I'd like some condiments for this foot in my mouth, please

This weekend, we attended the baptism of a very good friend's daughter. This dear friend had family coming from all over the country for this special event - family of hers that I was reacquainting myself with, and family that I was meeting for the first time.

So I am sitting in the chapel, waiting patiently for the event to commence. I am thoroughly enjoying myself as I make small talk with those around me.

I turn when I notice a tall, handsome man approaching the pew where I am sitting. He starts chatting with the family on the bench next to me, who I know to be relatives of my good friend.

I reach out my hand to this tall stranger and say, "Oh, you must be Stuart's Dad. It's so nice to meet you."

He smiles, chuckles and says, "Um, no. Actually I'm Craig, his brother-in-law."

HOLY. FRICKIN'. CRAP.

I cringe and felt the oxygen sucked from the room as I realize that I have just mistaken a man in his early 40s FOR ONE IN HIS MID-70s. I reel with horror at my most ridiculous mistake yet, and immediately look to see if it would be noticeable if I crawled under the bench to hide. Better yet, I think, would be a shovel with which I could dig my own grave, and hide in my shame for all eternity.

The Husband, ever on my side, leaned over and told Craig that the only fitting rebuttal is for him to turn and ask me when my baby was due.

Touche, dear Husband, touche.

The very youthful victim of my verbal faux pas

Honestly. How did I mistake him for a man in his 70s? I don't know what I was thinking at the time those awful, irretrievable words came flying out. I have no excuse but my own stupidity.

Fortunately for me, Craig has a sense of humor. Throughout the rest of the day's festivities, he joked and laughed about his old and infirm state. He even smiled and posed the next day while I took some pictures of his darling - AND VERY YOUNG - family.

I think from here on out, I will keep my big yap shut.

These feet of mine don't taste as good as they used to.

Tolerance, even for our vegetable friends

A few days ago, I had all the kids with me on a trip to Walmart. At the checkout line, I realized that I needed, and had forgotten to get, a tomato. Knowing the snail-like pace that is always the checkout line at Walmart, I sent the boys off to grab me one from the produce department.

They came tearing back, giant tomato in hand. Chase set it on the conveyor belt and announced, in his unmistakably loud voice, "Bad news, Mom. It's a Mexican."

I look up in horror, smile at the African American check-out girl, and try to say loudly, "That's okay, Chase. I'm sure MEXICAN TOMATOES are delicious."

To which he practically shouts, "But, Mom, we don't really like the Mexicans." [I know he was only thinking the tomatoes would taste different. The kid has love for all god's people. Honest.]

My ensuing lecture about how we really do like everyone was lost in the murmurs and shame that was our hurried walk out to the car.

For the record, we DO like the Mexicans.

And their giant tomatoes.

Me not so suhmart no mor

Remember how a few days ago, I was all on top of my business and shouting "yes, I can" from the rooftops?

Nothing like a little slice of humble pie to bring you back to the reality of, "Umm, no, I really can't."

You see, I volunteer to help in my kids' classrooms. A lot. I like to be there, see how the teacher interacts with the students, and see how my kids interact with other kids.

Plus, I really have no excuse this year, what with them in school all day now.

So, I went to help in McKay's class for the first time this year. As soon as I enter the classroom, his teacher hands me a heavy math book. She points out the page the students are currently working on (which is multiplying with decimals). She smiles sweetly, and asks me if I'd feel comfortable teaching this concept to one of the groups, while she works with the other.

Panic immediately sets in. Math has never been my strong suit. But this is fifth grade math. Surely, I passed fifth grade math at some point in my life, right? I smile, and tell her, "Sure, no problem," and head for the white board.

To my surprise, things move along rather well. I find that I am actually pretty good at teaching the math. McKay gets over his instinctive embarrassment and even makes eye contact with me a few times, which is a huge victory in and of itself.

Well, just about the end of our time together, the teacher returns to the classroom with her group. At this moment, one of my students raises her hands and says, "Um, I got a different answer for that one." Before I can respond, the teacher notices my problem on the board, comes over, erases it, AND RE-DOES IT FOR ME.

Apparently, I am not so good at the fifth grade math.

I made a REALLY STUPID error and did not have my decimal in the right place. I knew it as soon as I looked at it, unfortunately a little too late.

But there, in front of my son, and all of his classmates, I looked like an idiot. I felt so dumb. I have no doubt she is wondering exactly what I had been teaching while she was out. I wanted to tell her that, "YES! I REALLY DO KNOW HOW TO DO THIS!"

But instead, I smiled, thanked her, and went to my car in a cloud of stupidity and shame.

And so, next week when I go in, I fully expect her to have a desk with my name on it.

Think McKay will be embarrassed if I have to repeat my fifth grade year?

My most embarrassing moment

When we moved to Boston in September of 2001, my boys were very young. McKay was two-and-a-half, and Chase had just turned one. With the husband already there working, I needed some extra help with the cross-country flight and solicited the ever-willing and long-suffering Marta for the job.

Other than a karma-destroying incident on the airplane (which I won't speak of here), the flight was pretty uneventful. When we arrived in Boston, we found out that our moving truck would be several days late. We had nothing to do. And two active boys that had already watched "The Fishy Show" [A.K.A. The Little Mermaid] about 9,654 times. So we decided to go sightseeing.

I had always wanted to go to Salem and see the sights, especially Nathanial Hawthorne's House of Seven Gables. It was about a 20-minute tour, and seemed doable with two adults to handle the boys.

Oh. If ONLY I had known.

Our tour began in the small, cramped living room of the House. While the tour guide was giving a background on the illustrious Nathanial Hawthorne, I noticed a peculiar stench. No, it was not the musky, moldy scent of a 400 year old house. That would have been pleasant in comparison.

The smell was coming from Chase's diaper.

I panicked, but knew that if I took him out to change it, we would lose our spot on the tour and not be able to get back. I figured it was only 20 minutes. He'd be okay, right? Sure, it's embarrassing, but what are you going to do?

Colossal mistake of huge proportions.

Right about that time, the tour guide was letting us know that all the artifacts in the home are original and so delicate that flash photography was not allowed, in order to preserve the authenticity of the historic house. I glanced down and noticed McKay pulling the curtains over his head.

Oh, this probably isn't good. I ought to pick him up and just carry him, I thought.

As I reached down to scoop him up into my arms, he gave those curtains a mighty tug, and snapped the built-in curtain rod RIGHT OFF THE WALL. You know, the one Nathanial probably BUILT HIMSELF.

So I'm trying to hold this wiggly child, and at the same time, I've got Nathanial Hawthorne's curtains on top of my head. I'm pulling the curtains off and I hear the tour guide yell, "STOP EVERYTHING! NOBODY MOVE. STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE!"

I lift the curtains up sheepishly to face the angry and annoyed looks from the other people on our tour. By now, Chase's stench is stifling any and all remaining life out of the room.

The tour guide returns with the head of the museum and they begin to study the broken curtain rod to determine any restitution I would have to make. Poor Marta is holding the toxic-smelling Chase. McKay is wiggling and squirming to try and get out of my arms. My cheeks are hot and flushed, and the tears are threatening to spill over at any moment. Every eye in the room is glaring at me.

They finally decide that they will not make me pay for the damages and suggest in a less-than-friendly tone that we leave the tour.

Which we did.

Running and crying as fast as we could.

So the House of Seven Gables now has blinds where curtains once stood. My son has the lifelong honor of knowing he defaced a National Historic Landmark. I was shamed beyond anything I have ever known - before or since.

And I will fully understand if Marta never, ever wants to have children.

Top that, if you can.