Tyler’s birthday is May 10th and I’ve been talking about bringing a cake or special snack to his class that day.
But he doesn’t want me to.
“It’s embarrassing when everybody looks at you and they sing happy birthday,” he said.
“Okay. Then I just won’t come,” I said.
“They’re still probably going to sing,” he said. By now he was curled up in the fetal position in the recliner. This was obviously bothering him.
“I’ll write a note to the teacher and ask her not to sing on your birthday because you’re shy.”
“No!! Don’t do that. If you say that, I’ll be MORE shy. And nervous.”
“Well, don’t you think she’s going to wonder why?”
I sighed. “Fine. I’ll just write a note that says, ‘Please do not sing to Tyler on his birthday. Mrs. Gala.'”
“With GOOD handwriting, Mom. Not your regular scribbly, scrawly stuff. If she can’t read it, they’ll sing to me and then I’ll really be embarrassed.”
Embarrassing? Embarrassing is what happens at a bachelorette party when your friend tells the male dancer you don’t believe his, ahem, private parts are real.
And he tries (unsuccessfully I might add) to prove it.
Now, THAT was embarrassing.