Humorous to humiliating -- that's mom

I can't do anything right. Just ask my kids.
Gone are the days when my children would look up at me with adoring eyes, as if the entire world revolved around my beloved head.
They used to laugh at my not-so-funny jokes. They would seek me out in a crowd and wave frantically for my attention. They would answer any question that I asked with earnestness, delighted in my interest.
Now, I apparently ask too many questions, my appearance is a total embarrassment and I am "so not" funny.
If it weren't for my 5-year-old, who still thinks the world revolves around me, my three older children would have me convinced that I am a complete buffoon.
"... And so I was talking on the phone to someone I didn't even know!" I was laughing hysterically, relaying to the boys a funny thing that had happened to me that day.
David laughed and thought I was a riot.
Difference of opinion
Two of the boys stood there staring at me, embarrassed that their mother was so goofy.
The third one looked at me pathetically and said, "Oh, Mother."
So much for being funny.
When it comes to asking questions, there seems to be some sort of invisible line in my child's mind unbeknownst to the me -- until I cross it.
I can't seem to get a grasp on the exact location of that invisible line. I have been accused of not asking enough questions: "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You didn't ask."
And I have been charged with badgering: "Did you brush your teeth?"
"That is the fifth time you have asked me!"
I pause, as I retrace my brain files for any response I may have heard in my subconscious: "Well, did you?"
"Aaaarrrgh!"
My kids hate it when I can't remember their answers to my questions.
Ask at the end
I have also learned that sometimes I have to hold my questions to the end.
"At recess we played this game. ..." says my 12-year-old in response to my question, "How was school today?"
He was in the middle of a long description of his recess activities as I listened attentively, trying to put together in my mind the bits and pieces of his story.
"So you threw the ball and got Jacob out?" I asked a question for clarification.
"No, I got Zack out," he answered, stopping his story.
"I thought Zack was already out," I said, not knowing that I was crossing that invisible line of questioning.
"No, Mom. Zack was ..." he paused, trying to replay the scene in his head. "Oh! Just forget it!"
I had done it again, asked one question too many.
Recognition forbidden
While I am uncertain about the invisible line of questioning, there is one line that is crystal clear. At any function, I must not publicly recognize any human being that I carried in my womb and painstakingly birthed from my loins.
I was picking my son up from a school function. While I was waiting for him to come out, I began talking to a group of girls standing outside the building.
Robert stepped out, and I waved to him to let him know I had arrived. I noticed a look of horror wash over his face.
"Mother, get in the car," he hissed as he whisked by me.
I thought I had violated the "public recognition" rule, whereby I may only nod in acknowledgment of my child's presence.
"Where did you get those shoes?" he asked the second I sat down in the driver's seat. "How embarrassing!"
I looked down at my new light blue tennis shoes. They were a bit gaudy. While I was thankful that they had diverted his attention from my wave, they confirmed my feelings of buffoonery.
When it comes to my kids, I just can't do anything right from my head all the way down to my shoes.
gwhite@vindy.com