March, 2013

We Never Really Grow Up, We Only Learn How To Act In Public.

We do the best we can, but the kids' area of the store is usually a disaster. Some kids look at it as, 'pfft, it's not my room, I don't care.' Others are so stunned at allllllll those books, they just go a little berserk. And some are just born mischief-makers.

But there are others who go the opposite way. Before I put her on the part-time payroll, Charlie would sit down and straighten, organize and alphabetize the books; when Lexi had her a-b-c's down pat (after she learned how to read, making her teachers nuts), Charlie subcontracted the kids' section and worked on the rest of the store. When I stumbled over the arrangement, I almost stopped it, but figured there was such a pleasant echo of Huck Finn to it—what the heck. And if she could hire the kid at fifty cents an hour and they were both happy with the agreement, why not?

Having kids around the store while I was pregnant was… educational, to say the least. At least ten times a day, I decided I didn't want anything to do with this parenting thing—after birth, I was going to toss the kid to Ducky and run for the hills.

(Clearly, I decided otherwise.)

So, here I sit in the old rocker, E. L. Koningsburg's From The Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler on my lap and blowups of the illustrations around me, and a flock of kids jammed hip to hip on the floor. "Okay! Last week we finished—"

"STUART LITTLE!"

I smiled through my wince. Damn, they could project. "Right. Stuart Little. So that means—" I held up the book and showed off the cover. "We have a new book today! This is called From The Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler." (One of my favorite authors, one of my favorite books. Okay, okay—I say that about a lot of books. It just so happens that a lot of books are my favorite books. So, there.) "But—my heavens! Looking around, I see a lot of new faces! Welcome, everyone! How about a real quick roll call—when I point my wooden spoon toward you, please tell everyone your name. Let's start with the front row, that-a-way—" I drew a line from my left to my right. "—then the next row—" Back again, right to left. "And so forth. Okay…" I pointed the spoon to the first child, a stout lad of about five in a Barney t-shirt.

"Kyle!" Next, a little girl barely a year older (and, from the way they had been snarking at one another, a sibling). "Darcy!" Down the row we went: "Shelby." "Michael." "Dawn." "Kristal." "Monique." "Paul." "Rene." "Mommy, you know my name!"

"Not everybody else, does, sweetie," I said, as everyone laughed.

"Oh." She nodded at the logic. "Okay. Lexi"

"Charlie." "Amy." "Liz." "Tony!" Up and down we went. I lost track after fifty.

"Fantabulous! Welcome, everyone, old and new to Story Time!" Applause and cheers. Great for your ego, and even better when you realize the kids are applauding books and reading. (Insert moment of happy dance.) "Now, before—" I got distracted by a slightly frenetic looking woman hurrying to the group, a disheveled little boy at the end of her grasp. "Plenty of time," I said. "Don't forget to grab your snack."

She looked at me doubtfully, but saw that all the other kids were slurping on juice or milk boxes and munching on cookies, crackers or trail mix, and grabbed a setup for her son.

"We were all just introducing ourselves because we have so many new faces." I had never seen either of them in the store before. "I'm Miss Sandy. What's your name?"

He craned his neck this way and that, but couldn't get an angle and finally gave in and stood up. "I'm Jimmydoe."

From the second row, Charlie gave me a puzzled look. Good; I wasn't the only one who didn't quite catch it. "I'm sorry, dear, I didn't hear that clearly. Could you repeat your name? Please?" Belatedly I saw his mother's face. She was at about level six mortification in the D & D game.

He stood up straighter. "I'm Jimmy Don't!"

I had a sudden cascade of scenarios. "Jimmy, don't touch that! Jimmy, don't eat that! Jimmy, don't climb there!" I gave him my game smile. "Well, welcome to Story Time, Jimmy—"

He grinned and plopped down onto the floor—straight on top of the half-finished juice box of his neighbor. As apple juice made for uncomfortable seating arrangements for a few kids scrambling out of the way, I wondered how many years it would be until Jimmy Don't became plain ol' Jimmy. At that moment he accidentally mashed a peanut butter cookie under his heel as he got out of the puddle of juice… I figured college. Maybe.