We went to the rodeo last weekend.  My fourteen-year-old daughter was with us.

Enough said?

The term “teenager” is used so often because this set of creatures doesn’t fit into any other category.  They are a species among themselves.  They are not children; they are not adults. 

One thing is certain, though.  They are embarrassed by everything their parents do; they are embarrassed by everything their little brothers and sisters do; they are embarrassed by EVERYTHING.

We have spent our lives up to now being embarrassed by their behavior: two-year-old temper tantrums in the grocery store, three-year-old “I want to dress myself!” outfits, five-year-old “wow, you’re really fat!” comments, and ten-year-old apologies of “but everyone else was throwing water balloons at passing cars, too!”

Up ‘til now, though, my daughter liked going places with us.  I guess she still likes us.  As long as we don’t do anything out of the ordinary, that is.

But therein lies the problem.  “Out of the ordinary” for her is different that “out of the ordinary” for me.

I was getting dressed for the rodeo and she about died when she saw my outfit.  I looked down on my rather plain ensemble.

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked.

“Your belt and boots are two different colors!” she exclaimed, slightly panicked.

“Get over it,” I replied.  “This is what I’m wearing.”  She told me she would be embarrassed to be seen with me.

We arrived at the rodeo and the clowns were trying to get the crowd pumped up.  People around me started to shout when the clowns pointed to our section … and I joined in wholeheartedly.

I looked at my daughter and she had her face buried in her hands.  I could tell she wanted to curl up and die and then I saw her arm reach out and come over to cover my mouth.  It wasn’t too long ago that she would have been the first to scream when the clown pointed to us.  Now I was ruining her life.

The clowns then got everyone clapping along with the music when the bulls came out of their chutes.  Here came the arm again.

“What’s wrong now?!” I asked her.

“Look how you’re clapping,” she said.  “It’s embarrassing.”

Now, I don’t know about you, but I clap by bringing my hands out and then together again.  It makes a sound. 

It turns out that I was bringing my hands out way too far … about twenty-four inches as opposed to the acceptable seven-inch preparation-for-clapping distance. 

So there I was … she didn’t want me to stand up or else someone might have noticed my non-matching accessories.  She didn’t want me to open my mouth, because there’s really nothing I could have said that wouldn’t embarrass her, and now I couldn’t clap my own clap.  I really wanted to pull out a Kleenex and honk really loud into it.  It would have sent her under the seats.

Instead, I patted her on the leg and told her she was funny.  Oops.

Don’t ever pat your fourteen-year-old on the leg in public.  It’s almost as bad as the dreaded hug.

Or … horrors of all horrors … the kiss.