Humilimom—as in humiliated mom. That was me at Target two weeks ago. My five-year-old—five-year-old!— threw a fit there, right after I had said good-bye to my well-put-together friend Danielle. I was hoping she would not be privy to my child’s outburst of emotion, but she walked by during phase one of the tantrum. When we arrived at the checkout line, we were in phase 2—the loudest phase, and there was Danielle, four check out lines down, with her three lovely daughters.
By this time, everyone could hear my daughter screaming. She sounded like Veruca Salt’s evil twin. I was far too embarrassed to make eye contact with anyone in the store who might have the I-would-never-let-my-kid-act-like-that face, so I did something I’m not a fan of: I covered her mouth. She could breathe just fine, but the second she did, she got a bloody nose. Yes, people probably thought I hit her.
It would be painful for me to continue to tell the story of such a low point in my time as a mother. So, I’ll just tell you the car ride home turned into a lecture to all three of my children on the evils of becoming spoiled brats.
I finally saw Danielle on Sunday. She was out of town for a few weeks—enough time for our display to become a cloudy memory, and enough time for the red in my cheeks to fade. I apologized, and we had a laugh. I suppose all families have their moments—even if they aren’t as humiliating as mine was.