My husband and I were at a basketball game yesterday afternoon, and during a time-out an emcee stood at the end of the court with one of the fans. He asked her if she was ready to play a game called, Guess What Year.

He boomed into the microphone and asked, “What year was the Academy Award winning song, ‘What a Feeling’, from the movie Flashdance, released?

I immediately turned to my husband and said, “1983”.

The emcee went on to ask two more questions, but I didn’t need to hear them.

I knew I was right, because I have Flashdance flashbacks. I clearly remember sitting among my sisters at a cousin’s wedding reception and watching my Mom jog around the dance floor to the Flashdance song, “Maniac“. For the record, she was completely sober.

I was twelve. I watched in horror (and that’s not too strong a word) as my Mom did a crazy, toe-stepping impression, straight out of the movie. The only things missing were the leg-warmers.

I remember holding my head in my hands and shaking it left and right, and when I finally looked up, I was shocked to see my Mom take things to another Flashdance level. She was alone on the dance floor, when she suddenly stopped in the middle of it, and poured a pitcher of water over her head.

My best friend has told me that I use the word mortified incorrectly. She says it doesn’t just mean humiliated, but embarrassed on so deep a level that you wish you were dead. The moment my Mom poured that water over her head, I was mortified.

It didn’t matter that we were surrounded by family members who were hysterical and doubled over with laughter. I was twelve. My Mom could walk through the room and it would embarrass me.

Now when I look back, I can’t help but laugh about it. I can appreciate that my Mom was having a good time, and I love that she was making people crack-up.

But more than anything, I smile because I have a different perspective now. I’m a parent, and I know that soon my daughter will be twelve. And, I find satisfaction in knowing there will be many opportunities to mortify her.

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My kids talk…A LOT. My nine year old daughter started talking at 18 months and has been chatty ever since. It can take her ten minutes to tell a story that could’ve been told in three sentences. My husband and I often say that she would be an amazing FBI interrogator. Criminals would certainly cave in and divulge their secrets if they had to spend time locked in a room with her.

My five year old son rambles all day. He talks to his sister, us, and his toys. He sings while he plays, and is always making noise. He’s still at a stage where he asks questions constantly too. It’s enough to drive a Mother crazy.

Yesterday, I took my son to his doctor to have impacted wax cleaned out of his ears. His ear canals are very small, so they easily clog up and we’ve been making trips to the ENT every few months. When he starts asking, “What?” all the time, we know it’s time to schedule an appointment.

After the procedure was over and he climbed out of the chair, his doctor asked, “Does that feel better?”

My son replied, “Yeah!”

Then he realized that he could actually hear himself talk and said, “But, my mouth is SO LOUD!”

You’re telling me, kid. You’re telling me.

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Today is “Letter Q day” at my son’s preschool. For each letter day, he is supposed to bring in an item which starts with that letter, and he decided he would take a quarter…probably like the rest of the class will.

Lately, he’s been putting his underwear on backward, so this morning when he was getting dressed for school, I asked him to come closer so I could see if he had put them on correctly.

When he was a few feet away and facing me, I said, “Okay. I can tell you have them on the right way.”

He asked, “How do you know? The tag’s in the back.”

I said, “Well, there’s that little…uh…pocket in the front, so I can tell they’re not on backward.”

He looked down and replied, “Oh! I can put my quarter in there!”

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