Motherhood is often so undignified, which actually seems appropriate when you consider what an undignified process childbirth is - you are splayed out on a bed with a constant army of nosy doctors wanting to stick their fingers in your nether regions, and you end the whole thing covered in every body fluid imaginable and with no part of your body having been unseen or unexamined - classy.
So I guess it makes sense that the embarrassment doesn't stop there. You start motherhood with an infant who likes to do nothing but expel nasty fluids all over you, and then he graduates to putting his hands down your shirt or undressing you to find a meal. Then he learns to walk and follows you into the bathroom, which gets even better once he learns to talk and announces to your guests that "Mommy is pooping! Push your bum, Mommy!"
I suppose the only proper thing left to do is to take a bow when you exit the bathroom.
And it's always nice when he comments on your, um, gaseous emissions. Michael has recently graduated from a giggly, "Uh oh, what was that noise?" to "Beautiful poofer, Mommy!" Who knew that my rear end was capable of producing such symphonies?
And, there is really no need for kleenex with small children. You become a human tissue. Not even clothing is necessary for a good nose cleaning. For example, this afternoon Michael walked up to me and wiped his nose all the way down my bare arm. "Michael, did you just wipe your snot on my arm?" I asked. "Yes, Mommy!" he said cheerfully, which is probably more polite than what he said to David this morning when he wiped his nose on Daddy's freshly pressed shirt: "Michael got boogers on it!" Gee, thanks for the parting gift, buddy.
Of course, once a kid learns to talk it is usually equal parts hilarity and embarrassment. Like the time we were riding the subway and a homeless man got on and informed us that we should buy his flowers because he was working instead of selling drugs to our children. Michael piped up, at top voice: "He's not working, Mommy!" A rather astute observation for a two-year-old, but as the entire train turned to look at us, it was an embarrassing one nonetheless.
The good thing is that most of the undignified parts of motherhood are worth a hearty laugh.
Except the times Michael points out my zits and loudly comments on my "owies". But, that's only not funny because I'm annoyed that I still get zits.
I mean, aren't you supposed to grow out of that?