You think you've got a package...

Mortification.



Every parent has experienced it and every parent pays it back when their child is a teenager.



I have had many mortification moments. Here are some of my most memorable ones:



We were on vacation in Branson, MO with my two oldest children. At the time, they were 3 and 1. During the middle of the night the fire alarm kept going off. The resort sent a security guard to assess the problem. My son (the three year old) looked at the security guard and said quite loudly to his father. "Dad, that is a big, fat, black man." Embarrassed, we ignored the comment. He repeated the same offense during a trip to a restaurant as he described the waitress, who was within earshot, as really fat. (She got a really fat tip for that meal.) To my son, those words were no less offensive than describing a cheese cracker as orange and square. BIG, FAT, and BLACK were descriptors. Nothing more. Unfortunately, as we get older, words are connected to feelings.



My oldest son is not the only one who has given me a "mortification moment". My oldest daughter, once when we were shopping, upon seeing a person in a wheelchair, asked quite loudly what was wrong with that person's legs. I quietly explained that their legs didn't work and it could happen for a variety of reasons. We talked about abilities/disabilities at length, turning the "mortification moment" into a "teaching moment".



I am not the only one that has experienced mortification. My friend recently had her children at the pediatrician for their "Well Child" check. At the check up the doctor always states the same questions year to year. "Does any one in the house smoke? Do you always wear a helmet when you ride a bike or scooter?... Do you have any firearms in the house?" I am not sure about the origin of the last question. I attribute it to the fact that we live in Wisconsin and as you may or may not know deer hunting is quite popular here. My friend answered all of the questions appropriately. "No, no one smokes. Yes, they always wear their helmets. No, we do not have any firearms in the house." Then, her 8 year old daughter called her out. "Mom, what about the BB gun?" Busted and embarrassed, she sheepishly admitted that she had forgotten about her husband's firearm purchase.



On Wednesday, I was mortified once again. This time it was my youngest, Captain Destruction. I was upstairs when the doorbell rang. My son beat me to the door, opening it for the Fed Ex delivery man. As I rush down the stairs, CD is standing in front of the storm door (which is only glass and screen) in his BIRTHDAY SUIT. As I pushed CD out of view, I opened the door and really did not know what to say other than sorry. My jaw was hanging open. I was completely speechless. I collected my package, CD and his package, and quickly shut the door.



Note to Self: I eventually will be able to pay him back... and it will be a doozie.