We need a change of pace on this here blog. So instead of continuing to lament our adoption status, I’m going to publish a guest post I wrote for Natalie in August. It was some serious comic gold, not to mention horribly embarrassing for me, and I’m just not sure how many of you went over to read it. I feel like a few of you might have mentioned it to me the next time we were in close quarters–with some jesting involved. See, Natalie suggested I write a story about an awkward moment.
Then my problem became: where to begin? My number of embarrassing and awkward moments has increased exponentially since I became a mother. Should I write about when I took my 2 week old to the grocery store and my fragile bladder control failed me? Or when I was singing on stage at church and my nursing boobs started leaking? Or when my daughter projectile vomited on the shoes of a woman in front of us—also at the grocery store? Huh. I’m noticing many of my moments have to do with bodily fluids. And grocery stores. I hope you find these amusing, because my vault of funny is deep with blood, urine, snot, feces, spit-up and puke. Barrel of laughs, right?!?
But I’ll let you in on a little secret…these are easier to share, because I totally blame it on the kids! The REAL humiliation is when the moment has nothing to do with having given birth or a person under age 10 who doesn’t know any better. So, in honor of Natalie’s Awkward and Awesome, I’ll just cut to the chase and share a couple doozies.
Several years ago I worked at a church office. If we needed to make copies or use the shared printer, we had to walk down the hall to a small copy room. No biggie. One afternoon, I was waiting for a particularly LONG printing/collating/stapling job, and my Mexican food lunch (Who are we kidding? I was young and broke. I’m sure it was Taco Bell.) was, let’s just say it was settling uncomfortably in my lower GI. In my innocence, I figured that being alone in this room for a good 10 minutes was a perfect place to—why am I having such a hard time writing this?—to PASS GAS, people. I tooted, alright?! There. I said it.
It took about 2 seconds for me to realize the ignorance of my ways. A SMALL room, with only ONE door? Oh, sweet, innocent, stupid early-twenties Me. What did I think was going to happen when one of the pastors walked in RIGHT THEN? Blame it on…the copy machine? The non-existent “other” person who couldn’t have just left, because he would have seen them leaving the room? My stinky toddler who wouldn’t be born for another 4 years? Nope. Nothin’ doing. Just smile, laugh uncomfortably, and GET THE HECK OUT OF THERE. Abandon the collating 1 to 2 sided copies. And never speak of it again for approximately 9 years, at which time you will share it publicly for all the world. So, yes, Pastor Tom, if you are reading this…IT WAS ME, OK? I admit it. Stop haunting my dreams with that look of disgust.
I swear I don’t have stomach issues. I’m mostly a person with mastery over my gas. But I will share one more embarrassing moment, knowing full-well you’ll all start recommending I be checked for IBS. Many moons later, I was in the grocery store (see what I mean?) with a 1 and 4 year old and—having learned my lesson—was in a very well-ventilated, large and open aisle, perfect for a quick getaway. There were 2 other groups of people in this long aisle, but they were down by the frozen pizzas and I was still at popsicles. I gently let out a teeny-tiny little whiff as I was walking. I didn’t factor in the fact that my loud-mouth preschooler has a nose that is right about the height of my rear-end.
“MOM! YOUR BOTTOM IS SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO STINKY!!!” Heads turn. Brows raise. Chuckles are unsuccessfully hidden. “Oh! Heehee! Aren’t you a little silly! You must be smelling the…the…cheese aisle. Or Sydney’s diaper! YES! That’s it! Your sister’s diaper! What a funny little man you are!” Then secretly I grab his funny little arm and walk quickly away towards the register, telling him under my breath to shut his adorable little trap.
So, you know, lesson learned by moi. Get in control of your sphincter already, girl. Public gas-passing is a risky, risky business, better left to the professionals—whom I’m assuming are middle school boys, frat boys, and pretty much just boys of all ages who don’t care if someone smells their farts. And apparently I should avoid grocery stores. Can someone back me up when I explain to my husband that I can’t do the shopping anymore?