My daughter, Brandi, was a precocious child. She was communicating in complete sentences by the age of ten months.

“Mommy, watch me. Mommy, I want… Mommy, come see. Mommy, mommy, mommy.” Once she learned to speak, she never let up. I must say that she impressed strangers everywhere we went. Because Brandi was such a bright child, learning new tasks was exciting and comparatively easy for her. The hard part fell to me, the mommy, to provide new learning experiences every day. My little hyper overachiever had a voracious appetite for new experiences. I was a very proud, if not exhausted, new mom.

Ever curious and always underfoot, Brandi would follow me to the bathroom basically every time I went. This was actually for the best, since she couldn’t be trusted on her own for even 30 seconds. “What you doing, mommy?” I would explain that mommy was peeing in the potty or whatever the case may have been. “Bambi pee in the potty?” She was three before she could say her name correctly.

Brandi continued to ask if she could pee in the potty. She was eighteen months old, and I did not feel she was ready for potty training. My mother suggested I buy a potty and make it available without pressure or great expectations. She offered to go with me to pick out a cute potty for her granddaughter. Saturday came and we loaded up my car for a “town trip” with Brandi.

Wal-Mart always had a good selection of potties, so the three of us wandered the aisles on the lookout for the potty section. Brandi was excited. There were potties of every style and color. My mother and I were discussing the merits of a particular potty we were both fond of when we heard people gasping, giggling, and saying things such as, “Where is her mother?”

“Brandi!” I called out in a panic. No answer. I pushed my way through the crowd to find my bare-butted angel standing in front of a potty proudly proclaiming, “Mommy, I poop in de potty.” She had removed her pamper and christened her potty of choice with a mound of poop.

“I see. Good girl.” What else could I say? As I cleaned my daughter, my mother took the potty to the ladies restroom for a cleaning. Brandi continued to praise herself to the laughing crowd. My only thought was, “Hurry mama, please hurry.”

We bought the potty and had it in place before Brandi’s daddy returned from work. I explained to my angel about going to the potty only in the potty room. When her daddy walked in the door, Brandi proudly told him of her latest accomplishment. Of course, he thought it was quite funny. Actually, once my mother and I had left the store, we laughed all the way home.

I didn’t return to Wal-Mart for a few weeks, however.

There are some things that they don’t mention to you when you are becoming a mother. Like, they never tell you how many people will see you naked, before and after you give birth Doctors, nurses, strangers.

One day I decided I’d have enough of the standard-issue, Mommy sweat suit. I was going to put on something pretty and girly. You know, like you used to do in your pre- Mommy days. I pulled out the cute boots, a nice pair of jeans, and a super cute top that showed off that ample Mommy cleavage, and headed for the store with the kiddo.

We went marching down the aisles, scoping out the sales for the upcoming holiday season. Of course, we found the perfect gift, three feet above my reach, so I asked a nearby store clerk if he could help me. While he fumbled for the gift, I tried to keep my bored toddler entertained with a game of tickle, which worked. She laughed and giggled, and pulled down Mommy’s top in self-defense.

I was, of course, clueless, until the nice man handed me the item, with a blushing-red face. I then realized, “Hey, isn’t it just a little breezy in here?” Looking down, I saw the double-D twins saying hello to anyone who was looking. I pulled up my top, but the damage was done. The red-faced man quickly apologized and ran off, no doubt to tell a co worker. A nearby group of appreciative-looking guys smiled and waved. Add them to the list of people who have seen Mommy naked.

My consolation is that I’ll feel absolutely no guilt when, down the road, my child’s a teenager and blushing furiously, hissing under her breath while I spit-bathe her in public, “Mom! You’re embarrassing me!”