Family and Children

“You’re Pretty, Mommy.”

| Hope

Lately Niko has been giving me kind compliments. “I like your hair, Mommy,” he’ll say, petting me gently as if I’m a shaggy-haired dog. Sometimes he’ll tell me out of the blue, “I like you!” or ” I love you soooo much!” Or, “You smell so good!” he’ll tell me as he lays his head on my shoulder for a hug. The last time he pulled that particular one out, I hadn’t managed to get a shower for about three days and was sweaty and dusty after sweeping, mopping, and vacuuming the house, so I think he has a long way to come as far a distinguishing a good human smell from a less marvelous one. But the thought is sweet, anyway.

A couple of days ago, he announced, “I think Daddy should bring you some pretty flowers when he comes home.” (Aaron was on a business trip.)

“Really?” I asked. “Why do you think that?”

“To show you how much he loves you,” he explained. “Because he loves you lots.”

It made me think. Kids Niko’s age, while they’re working on establishing a personal identity, are still little imitators. Niko’s sweetness and kindness weren’t created in a vacuum. His outpouring of love to me is in direct imitation of his dad. And it’s dawning on me that this is, in fact, a gift to me from my amazing husband.

When I fix Niko a just-right sandwich and he says, “OH! Thank you, Mom! That is so nice of you to make me a sandwich!” I realize that he’s been paying attention to his dad, who thanks me every single time I serve a meal…even if it’s burnt. Or late. (Or both.) Even if he’d have done it better himself. Every time.

When Niko gives me those sometimes inaccurate compliments on my hair or the way I smell, it’s because he hears his dad say the same thing. “Your mom is so beautiful, isn’t she?” Aaron will say to Niko, and Niko answers, “Yes! You’re pretty, Mom!”

Or Aaron might say to Niko, “Your mom is really special. I love her a lot. Do you love her too?” And Niko says, “I love you soooo much, Mom!”

So when my son gives me these funny, adorable compliments, it’s because his dad is teaching him how to express love and admiration. His dad is teaching him that love shouldn’t be hidden away. And in doing so, my husband is giving me the gift of a quirkily loving child.

I couldn’t think of any better gift.

Glamour Girl

| Hope

I have a problem. Maybe it’s vanity, maybe it’s rigidity of routine, but whatever the cause, it’s this: I cannot leave my home without makeup. In fact, if I don’t apply makeup even on a day I plan to spend home alone with kids and no husband, washing dishes and digging in the garden, I still feel oddly incomplete. It feels like something minor yet nearly essential is missing, like a fingertip or an earlobe. It feels simply wrong.

I wish I weren’t like this. I wish I didn’t feel the need to extra-feminize and perfect my face for even the most simple human encounter. I wish I weren’t still writhing in shame for having greeted the UPS carrier yesterday with a face bare of makeup except for mascara and tinted lip balm (plus, unfortunately, Capri-length yoga pants paired unflatteringly with too-long socks). I wish I could wear cosmetics as a deliberate, occasional choice, rather than a compulsion.

I remember when my rigid routine began. I was maybe fourteen. Makeup was new to me, and I was at the age when kids on the Christian commune where I grew up were sometimes given occasional, informal lessons on etiquette and rather old-fashioned comportment. For girls, this involved exercises like walking with books on our heads, standing with our feet angled just so, practicing lowering ourselves gracefully with knees together and spines straight to retrieve a dropped item, and setting a table correctly.

And we learned to apply makeup. Just like the lessons in comportment, this was informal — and not, I realize now, meant to be part of that curriculum. One of the “aunts,” as we called many of the women around our mothers’ ages, was a Mary Kay consultant, and she would sometimes hold parties at which the teenage girls were especially welcome. She’d show us, step by step, exactly what to do: how to apply makeup in a ladylike and reasonably modest manner. She gave us pointers like “Never wear eyeliner without lipstick” and “Always put on foundation.” And she told us, gently, firmly, and repeatedly, that a lady always applies makeup before leaving her home.

I know she wanted to give us an edge in life, the advantage of beauty and confidence. She couldn’t have known to what ridiculous extent I would internalize her advice. I don’t know why I was so susceptible to suggestion in this area, but somehow her iron-strong will, clothed as it was in charm and elegance, imposed itself on me.

My mother rarely wore any significant amount of makeup, but she had no problem with my own dabbling. She even showed me the basics and helped me buy and apply my first cosmetics. And, possibly knowing that I was in danger of being influenced away from her nearly-feminist tendencies, she gave me her own makeup advice: “Use makeup to highlight your best features, not to paint on a new face.” It’s good advice, I think. Thanks to her, I keep my makeup minimal, sometimes nearly invisible. But it’s there.

These days, Sofie is extra-needy in the morning before breakfast, and I often find myself applying makeup with her on my hip. She watches in the mirror, smiling to see our faces together. Her baby hands reach out for my tools. Occasionally her success results in mascara-blackened fingers or a scraping of blush under her tiny fingernails. Sometimes I hand her a fluffy brush, and she chuckles as she strokes first her face, then mine. I love sharing these moments, but part of me cringes.

I want you to be braver than I am, I want to tell her. I want you to be bold. I want your confidence in yourself to be unconnected to your makeup skills. I want you to show the world your real face without shame.

But another part of me looks forward to teaching her how it all works. First foundation, next cover-up, now blush… Never wear eyeliner without lipstick… Use lip liner so your lipstick doesn’t smudge. I want to dive with her into a new world of grown-up glamour. Nail polish, high heels, the perfect stockings for that special party dress.

In the best scenario, we’ll find balance. She won’t hear a lovingly firm, well-meaning, Southern-tinged voice in her head, telling her that a lady should never leave her house without makeup. I’ll remind her that cosmetics should be used to complement her best features, not give herself a new face. And I’ll give her my own advice: “Only wear makeup if you feel like it. Take a break now and then. Be brave. Don’t let anyone else tell you how your face should look.”

And maybe, just maybe, Sofia will go into the world with confidence and beauty, free from the need to change her face to satisfy someone else’s idea of what women should look like.

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Playground Extraordinaire

| Hope

Yesterday we tried something new: we packed a picnic lunch and drove to Meinig Memorial Park in Sandy, a drive of about 45 minutes by the roundabout backroads route we took (because at least half the fun is the pretty drive). If you’re ever in that area with kids, I highly recommend that park. It has a huge playground with an enormous, castle-like, maze of a climbing structure. It’s kid heaven. The structure has myriad crawl spaces (which Niko called attics), hidey-holes, and towers. Bridges and passageways connect sections. I counted three slides of different styles and two swingsets, one with baby swings. Tire swings and hanging rings (a swinging version of monkey bars) dot the area. All around the perimeter are benches and seats, making it easy to keep an eye on the kids while resting.

A twisty slide
An actual metal slide!
Niko tried so hard to make the swing move on his own.
A bouncing bridge!
Wiggling out of a crawl-space
Sofie loved the baby swing.

And that’s just the playground. There’s also a huge gazebo, with gigantic tree trunks for supports and smaller ones forming roof supports. Then there’s a little outdoor amphitheater with a half-circle stage and stone seats, all set apart from the rest of the park by a low, wide stone wall that’s perfect for an adventurous boy to run daringly on shrieking “I’M A SUPERHERO!” A creek runs along one side, with a little bridge next to the amphitheater. Away from the busy playground, it was a perfect spot to sit in the sun and eat sandwiches in the fresh air.

This tree sprouted in a huge tree stump next to a creek.
Niko loved climbing on and off the wall around the amphitheater.
Sofie peering over a bridge
Look at me! I’m up high!

The only drawback? The restroom building is kept locked. I presume it’s only unlocked for events or rentals, because we’ve visited twice and the bathrooms have been locked both times. Of course Niko, being a small boy, was delighted to have the opportunity to use the woods instead of a bathroom, but I wasn’t so lucky.

Bathrooms aside, it’s an amazing park. Niko had so much fun, and it made a relaxing family afternoon. What a perfect way to spend the day.

 

Baby Jesus, Elmo, and Bad Guys in Water at the Promised Land

| Hope

We tried a new church a couple of Sundays ago. It wasn’t a great fit, but I did appreciate that the Sunday School and Children’s Church (yes, both — it was a long service) actually did some teaching about the Bible. Other times when we’ve dropped Niko in the Sunday School room at whatever church we’re trying out, he’s seemed not to register any lesson. This could be simply because he wasn’t participating. He’s gotten better at this, so maybe his time in preschool, rather than a superior presentation at this church, was what made a difference. Whatever the case, it was obvious that there was some Bible teaching happening this particular time.

What wasn’t so obvious was what Bible story was that week’s focus.

“What did you learn in Sunday School?” we inquired as we drove away.

“Weellll,” Niko replied thoughtfully, “there was an Elmo story. And Jesus was in the water with bad guys. And his Mommy and Daddy stayed safe from the bad guys.”

“Elmo?” we asked, confused. “The story was about Jesus and…Elmo?”

“Well, not Elmo. Not really Elmo. They were Elmo guys. Like on Elmo’s World.”

It took some intense detective work, but about halfway through the drive home we’d established that Niko had seen a puppet show, with characters that bore a resemblance to some of the characters on Sesame Street, with “pinkish brownish skin like ours, not red skin like Elmo’s. And the puppet Jesus had teeny tiny little hands!” However, we still couldn’t figure out what the story had been.

“So Jesus was in the water?” I asked. “Was it the story about when he was baptized?” This opened an entire new conversation in which I found myself trying to explain to my four-year-old the concepts of baptism, sin, and spiritual cleansing. Aaron smirked from the driver’s seat: not having been the one to broach the subject, he was perfectly content to let me do the clumsy explaining. It quickly became clear that it wasn’t the baptism story, anyway, so I cravenly abandoned theology and returned to the original question: “Why was Jesus in the water?”

“Was he in a boat?” Aaron suggested. “There are a few stories about Jesus in a boat.” No, no boat.

It wasn’t until after Niko’s nap that the story became clear. He stumbled out of his room, not really awake, and curled up next to me in the floor. “Why did Jesus’s sister put him into the water?” he mumbled, resting his head sleepily on my lap.

Sister.  Bingo.  “Was the story about a baby?” I asked. He nodded. A Bible story about a sister putting a baby into the water to keep him safe. “Are you sure the baby’s name was Jesus?” I probed. “Could it have been, maybe, Moses?”

And there it was. It had taken approximately five hours for us to figure out that the story that day had actually been the story of Moses’s sister Miriam keeping him safe from the Egyptians by hiding him in the river in a little cradle woven from reeds. It’s always been one of my favorite stories, but filtered through the mind of a four-year-old, it was almost unrecognizable.

I wonder what the next Sunday School lesson will be?

Camels and Traplines

Image | | Hope

Niko has a highly unsettling habit of reading my mind. You may believe it or not, but I’m perfectly serious. It happens most often when I’m engrossed in a book, fully immersed. He’ll come up to me and say something or ask a question directly related to what I’m reading — maybe ask me to tell him the meaning of an unusual word I’ve just read. Other times, he’ll chime in mid-verse on the song that’s bouncing around my head. It’s inexplicable, but it’s happened too frequently to discount.

Example 1: A few months ago, I was reading a novel that referred to a tavern called the Three Pigs. Niko interrupted my absorption of a vivid description of the disreputable tavern to ask, “Why were the three pigs so dirty?” (Yes, the tavern was described as being a bit of a pigsty.)

Example 2: I’m reading Carl Hiaason’s book Trapline. It’s set in the Florida Keys, which threw me a bit because I was halfway expecting a northern setting, with that title (in the north, a trapline is the area a trapper sets his traps to catch furbearing mammals, on land). I had just gotten to the part where the main character’s trapline got cut, his shrimp traps destroyed and buoys stolen, when I had to stop to make dinner. Niko called to me in the midst of my reflection on the differences between traplines in British Columbia and in Florida: “Look, Mommy, a trapline!” He had stretched a tape measure across the entrance to the kitchen, grinning proudly.

Then there was the night not long ago when I asked Niko at bedtime what happy thing he was going to think about while he fell asleep (our magic no-nightmares trick). “Riding a camel,” he said promptly. “Could we ride a camel after we wake up?” I explained that we weren’t likely to find a camel nearby. “Then could we go to a place where there are camels?” I laughed and said, “Who knows, maybe someday we will.” But it didn’t seem likely.

Having kissed my strange little son goodnight, I went out to the kitchen and picked up my phone. There I found a text from Aaron, off on a business trip. The text read: “Want to go to Abu Dhabi?” He wasn’t completely joking. His company was looking for consultants who might be willing to travel there for three months.

Abu Dhabi. Known for palm trees, beautiful skyscrapers, white sand… and…CAMELS. They have a camel beauty contest there. And I’m willing to bet that Aaron was doing a quick bout of Google searching on Abu Dhabi right about the time Niko, who has never before expressed the faintest interest in camels, asked, “Can I ride a camel?”

Unsettling, that child is.

[Just to clarify: We have no actual current plans to travel to Abu Dhabi. Aaron’s company is at the “seeing who’s interested” stage, and my guess is they’ll send over some single analyst with no family ties so they don’t have to pay for housing for an entire family. But it’s fun to fantasize, right?]

Spidacheos and Fuuuuks

| Hope

When Niko was first born, a tiny, sleepy bundle, I remember Aaron saying, “This is the best stage, isn’t it? We can just hold him all the time. I love holding him when he’s sleeping.” And I agreed. It was definitely the best stage.

Sleeping in Daddy's arms
Sleeping in Daddy’s arms

Then Niko started holding his head up, making eye contact, smiling. And one of us said, “This is definitely the best stage. Look at that smile!” And so on. Each stage was the best stage ever. Each time he changed, had a developmental leap, learned a new thing, it was the best thing ever. Every time. But to me, there was one stage that really, really was the best: learning to talk. I loved hearing his tiny voice saying new words, completely unaware and uncaring that his pronunciation was imperfect. It was absolutely amazing.

Niko, three months old
Niko, three months old

With Sofie, it was a little different. She hit her developmental milestones appropriately, no concerns. But it wasn’t until she was about four months, nearly five months, old that she really became enjoyable. The one thing that united all her stages up to that point was the constant crying, the nightly screaming, the continual need to be held. So we didn’t talk as much about how each stage was better than the last. Until, as I said, around four and a half months. Suddenly, she was smiling, making happy noises, trying to sit.

That smile: pure miracle.
That smile: pure miracle.

Now she’s a month past one year old, and she’s walking, running, climbing… and working so hard on talking. She’s evolved in her attempts at Niko’s name, from “O” to “Ko” to, today, “Geeko.” Cody, the puppy, was first called “Co” and now is “CoCo.” When we give her something, she says “Tah toooo!” for thank you, and she greets us with “Hey youuuuu!” Today, her newest word came trilling out when we went into her room to get her when she woke up this morning: “Wake!”

Such a big girl.
Such a big girl.

Yes, without a doubt, Sofia is in her best stage yet.

I just love the learning-to-talk stage. I remember when Niko was about 15 months old and was learning to say “fork.” He couldn’t say the “r” sound — still has trouble with that one — so it came out, in a loud, excited voice, “Fuuuuck!” We had to explain to servers and fellow diners at restaurants: “He sees a fork. A FORK. He’s very excited about that FORK!” It was pretty funny. We have a lovely video of him saying this, getting more and more intense in tone, until the fork he’s holding suddenly pokes him in the eye. The video cuts out as we rush to comfort him, but there’s a subsequent one from a few minutes later, in which he eyes it soberly: “Fuuuck.” The tone fits the situation so perfectly that I can’t help but laugh till I cry, every time I see it, despite the pain I know he experienced.

But the best part about the learning-to-talk stage? It doesn’t really end, not for years. Niko, at age four, loves words and is constantly trying new ones and asking for word meanings. He actively explores the language with joy and pleasure. He loves the feel of a new word in his mouth. He’ll say it repeatedly, in different settings, trying it until it feels right. Most recently, he attempted to say the name of the delicious new nuts he was trying: “Spidacheos!” It made us laugh, but it fills me with a sort of pre-nostalgia, too. I know that one day we’ll look back at this time of exploration and learning and say, “This was the best stage ever.” And it will be true.

(You can see videos of Niko saying “Spidacheos” and “Fuuuuuuck!” on my Facebook page; apparently my blog doesn’t have video enabled right now.)

Frost Flowers

| Hope

Yesterday I went for a bright, cold walk with Niko, Sofia, and the puppy, Cody. Usually I carry Sofia in my Ergo carrier, but this time I thought I’d save my back and push her in our big rough-terrain stroller. I’m glad I did, because it turns out I can see a lot more when she’s not strapped to my chest.

We walked across our big lawn, past the row of cypresses, down the hill to the little creek that runs across the bottom of our property in the winter. Cody promptly made a dash for the creek; Niko tried to ford the creek, too, at its widest part, but I threatened him with immediate return to the house if he fell into the creek, and he prudently took the bridge instead. (Later he found a stone ford that I’d been hoping he wouldn’t notice, and I relented and let him cross there. What’s the point of a creek if you can’t at least cross it?)

I was about to follow him when I noticed something odd. A patch of ground near the creek was covered with curving, shining ice crystals pushing up out of the ground. I’d never seen anything like it. I snapped a couple of photos and kept walking — and kept finding more. At first I wondered if the patches of ice were the tops of a mole’s sleeping chamber, but there were just too many of them. It turns out they’re something called crystallofolia, which translates as frost leaves — commonly called frost flowers. When certain plants freeze in previously unfrozen ground, the water inside the stems comes fountaining out in the form of ice crystals. They can get a lot more complex than the ones I saw, but mine were still pretty amazing.

Crystallofolia, or frost flower.
Crystallofolia, or frost flower.
Crystallofolia, or frost flower.
Crystallofolia, or frost flower.
Crystallofolia, or frost flower.

Just for good measure, here are a few pictures of our walk:

Little Miss Toasty-Warm!
Cody is a ridiculously handsome dog.
Nothing beats playing with your puppy on a sunny patch of lawn next to a creek.
Joy.
Don’t fall in don’t fall in don’t fall in…
My strong little helper. (Oh relax, it was empty.)

All I Want For Christmas…

| Hope

Christmas felt different this year. This year, at the age of four, Niko was more aware of the onset of Christmas than previous years yet. For one thing, he understands time a bit better, and the anticipation was agonizing. Grandma and Grandpa’s visit seemed unbearably far away, and, when wrapped gifts finally appeared under the tree, he inquired every day when it would be time to open them. The excitement, the longing, the anticipation — all were new.

This was the first time our son really thought about Christmas in terms of gifts. It was difficult for me, in a way, to see how much space gifts occupied in his mind. My family and my church didn’t celebrate Christmas at all as I was growing up, and I was raised to believe that one of the vices brought by Christmas is the avarice and materialism displayed by overindulgent gift giving. I’ve moved past that particular part of my upbringing, and I love Christmas now — lights, ornaments, gifts, and all. But despite my current embracing of the holiday, I cringed a bit at Niko’s obvious desire and worry that he might not be getting what he wanted. Since he saw some of his baby sister Sofie’s gifts but none of his ahead of time, the accumulation of Sofia’s gifts seemed to far outweigh his, and he was desperately worried that we had forgotten to get him any. On the other hand, his little Christmas list remained modest and consistent. I asked him some time ago what he wanted. His response was prompt and clear: “I want an Olaf snowman and an Olaf book and a toy dog.” Each time afterwards that we asked him for his Christmas list, he repeated the same items with only minimal variation. As anxious as he was over the gifts, he really had only three simple items that he desired.

But it wasn’t all about the anxiety of anticipation. He rejoiced in the colored lights, thrilled at the responsibility of plugging in the tree lights each morning, and delighted in learning Christmas songs at preschool. Opening the doors of the Advent calendar each night (well, many nights — I wasn’t that great at remembering to do it) was a ritual that he loved. In fact, he loves everything about the holiday. He loves the sparkling candles, the colorful ornaments, the hope of snow.

One day Niko, Sofia, and I went shopping at an outdoor mall we’d never visited before, and there was a giant lit tree in the center square with two lovely snow fairies posing for photos with passersby. His eyes lit up with amazement: “FAIRIES! Those are REAL fairies! Can we take a picture of them for Dad?” (His dad travels often, so Niko thinks in terms of taking pictures so Dad can see whatever it is we’re excited about.) He was absolutely amazed, and even more excited when he got to stand by them and have a picture taken. I’m pretty sure that was a highlight of his Christmas.

We saw Santa numerous times over the holiday, and Niko was never quite convinced that it was a person wearing a costume; he hasn’t really accepted our story of a kind man named Nicholas who lived long ago, whom we now remember as Santa Claus. He’s pretty sure Santa is real, and Mom and Dad just haven’t caught on yet. Every time he spied Santa his face would beam with pleasure. “There’s Santa!”

So it wasn’t all about the presents. Not even close. I’ll admit, though, I worried a little that Niko would be so overwhelmed by all the gifts we and his grandparents had gotten for him that he would forget gratitude, that he would become numb to the joy of finding something new in each package. But Niko is the master of being amazed, and he was thrilled with each and every gift.

To my delight,one of his favorite gifts was a fox face cut from an old shirt of his, that I sewed into a pillow and that he’s slept with every night since Christmas. It was inexpertly sewed, but still, the fox was a highlight. About a year ago, that shirt had been almost new. He’d sneaked away with his scissors one day and snipped all over the front of it. When I saw what he’d done, I was upset, and so was he, because he hadn’t realized how destructive the scissors were. He thought he’d never see that fox again. On Christmas Day, when he pulled the fox- shaped pillow out of his stocking, he recognized it right away. He smiled with his entire body as he hugged the little pillow. I guess the reason his pleasure over that pillow delighted me, too, is that it shows he isn’t entirely captivated by shiny new THINGS. He understood the value of the fox pillow immediately; realized that I’d taken something he’d destroyed, and lovingly transformed it into a huggable bedtime cuddle friend.  He understood that the pillow represented time spent, and hard work, and thoughtfulness, and he responded accordingly. His understanding and gratitude are now one of my favorite Christmas memories.

As it turns out, all I really wanted was to see genuine joy on my son’s face. I saw that, and suddenly all my worries about materialism and avarice evaporated. Watching open his Christmas presents was the most fun I can think of!

Here are some of Niko’s amazed faces:

I realize he doesn’t look thrilled here. That’s because he really wanted to hug the pillow, not hold it up for a picture. He was a good sport, though.
Neither of these was a Christmas gift for Niko. But he was as excited by Sofia’s lamb rocker as he was by any of his own gifts. He immediately rushed to his room and hauled out his rocking horse so they could ride together.
So thrilled by his ukulele!
Tractor-shaped tire swing: Best. Gift. Ever.
This card arrived today from his former babysitter, who lives in Alaska. Pure joy!

What They Don’t Tell You

| Hope

Last week we took a morning to do some last-minute Christmas shopping. At the mall, Aaron took Niko one direction while I took Sofia elsewhere, so I could check off my list for Aaron and get Niko some books.

We’d been shopping about half an hour when I got a text from Aaron: “Niko just did the craziest thing!” Turns out Niko’s bottom had started itching. Right there in the middle of Nordstrom, he shed pants and underwear to get at the itch. Aaron glanced down and was horrified — “What are you DOING?”

“I had an itch,” Niko explained. “That’s what I do when my bottom itches.”

No one tells you to anticipate this sort of thing when you start parenting. I’m sure the parents of one of Niko’s friends didn’t expect to have a conversation with her teacher after school about how she lifted her dress to show Niko her pretty undies. You don’t really think ahead about what you’ll respond should your child shout, upon seeing a pretty Filipino lady, “That lady is BROWN like my friend Jonah!” (“We don’t use people’s skin color to describe them,” you hiss, sinking as low into your seat as possible.)

Nobody tells you to be prepared to have your hand covered in slimy yellow poop while holding your munchkin as you peruse the clearance rack in an upscale department store. No one warns you that you may walk out of a mall bathroom holding the hand of a toddler wearing too-short pants and navel-baring shirt because he peed himself thirty minutes after your last potty stop.

I could continue, ad nauseam, listing all the surprising things about parenting. However, it occurs to me that a) it’s been done before — repeatedly — and, b) many of these “things no one tells you” are actually things that people DO tell you. Read a few articles on a parenting site and you’ll be so overwhelmed by all the “things” that you’ll decide to never have a child…unless it’s too late for you, as it is for me.

No, I’m realizing that there’s no secretive society of parents, all refusing to tell of their embarrassing, disgusting, even hilarious stories. Get us talking, and we won’t shut up. It’s more a matter of listening and applying the stories to oneself — both important factors. The childless listener thinks, “But I have a degree in child development and a background in education. MY children will never push a container of bouncy balls to the ground in a rage and then fling themselves on top of the rolling balls while shrieking ‘I WANT A BLUE BALL!’ My children will always appear well-groomed and happy, and their faces will always be clean, because how hard is it really to manage a child or two for an hour or two in a store?”

Here is what no one wants to believe before having children: Every child is an autonomous being. You can train, you can discipline, you can practice, but you can not control. Children aren’t robots. Trust me. Your child WILL embarrass you. If no one has told you this yet, it’s only because — as my mother told me — this is a universal truth, and those of us who’ve gone through it believe it’s obvious. We can’t tell you the specifics of how this embarrassment will happen, because children are unpredictable, but it will occur. It’s only a question of how.

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