A few days ago my two-year old asked to ride on my back ("Horsey!") while we were on Skype with her grandparents.
She climbed onto my back and we started to plod around the living room. "I wonder how mummy feels about being a horsey?" asked my mother-in-law. "Don't worry," I replied. "Compared to other humiliations of motherhood, this is nothing."
Take, for instance, a flight from San Diego to San Francisco when the little one (we'll call her O) was about 20-months old. By that point we were all seasoned travelers – O had flown to Montreal, Boston, Chicago and Australia, all without incident. We were (naively) undaunted by the upcoming flight.
When we got onto the plane, we discovered a 2-year-old girl across the aisle from us who had her own seat. O did not have her own seat; she was on my lap, with dad on one side and the privileged 2-year-old's grandmother on the other. Immediately O demanded her own seat and wouldn't sit down. The grandmother tried to help by pointing out how nicely her granddaughter was sitting down (in her own seat!), which only made things worse.
The scene unfolded as you'd expect: wailing toddler, ineffective attempts at soothing and distraction by incompetent-seeming parents, dirty looks from neighbours. Yet, during the full duration of the 90-minute flight, I didn't once experience humiliation. I was fully absorbed in tending to unhappy O. The humiliation came later, when I was waiting in the jetway for a stroller, as every other passenger from the flight walked by. One woman came up to me and said, "Don't worry, you're not a bad mum! And you'll never see these people again." She meant well, but the underlying assumptions were clear: that everyone walking by identified me as the bad mum, that I should be relieved that they were all – and would remain – strangers.