Be prepared.

That's generally a good motto for any parent. Know your child, and be prepared.

For example, I know that my 2-year-old son is a neat freak when it comes to his hands and face. He absolutely cannot tolerate any stray food on his body, not even for a second. The sensation of foreign matter instantly sends him into a frenzy of screeching, "Nat-keens! Nat-keens!" (Napkin, but he really means a baby wipe.)

I should have remembered this last Sunday. What started as a family outing to GattiTown to celebrate the second anniversary of three of our baptisms, ended in one horrific moment of parental embarrassment.

We ate pizza, we played, and when we were all completely tuckered out, we decided to go for one last round of dessert before heading home.

Truck was eyeing BooBoo's chocolate pudding with interest, so I asked him if he would like some. "Puh-ing?" he gurgled happily in response.

Feeling happy and proud that my boy had successfully identified a member of his favorite food group, I gladly dished some up and began spooning it into his mouth.

"Mmmmmmmm."

Yay! He likes it! Pudding has calcium, right?

That's when it happened: right as I was feeding him another bite, he turned his head, distracted by the wall-sized TV screen playing one of those cartoon movies I never actually get to watch the whole way through. The pudding blobbed onto his cheek.

"Ugh," he said in disgust.

I giggled.

Big. Mistake.

There are many things I should have done, like tell him it was okay, tell him I'm getting a wipe, get the stinking wipe, and wipe it off his mouth. I should have had a wipe at the ready, for crying out loud!

But I didn't. I giggled.

In an instant he realized that not only had I failed to conjure a wipe, but I also was mocking him.

He slid off his chair, got on his hands and knees on the sticky, nasty floor, threw me a contemptuous look, and wiped his face on the floor.

Yup, score one point for me towards the Mother of the Year trophy.

My husband and I were both on our feet, jaws dropped, faces red, struggling to reach him through the jello-thick, slow-motion inducing air that always seems to appear at the worst possible time.

All we could do is laugh and detoxify him. Luckily, everyone around us laughed, too, and in that moment, I realized this was something we would be sharing with him when he has his own children someday.

I might break it out a little sooner, though. Like when he's a teenager and says that I'm embarrassing him.