Last Friday, he twisted my arm and talked me into going to McDonald’s, that famous haute cuisine establishment for the preschool crowd.
While sitting at our booth, he spilled the smallest drop of his orange juice on the tabletop, and proving that I am a smart aleck with all ages, I said something like, “Aaah …, I’m tellin.’”
Instead of the usual freckled face grin that I was expecting, I was surprised to hear him say in an almost anguished tone, “Don’t, I will be emBADbarrased, and I will never come wiff you to McDonald’s again.”
Oh, break my heart. Never again to know the joy’s of Happy Meals. Don’t tempt me kid!
Taking pity on his anguished tone, I let him know that I wouldn’t dream of emBADbarrassing him, at least not for such a meager reason as a drop of orange juice.
But the new word has stuck with me and I have been inserting into all kinds of conversations with my husband.
It’s like the time, when the grandson was going through some serious potty training and the reward was some nifty Sponge Bob and Cars underwear. Excited by the prospect, and wanting me to know he was coming to my house the next day, the little fellow grabbed the phone away from his father one night and bellowed, “I BRING MY UNDERPANTS!”
For months after that, I would randomly punctuate my conversations with, “I BRING MY UNDERPANTS!”
Now that I know the little guy has reached the stage of self-consciousness, I will have to take special pains to figure out what kinds of things I need to avoid. I truly love the kid, and I would never purposefully cause him a moment’s unhappiness.
Walking back to my front steps as he and his mother were backing out of the driveway last Friday, I heard a shout, “Maw T-U!”
I turned around to see him wildly blowing kisses at me out the passenger car window. Apparently, THAT didn’t embBADbarrass him.
Until Next Time!
© 14 July 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder
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