Humiliation

More than just a Mother has invited us all to share our mothering humiliations. Funny thing, blogging. Imagine wanting to hang out with people who give out those kind of invitations, instead of the “drinks and nibbles” variety.

I loved her own story so much, that I feel inspired to join her in the ranks of the humiliated. (Her story tells how her pants were displayed to pewloads of church-goers, when each arm was occupied with a small twin, leaving no way of re-hoisting her trousers, except by using her teeth in some challenging yoga pose, or by asking the person in the pew behind – she doesn’t tell how the story ended, so I’ve just had to use my imagination. Perhaps, since it was in church, a miracle occurred, and the trousers hoisted themselves.)

I am cheating a little, however. This story isn’t proper humiliation, not abject squirming humiliation, because it takes place in the seclusion of my own home and with no audience. You definitely have to have an audience for proper humiliation. The trouble is, as I searched my memory for humiliation stories, of which I know there have been many over the past 12 years, I realized that Mother Nature not only plays a sneaky trick whereby you forget the realities of childbirth, but She also extends it to the realities of embarrassing moments. I suppose it’s rather merciful. So I offer you not cringing, muscle-clenching, eye-closing humiliation, but it wasn't exactly my proudest hour either.

The scene is set in our bathroom, and I’m emerging from the shower. My son, aged about 4 or 5, says

“Mummy, you know boobies?”

“Yes, I know boobies,” I reply.

“Are they meant to stick out” he asks, gesturing with small hands in front of his chest, “or sort of… sort of… hang down?” he finishes, searching for the right words, and gesturing towards my chest this time.

If any of you are ever asked this question, since I’ve had time to reflect on a good answer, here is my suggestion.

“They’re meant to hang down, but it takes some years before they reach perfection. Unfortunately, when you’re a young woman, you have to live with your sticky-outy boobies, and there’s really nothing you can do. Pert boobies are the scourge of young womanhood. You just have to resign yourself to being patient until enough years have passed for them to droop properly. It’s such a relief when they do. The lower the better.”

At the time, instead I talked about people coming in all shapes and sizes, and knew that the beautiful innocence that allowed the question to be asked, only exists in people of a very small shape and size.