“You’re so embarrassing!”

Some total idiot has introduced my children to that most English concept of embarrassment, and I’ve got a nasty feeling it was me. Some weeks ago, my daughter (aged 6) was due to receive three friends after school for tea, as my son (aged 12) was off on a week long residential school trip and we had decided that in his absence, the house was not full enough of mewling screams and bickering. Girl does not entertain as often as she would like, as if she did, it would leave no room for school, or sleep, or anything else, for that matter. Perhaps because of this, she approaches the arrival of guests with a manic fervour and a keen eye for detail, right down to taking dinner orders for her guests some days in advance as if it were a works Christmas meal; “guest X would like pizza, guest Y would like fishfingers and [bafflingly] guest Z would like Spaghetti Carbonara.” All three were given a plate of fishfingers and chips each, much to Girl’s chagrin as in her mind’s eye she saw the locomotion of social mobility heading for the buffers of ostracisation.

In advance of the event, I had made the following chance comment to Girl: “Don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you,” hoping somewhat unrealistically for her to respond with something along the lines of : “you don’t embarrass me dad, I love you!” but more realistically hoping to ease her mind that I wouldn’t interfere in her strictly mandated program of fun. Unbeknownst to me, it appeared that the possibility of paternal embarrassment had not even appeared as a blip on her radar, until of course I raised the subject. So what she actually replied was; “You will embarrass me!” and thus it came to pass that an earnest attempt to show my daughter that I would do my bit to ensure that her entertaining went as well as possible ended up seeding in her mind a notion that will no doubt form the bedrock of our relationship for the next 15 years, namely that because her father has the capacity, deliberately or more likely by sheer nature of being her father, to embarrass her, he will almost perpetually embarrass her.

Any hope I had of this being a momentary thing that would quietly pass into the untold volumes of things I’ve said that my children do not remember was lost on the day of the festivities. My W ife had escorted the young ladies the short distance to the house from school, allowing me to change and shower after work. When I heard the key in lock, I quickly checked that I was wholly decent, mentally rehearsed the names of Girl’s friends and waited at the top of the stairs to say hello. As soon as they saw me, and way before I had a chance to exhibit my credentials as an unembarrassing father, Girl shouted over her shoulder to her friends; “don’t talk to him, he’s embarrassing!” And all four of them zipped by me without a glance, like a Women’s Institute day trip passing a dogging site.

Naturally, what with Boy being on the cusp of teenhood, he’s already a way down the road of feeling acute embarrassment at my every utterance. The really galling thing is that it doesn’t seem to matter if we are being observed or overheard by anyone, and I don’t even have to be trying to be embarrassing for this effect to be (keenly) felt. Whether I’m trying (and failing) to be amusing, asking a question about something he likes or trying to impart some piece of information, trivial or vital, his reaction is almost physical, akin to someone sticking a hand into his abdomen, grabbing a handful of large intestine and giving it a hefty squeeze. You can literally see the pain etched on his little face. I know there may come a time when I am actively trying to elicit that sort of response, but it’s a bit thick when all I’m trying to do is make him chuckle like he did when I used to play peekaboo with him. (If I was as embarrassing as he likes to make out, I would probably say at this juncture that this game of peekaboo was last week, which would earn me an outraged “Daaad!” through gritted teeth from him.)

I suppose it’s a rite of passage for a child to wish to distance itself from the previous generation by essentially proclaiming that everything that generation says, does and stands for is a bit shit, but I have been unpleasantly surprised at how early this has started, and it having started, there’s no stopping it. My only consolation is that for Girl, my newfound status as most embarrassing thing in the world still represents a hilarious novelty, and as such could be something that in time she will find endearing, and consequently patronise me like a pensioner before I’m out of my forties, as opposed to Boy, for whom the sheer embarrassment of my existence manifests itself in a scowl that instantly adorns his face as soon as I say or do anything in his presence. There’s no way around it - I remember cringing to my very bones when my father came into contact with my friends. He invariably insisted on introducing himself by name and attempting to shake hands as if he were meeting foreign dignitaries at an ambassador’s reception, which he regarded simply as the correct way to behave when meeting someone for the first time, rather than a calculated attempt to shame his offspring. (I think. It’s equally possible that he might have been playing an extremely devious and convoluted game that involved adopting this persona before I gained cognisance and then staying in character my entire life.) The funny thing is, my friends all really liked my dad, even though they had similar embarrassment issues with their own parents, who to me seemed lovely. So this is what I must hope, that over the years I can somehow appeal to the legions of Boy’s and Girl’s as yet unmet friends, in order that when my children say to these friends; “I’m sorry about my dad, he’s soo embarrassing!” the friends will say something like, “no, he’s alright. Better than my dad, anyway,” and therefore gaining me some credit with my children.

Not that they’ll ever admit it to me, mind.