I’m not necessarily one who embarrasses easily. Unless it involves me tripping over my own feet or saying something incredibly, incredibly stupid. But make a fool of myself? Laugh at myself? Sure! No problem!
But that was before I became a mom. Since becoming a mom all shame, humility and human decency has gone right out the window.
We began taking Riley to Kindermusik classes a few weeks ago. He absolutely loves it. And I love that it teaches him about music, dynamics, different sounds and even a little sign language. But if we ever thought that we’d get to sit and read a magazine for 45 minutes while he participates in class, we were sorely mistaken.
They say “parent participation” and they mean “parent participation.”
However, I’ve discovered something – they don’t just mean that the parents are participating by singing the goofy songs, or clapping along, they mean the parents are the ones who are skipping, hopping and frolicking around the classroom like complete idiots.
Seriously, at class tonight, I pretended some silk scarves were butterfly wings and flapped them as I danced around the room. Seriously. And I was not drunk.
But it is no secret at all that kids friggen love when you act like a complete and utter moron. When we’re at home and I sing stupid songs to Riley about poop or Thomas the Tank Engine or something, he laughs his perfect little infectious laugh and all is right with the world.
But here’s the thing, at class, in public, when I act like an idiot for my son’s entertainment, and while all the other parents are acting like idiots for their children’s enjoyment, my son, my adorable, sweet, hilarious son, stares at me blankly. Unmoving. Unblinking. And I can read the judgment in his eyes.
“I can’t believe I’m related to her.”
“She thinks I would find this funny? Seriously? Me?”
“What the hell is this woman doing?”
But I know something he doesn’t – that pregnancy, childbirth and parenthood have robbed me of all my shame. I dance and frolick and flap my fake butterfly wings even faster and harder to show him that I’m really feeling the music and silently encouraging him to do the same.
And it hardly ever works. I’m there, in public, a grown ass woman, frolicking around a classroom while my son stares at me blankly.
And that, boys and girls, is parenthood. That and sleep deprivation.