Kids will be kids — much to our horror

You know the utter joy -- and stupefying embarrassment -- that every parent will encounter while raising small children. Sure, you do. Remember those ghastly moments when your little ones performed dizzying feats of humiliation before folks to whom you would prefer to appear somewhat ... I don't know, normal?

So, yesterday Georgie (grandson No. 2) went to be tested for admission to kindergarten next fall at St. Mark's, where his big brother, Charlie, is in first grade. A few fun facts about Georgie: First, Georgie likes to look good. He picks out his clothes each morning meticulously, and no matter what hideous ensembles result, he will insist that he looks very, very good.

Second, Georgie likes his short dark brown hair and has a habit of playing with his cowlick. He asks most mornings if he can use a little of his mother's hair gel, although he must be supervised as to the quantity of gel he considers appropriate.

And finally, if you ask him, Georgie will tell you he is "really into money." You might say, "Hey, who isn't?" But, you would not yet be grasping the enormity of his interest. Georgie, who just turned 5, had $237 saved up way back when he was 4, from two sources: a $1 weekly allowance and doing extra "chores," such as lining up his father's shoes in the closet just right, running to the nursery for a diaper before his little sister ... uh ... "forgets her manners" all over Mommy's bed, or, say, not giving the dog Mommy's pearls to play with. (And, of course, he can always ask Gaga, who would sell her car to give him "a whole roll of quarters!")

As incentive to behave and do his best in the testing, his mother told him they could go to the bank afterward. Georgie adores the bank. His father works for Wachovia and took the boys one day to see the "official vault," which Georgie has talked about every single day for 11 months. The man told him they keep his money in one of those drawers, and every single day, Georgie asks his mom to call his dad, and then tells Dad to ask the "bank man" to, for example, take out one of his $5 bills and change it to a roll of dimes, or take out the $20 bill and put in two $10 bills, etc. Georgie wanted to have his birthday party in the vault.

So, after 75 minutes of walking a sleeping Gracie in her stroller all over school in high heels -- his mom likes to look good, too -- Louise met Georgie as he came out of the "testing" room with four administration/faculty members, and the ladies all ooohed and cooed over the baby while Georgie stood patiently waiting.

A few minutes went by and one lady said, "Oh, Georgie, isn't your little sister just adorable?" Georgie had had enough. He is very good at the teenage-sigh-and-eye-roll already, and he employed both, looked up at his mom and said, "Yeah, yeah, now can we go to the friggin' bank?"

The ladies were momentarily speechless, so Louise quickly answered very clearly, "Yes, yes, we can go to the F-R-I-G-G-I-N-G bank, you silly thing, ha ha," and everyone laughed.

Then, noticing the cowlick thing, my determined-to-deflect daughter said: "Georgie, your hair looks so nice today. Did you use some of Mommy's gel?"

Again, the sigh-and-eye-roll. "No, Daddy wouldn't let me," he replied grimly. "So, I used honey!"

Thoroughly defeated, and as pink-faced as the evening sky, his mother surrendered at that point, and while the three ladies guffawed so hysterically they nearly ... uh ... "forgot their manners," Louise took Georgie by the hand and wheeled Gracie -- and all three of them -- sedately out of the office and down the hall.

When she called me later to relate the story -- and her further, though more private, humiliation at learning from Georgie (who can count into the high hundreds) that he'd only counted to 11 in the testing "because I just got tired by 11" -- I laughed hysterically as well.

And then I reminded her about the day I took her (age 5) and her brother (age 4) to the Millersport Corn Festival in that small town about 45 minutes east of Columbus, Ohio. When we left, I was driving a bit too fast, since it was past bedtime, and a policeman stopped me. As I began to explain the reason for my excessive speed -- while frantically simpering and batting my eyelashes -- my sweet little girl leaned forward and shouted out the window, "Mommy took us to the MillersCort Porn Festival!"

Vicki Wentz's column, which appears here on Sundays, is published in newspapers across the country. She is a high school teacher who lives in Chapel Hill, N.C. Readers may contact her at vwentz@mindspring.com.