands, as I’d just finished cleaning the pound of chocolate-covered-rice-krispie-treat off Alex’s face, and the situation was resolved in about 30 seconds. Although, the woman behind the counter did put gloves on before she accepted my $20 bill, and I can’t say I blame her, but embarassed? Nah.
THIS is embarrassing:
It was a really deep question that obviously required multiple opinions before it could be answered. *palm to face*
I hope my kids prove equally difficult to embarrass, because God knows I’m going to rival Beverly Goldberg for humiliating my kids when they reach middle school.
Though I’ll draw the line at that last stunt.