Embarrassing the Kids

On the way to Dane's baseball game earlier this week, the kids asked me about our dear family friend, Uncle Claude. This man was like a grandfather to me. He had been stationed in Germany with my father before Mom and Dad even married and, once they did, he and his wife lived in the same apartment building. Over many years, my parents lost track of him, only to rediscover him here in Augusta when my father was transferred to Ft. Gordon.

Anyway, I loved Uncle Claude. He was the kind of person who teaches with everything he says to you. He talked my father into buying me a horse (one he had found that he thought was reasonably priced and appropriate for me), then kept my horse at his farm for me. I could call him at work any afternoon and tell him I wanted to ride and he'd swing by on his way home and pick me up. I would follow him around as he did his chores, talking the whole time, ride for a while, then go in and wash up for dinner. After dinner, Uncle Claude would always call me in to sit on his lap and tell him everything that was on my mind. I'd snuggle in close as he sat in his big chair and pour out all my worries, concerns, etc. He was like salve for any wounds I had.

On the way to the game, we passed a landmark that reminded me of my Uncle Claude (who was really no relation to us) and I mentioned him to the children. They've heard about Uncle Claude many times, but Daelyn spoke up from the back seat.

"Is Uncle Claude still alive, Mama?" he asked.

We buried Uncle Claude many years ago, when Deanna was just a toddler and before Daelyn was even born.

"No, honey. He died, and I cried," I said.

From the front seat of the van, Deanna chimed in a sing-song voice, "My Aunt Sue had a beard, and it felt weird . . . Oosta!!"

For those of you who may not recognize this little ditty, it's from one of the Veggie Tales movies. Larry is lying on a psychiatrist's couch and singing about his Aunt kissing him and having to be hospitalized for his lips - very silly song.

The song really is catchy and I found myself shouting "oosta" whenever I saw anything significant. This followed me right into Dane's game.

For several weeks now, Deanna has laughed about the way the Umpires announce a strike. They yell something that in no way resembles, "Strike!" Usually, it sounds more like "paugh", but the Umpire on Monday actually said, "Ike".

As we sat in the stands, Deanna and I began laughing about "ike" as we counted them . . . "one ike, two ikes" we said. While we were talking quietly, the brother of one of Dane's teammates yelled,

"Ike Three!!!! Yeah!!"

Deanna looked at me, eyes wide with shock, and began to laugh.

"That's just plain scary, Mom. You're rubbing off on people."

I just couldn't help myself. I turned around and said to the young man,

"Once they get three ikes, it's an 'oosta'!"

Each time our pitcher retired a batter, I'd shout, "oosta" at the top of my lungs. When we moved into the other half of the inning and our batters were walked or came into home, I'd yell "oosta". By the middle of the game, this group of young men were yelling for ikes and oostas right along with me.

I looked to my right, where Daelyn and Dane's friend, J.P., were sitting. They had moved to a discreet distance away from me. Deanna, sitting on my left, was also scooting down the bleachers in the opposite direction. But the real kicker was when Dane came across home plate and I shouted "oosta" into the air. He walked up to the fence, looked pointedly at me, and said,

"I am NOT related to you. I do NOT know you" before walking into the dugout.

Now, how do you like that? I entertain my children during a boring baseball game and none of them want to be identified with me. The other kids that really weren't related to me were having a wonderful time. It was great fun shouting for ikes and oostas.

I was a little tamer tonight; downright quiet by our family's standards. No ikes or oostas to be had. I was at Daelyn's game alone while Deanna and Don watched Dane's final game of the season, and it just wasn't near as fun to yell ridiculous things into the air without children to embarrass sitting around me.

I have to have an audience - preferrably one that's related to me.