Some moms find it tough to deal with a tween daughter, what with those mood swings, constant outfit changes, bizarre eating habits, and that irrational fear of public humiliation. Oh, embarrassment. Is there anything more detrimental to a tween’s well-being than being embarrassed by her family?
Think about it for a minute. How lucky is my eleven year old that the worst thing she can imagine is a little public shame? She has plenty of organic food, a nice home, relatively stylish clothing, a loving family, an active social life, opportunities for fun and travel, and relatively few responsibilities. Hell, maybe when I grow up, I can be a tween. It doesn’t pay well, unless Dad or Mom remembers to give out allowance. So when that constant whine that arises, "stop embarrassing me," it is kind of hard for me to give a shit.
In fact, game on, tween girl. It’s on like Donkey Kong. It’s a battle to the end, and I am in it to win it. Get ready to get schooled, middle- aged Mom style. Before it’s all done, you’re going to be wishing you were still sucking your thumb and pooping in your diaper. What I mean is, I haven’t even begun to embarrass you.
Now, I am not oblivious to the fact that I can be embarrassing. I come from mortifying family genes. My grandfather was legendary at sexually harassing waitresses. My grandmother would demand even a penny back if she thought the price was wrong. My mother felt comfortable passing gas, loudly, in the aisles of any store. This is the same mother who taught sexual education to my Jewish friends when I was a tween, back when tweens were just awkward early teens without a special moniker. You want embarrassment? Try having a crush on a curly headed swarthy prepubescent boy who learned where to stick his penis FROM YOUR MOTHER.
So while I admit that singing along with the music in Publix is, shall we say, unorthodox, it will hardly make you a social outcast. Ditto with the car seat dancing. And the loud public laughter. I’m having a good time, which last I checked the DSM did not damage the psyche of a developing girl. The more my daughter, E, complains about being shamed, the more I want to live up to her skewed perception. Embarrassing her is fun, except for the whining part, and it gives me a goal. She already thinks being seen with me is humiliating, but just how humiliating? Let’s find out, shall we?
On our last beach trip, which was week 2 of Camp Mom, we decided to stop by Walmart on our way home from a tasty seafood dinner. Sometimes eating too many hushpuppies requires a little stroll about to settle the stomach, and what better venue than a Walmart, where you can find a few necessities and perhaps engage in some voyeurism at the same time? As we entered the store, I announced to my family, “Let’s talk like rednecks while we shop!” in my fakest over the top Southern accent. The idea delighted my younger daughter, S, who is a master of voices, no small feat for a child who not once but twice required speech therapy. Even my normally reserved and socially appropriate husband cottoned to the idea. We were all game, except for E, who didn't want to draw any unnecessary attention to herself.
We started twanging our way around the store, all except E, who immediately turned red and crept away from us before anyone could connect her to our family. She would return periodically to where we were loudly sassing each other, announce that we were embarrassing her, and then sneak away again. We reminded her that we were on vacation and didn’t know anyone in the Walmart, but that reality didn’t matter to E. She deserted us in the chip aisle, and we couldn’t find her, no matter how many times we bellowed her old Southern name, mispronouncing it like a teacher on the first day of school. My husband came up with the idea of having her paged over the intercom, which really would be embarrassing. We opted against that because we did have to go home with her, and as unpleasant as she was acting in the store, she could really pull it out if she tried.
We finally caught up with her in the nail polish section, which is home base for a tween in a Walmart. I allowed her to select an inexpensive polish as compensation for the humiliation we served up, and we walked over to the check-out line with the rest of the crap we didn't need. E decided this was a good time to belittle her sister, who in turn felt the need to argue back, still in her best hillbilly accent. Checking out of Walmart is irritating enough without listening to your kids bicker. I threatened them with ass whuppins right there by the register, loudly questioning if they were the kind of kids who needed a good public beating. The cashier stared at me, trying to decide if I was serious and whether it was better to intervene for these girls’ safety or to not get involved and stick with scanning. She went with B and handed me the receipt.
As we walked to the car, my husband said, “No more of that. It’s funny until you take it too far. Threatening to beat your kids in the Walmart isn’t funny. What if someone thought you were serious?”
“Oh, please,” I shot back. “Do you think anyone really thought I was really going to hit my kids? That one is taller than I am, and the other one is holding my hand. I hardly fit the profile. Not that I care either way. We both know I wasn’t going to hit them, so big deal.”
To which E said,” Stop arguing! You’re embarrassing me!”
Which was totally worth that bottle of anti-freeze green nail polish.
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