If only the motto from Sin City applied in the place where we go to try to be free from sin: church. Only in my dreams can I believe that what has happened at church over the years actually stays at church. I think some of my most embarrassing moments as a mother have been lived out in the few hours we spend each week at church. I find it kind of ironic that in such a small space of time, with 125 or so people in our congregation, can still manage to see my family do some pretty humiliating, sometimes memorable, and always entertaining things.
For example, when one of my children was about 18 months old, I sat her down in between the aisles of the pews to play with a few small toys. We were sitting about halfway down the aisle in the chapel enjoying a relatively pleasant (and relatively rare) experience where all of my children were happy AND quiet. (Is it really too much to ask to have a child be both happy and quiet at the same time? I guess so because my kids never took to a binky but preferred to hear their voices echo in the pitched roof.) My quiet moment of peace and happiness was disrupted by loud laughter centered over my shoulder. I turned around to see what was so entertaining to the group of elderly folks sitting in the rows behind us. I smiled at them and figured I missed the joke and returned to my face-forward position.
But then there was more laughter and this time it was louder. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my toddler’s butt cheeks! To my horror and disgust, my sweet, little angel, that I had spent years praying I could have, had removed her diaper and was lifting up her dress to give everyone seated behind us an irreverent peep show.
At precisely the same moment she discovered she had been caught, so she threw in a few extra “cheek” wiggles and a wave before I swooped her and her delinquent diaper up off the ground and ran for the nearest exit. The muffled laughter increased and soon I had become the main event of the meeting.
Years later, I shouldn’t have been surprised when I found myself standing in front of the congregation in despair with a different daughter in toe searching for the fastest getaway. After watching each of my daughters courageously and eloquently deliver beautiful messages to our congregation in our Sunday service and then return to their seats on the stand, it was my turn to stand at the pulpit. Part way through delivering my message, I could hear lots of commotion and complaining behind me, but I tried to stay focused and I powered through my prepared words.
In my mind I was trying to piece together what was going on behind me without actually having to turn around to aid my husband in solving the problem. I figured if my eyes met with theirs, it was over for me and for my focus to be on anything else. I thought back to my daughter feigning an illness and lying in bed 45 minutes past her alarm clock. She looked awful, but she often complains of not feeling well every other day of the week besides a Saturday when she is really suffering from sleepiness. To say that she’s not a morning person is an understatement.
Nerves. I told her she just had a case of the nerves. I calmly told her how one of her idols, Kristi Yamaguchi, says that being nervous is good because it just reminds you that you really want to do your best. (And then when that didn’t get movement into her overly dramatic limp limbs, I demanded she get up and get moving or she was giving her talk in her pajamas.)
I knew my husband had it handled so I finished my remarks quickly and reached for my seat when all of a sudden I saw it surface—my daughter’s half-digested cinnamon roll-flavored oatmeal breakfast all over the floor behind the podium and within inches of my outfit. There wasn’t a person on that side of the room that didn’t get a good view of the projectile vomiting, or the subsequent and similar acts that followed. (Yes, those on the same side of the chapel that were witnesses to The Great Flashing Incident of 2004 were viewing us in all of our glory again.)
Another incident occurred a half decade or more ago but will forever be imprinted into my memory. Two of my children were sitting next to their dad and I, happily playing with Disney figurines during church services.
Suddenly, our short-lived happy moment abruptly ended when one daughter decided that the other one had the more beloved Disney princess in the palm of her hand. There were unkind words and grabbing. In an effort to stand her ground, the smaller of the two (by at least 10 pounds and 10 inches) grabbed the other by the hair on the nape of her neck and pushed her off the pew and onto the ground. It was a good three-inch fall from grace for an older sister. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was like watching Ariel and Cinderella duke it out on a celebrity knock-out show.
That morning I had dressed them to the nines, from their velvet dresses and over-sized bows to their lace-trimmed socks and white patent leather shoes. Their hair was masterfully sculpted, yet none of that mattered as they rolled around the ground trying to choke each other as they squabbled over a pint-sized replica of their favorite cartoon beauty.
As my husband and I worked to pull them apart and restrain them, the crowd of onlookers began to whisper and point in our direction. I think more people were tuned in to watch our WWF take-down than were listening to the inspired messages from the pulpit. Yet again, I found myself in center court under the spotlight of scrutiny. I was certain no one was going to be running up with a tiara, a bouquet of roses, and a sash declaring me “Mother of the Year.” Instead I found myself, as always, looking for giant, green “Exit” sign that led me far away from anyone who might recognize my face.
It’s truly amazing that despite all of our many instances of borderline pandemonium we haven’t become recluses. We’ve had plenty of witnesses to the action sequences we’ve produced over the years that will confirm the facts as I’ve stated them. The good thing is we’re not alone in the Hall of Shame of Public Embarrassment. Many of those folks who have had a good laugh at our expense have earned their right to laugh from many of their own traumatic, public parenting mishaps.
I heard a middle-aged woman share a story once that gave me hope when we seemed to have a reserved spot on center stage each Sunday. Her exasperated daughter, who was a young mother at the time, called upon her retirement-aged mother to ask for advice. She said, “My kids are the worst at church. No one else has problems like I do.” Her mom did what all good mothers do and told her that it wasn’t as bad as it seemed and it would all work out. A few weeks later that mother visited her daughter and her grandchildren and declared, “You’re right—your kids are the worst.”
Most of the time it isn’t as bad as we think, but some of the time it really is that bad. Thankfully, kids move on to new stages and leave death match wrestling and partial Sabbath Day nudity behind. Someone else’s kids take over the title of “Most Entertaining” or “Most Disobedient” and you settle in for a Sunday of watching someone else’s chaos play out in front of you.
Question: What is the most embarrassing thing your children have ever done in public?
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