MARY ANN FITZMORRIS

Embarrassing Mother Syndrome strikes teen-agers In this age of three-letter childhood disorders, it is time to confess an affliction which plagued my kids since their birth. It’s common, and it strikes all the children in a family where it is present. Fortunately, the severity of this condition really depends on the child. It is incurable, and there is no medication available to help. My children suffer from EMS: Embarrassing Mother Syndrome. I am not a trained sociologist, but I’m convinced this condition has been around since the origins of humanity. Symptoms can surface at any time, or they may never appear. Some children are blissfully unaware that they have been struck by this malady. Recently my daughter and I encountered such a young man who was marched to a pool by a mother/carrier. Before enjoying the water, he was required to put on enough protective ointments to create an oil spill, and enough gear that it was nearly impossible to get near him. He then swirled around in the shallow end of the pool like a flotation device monster until we asked him to join us in a game. It turned out that he was just a normal kid with a life-threatening case of EMS. Most children, though, are not nearly as obedient as this poor fellow. They do recognize their plight long before adolescence, which can be a time of false diagnosis of this plague. Teen-agers who are embarrassed by the very existence of completely normal parents are usually just hypersensitive to being part of a gene pool. Their parents have a related condition called STI (Smug Teen Irritation), but that’s another column. For kids with a genuine case of EMS, symptoms do surface in tweendom, the confusing time of preadolescence. Moms will start hearing a hushed protest of “Mom!,” when Mom is doing something embarrassing, like chasing them with a lunch. If the situation is not addressed, usually by Dad, the symptoms will worsen. The child will say things, hushed through clenched teeth, like “Mom, you’re embarrassing me!” This painful revelation comes more often form the mouth of a female child, because, for some reason not clinically verified, boys seem much better able to cope with female parents capable of driving them to distraction. In my own family, my daughter has considerably less tolerance for my existence than her brother does. She can cringe by watching me in normal conversation. My son, on the other hand, has only recently discovered my offenses, and he has had plenty of opportunity over the years to shrink from me. My penchant for following him to the bathroom, for example. Because of my deep-seated neurosis regarding public restrooms it became necessary for me to involve myself in such personal and essential bodily functions. When the poor child was younger, I simply took him to the women’s restroom with me until he was old enough to be embarrassed and refused to go. This dismissal was only a mild deterrent, to me, however. I still followed him, but remained outside the door, opening it every few seconds and asking, “You okay, Bud?,” as if some pervert would be intimidated by my voice outside. He would timidly answer in the affirmative. For a long time, I was the one most embarrassed by this. Each time the door opened, forcing me to face the other patrons, I couldn’t help but wonder what they thought of my rhythmic interference in their bodily functions. My son would eventually have to emerge and claim me, which he always did with a mortified look on his face. It is not quite the same look my daughter has as soon as she realizes I have followed her after she has left me in a public place. I have learned to stay a comfortable but considerable distance behind her, since her tolerance for my tailing her isn’t as high as my son’s. She used to be angry when she discovered me; now she’s just amused. Pretty soon I’ll leave her alone, as I’ve done with her brother, right about the time they reach the age of STI (Smug Teen Irritation.) I don’t have to worry about that. Kids with EMS never develop into smug teens. They’ve been too humiliated for too long. MARY ANN FITZMORRIS writes this column regularly for L’Observateur.