All Boy and I went to baby story time at the library. Story time, as in “oh, the stories we have to tell if we go.” Once upon a time in Arlington, I met a dear friend at story time. Our two sweet girls would sing choo-choo songs, apple picking songs, teeth brushing songs, (but not Twinkle Star songs because her daughter had some issues with that particular lullaby.) We’d nurse, or sing, or roll our arms to Wheels on the Bus, and, in general, a grand time was had by all.
I have a feeling I will not meet any kindred spirits at this story time.
First, my son greets other babies by smacking them on the face. For some reason, this causes concern in the other mothers and they whisk their precious First Born children off to be protected and petted. Rather than being offended by this, my Last Born sees it as the perfect way to make sure that the basket of musical instruments and cuddly disease ridden stuffed animals remains all his.
Second, I’m rather tired of asking people what their precocious and brilliant babies are doing. I’m afraid my nasty side will bust out and I’ll say something like, “Really? Only sleeping 12 hours at night? I heard about that syndrome on NPR...” Also, I hate little babies who have things stuck on their heads. If they’ve got hair, great, do something to get it out of their eyes if you’re so inclined. But if they’re bald, leave the stupid headband off the poor kid. (Hal calls them baby garters.) Any day now, my opinion on this vital issue is likely to come spewing out of my mouth so I’m trying to keep my mouth shut very tight. Besides the hair thing, I’ve seen babies in low rise and straight leg jeans. Really? You think that’s a good look for diapered butts? And exactly what is your clothing budget for that child? Because I could do a whole lotta good with that money. You can see why I need to clamp my mouth, right?