By Whitney Fleming

The other day while listening to a random Pandora station in my kitchen, “Ice Ice Baby” came blasting through my iPhone. I instantly squealed, “Oh my God! I used to love this song!”

I put down the dirty dish I held and started busting out my signature move, The Running Man. Of course, I have my signature version, but I killed it.

That’s when I received a crushing blow to the gut. My nearly eleven-year-old daughter shouted from across the room, “Mom, seriously. You are so embarrassing.”

I stopped dead in my tracks. As I turned to face her and three of her friends eating pizza at my kitchen counter, I caught the last rotation of an eye roll as she turned her back on me.

Ouch.

So I did what any mom would do. I threw down my dish towel and did a little M.C. Hammer “U Can’t Touch This” shuffle across my hard wood floors and ended with “The Sprinkler” that may have looked more like Elaine from Seinfeld.

Her friends cheered me on, but I could see the pink rising on my daughter’s cheeks. She was smiling, but I could tell the mortification was real. She was ashamed of me.

Later, I thought about how I drew a line in the sand with my daughter by continuing my dance-off. My fellow moms of tweens and I often discus how our lives are changing. Trips to Starbucks and the mall now replace princess tea parties and pretend fashion shows. iEverythings seem to be glued to their palms, and sleepovers replace play dates. And inevitably, there are a few more door slams and sighs than cuddles and kisses.

Some of my friends want to keep their relationships with their tweens/teens intact and choose to relate to them on their terms. Some respect boundaries and allow their children more independence. Some even insist that they will be the parenting white unicorn — the cool mom.

I could have tried to be more hip to bond with the group, demonstrating that I once was like them. I could have stopped dancing and changed the station to something a little more current. I could have altered who I was at that moment.

But what fun would that be? When did we get so scared of our kids and what they think of us?

There is a lot of discussion about the role shaming has in parenting, so much so that as a culture we bend over backward to ensure we never say or do anything bad that may impact the self-esteem of a child. We worry that our every move will have an impact on their physical, intellectual, and even social well-being.

And this is important stuff. We should not publicly shame our children or make them feel ashamed about their behavior, appearance or choices. They should never feel degraded or diminished.

But that does not mean we should not teach our children the difference between shame — the misplaced kind because of something someone else does — and good, old-fashioned parental embarrassment.

I think growing up with parents who embarrass the heck out of you truly makes you a stronger person. My dad was a lunatic. Growing up, he would blast show tunes while I was hanging out with my friends in the pool. He would do the moves to cheers when I was on the sidelines in high school. When I brought my very Italian boyfriend home in college, he asked if he could kiss his ring and call him “Godfather.”

It was mortifying. It was annoying. It made me want to curl up in the fetal position and not come out until adulthood.

And he was not the only one. My mom could be worse. She would stay up each night until I walked through the door. She called the parents of my friends — whether she knew them or not — to ensure I was where I said I would be. She would say no to my requests even when every other parent said yes.  I am not sure how I survived.

If parenting is about being brave and steadfast in your decisions, then my parents had cojones the size of Texas. And even with these “flaws,” my friends loved my parents.  I did too, most of the time.

I may not purposely do things to embarrass my kids. I won’t show up to their school wearing my bunny slippers or chaperone a school dance wearing my old prom dress (well, probably not), but I’m not going to change who I am — or what I believe in — just to ensure they are not embarrassed. And if their friends don’t like me, well, that’s on them.

Because where does it end? There is a limitless list of things kids can be embarrassed about: not arriving to school in the right car or not having the right shoes, mothers who don’t wear make up or don yoga pants every day, or dads who scare boyfriends or dress in ridiculous ties. And yes, even a mom who does The Running Man. Even if she executes it well.

I know that my kids also will get embarrassed by what I don’t let them do, like wear makeup just because the other girls are or go to a party where I know there is no supervision.

It is a delicate balance when raising older children. I’m sure that shortly, just the mere fact I exist will embarrass them.  But I’ve already lived through those painful teenage years of trying to fit in, and I am not doing it again.

My job is to show my kids how to enjoy life and be a responsible, productive member of society. If we can get through that and still be friends, then so be it.

And if they learn a few super-cool dance moves along the way, then that is a bonus.

*****

About the Author

Whitney Fleming is a marketing consultant and freelance writer. She blogs about family, relationships and w(h)ine at www.playdatesonfridays.com. Her work has appeared on Huffington Post, Scary Mommy, In the Powder Room, and Coffee + Crumbs, among others. You can find her on Facebook and on Twitter @PlaydatesFriday.