Today, I wore one of my favorite shirts. It’s designated such because (a) I love giraffes and (b) I’m highly amused by the double meaning of the words. And I guess I’ve reached a point where I want to be entertained by my wardrobe.

Unfortunately, two young ladies in my life do not share in my delight of this shirt, and were not at all entertained when I showed up wearing it after school.

I watched as they merrily traipsed out of the school doors, holding hands, squinting into the bright sun. After spotting me, however, they both stopped abruptly. Looked at each other with alarm. Then picked up their pace until they reached me.

“Let’s get in the car,” Viv muttered, head down.

Suz gazed up at me and whispered, “Mom, why did you wear that here?”

As we climbed in and buckled up, I casually reminded them that I have been wearing this shirt all day, including when I dropped them off for school. Suzy reminded me that at drop-off, it had been hidden under a sweatshirt, where no one could see it.

“Girls, you know I love this shirt!” I said. “What’s the big deal?”

I watched through the rearview mirror as they exchanged looks.

Viv said, “It’s like you’re calling everyone else short. Is that really nice?”

I tried explaining that, no, it wasn’t a jab at other people, but poking fun at myself. “It’s called self-deprecation, girls, and that’s what makes it funny, you see.”

“Mom,” Suzy said. “Will you please not wear that next week? It’s just not…(glancing at Viv)…good.”

I can’t think of anything in recent memory that has legitimized parenting for me more than today’s events: I embarrassed my children.

And I didn’t hate it.

Photo credit: Vivian Kimmel, on the condition I’d never wear it again in public.