On Books and Brats

I have terrible children.

They also may become those irritating tweens who swoon over boy-bands and follow Justin Bieber-like androgynous man-children with an intensity and fervor that is on one hand enviable (who doesn't need a little passion in their lives?), while at the same time, very, very sad.

All I wanted to do was bring the Ladies to Barnes and Noble and buy them some Shel Silverstein books.

All they wanted to do was run around the store at full-speed and perform "Call Me Maybe" on the stage that is set up in the children's section for story time.

I just wanted to introduce them to some poetry, read to them from actual children's literature rather than condensed novelizations of Disney movies or television shows.

I told them we were going for poetry. I told them they could pick out one additional book on their own.

They wanted 2-3 books each with titles such as--I kid you not--Barbie Loves Weddings, Barbie and the Fashion Fairytale, and Cherry Jam (A Strawberry Shortcake book).

Bringing the Ladies to a store releases some sort of inner antelope in them. It is like they are running for their lives on some African grassland, but in reality they are galloping down the aisles of the bookstore like they have just been released from a cage.

I don't know if it is just the excitement of being out of the house or if they are just trying to prove to the world that my parenting abilities are crap.

No one listens. Well, my kids don't listen. I am pretty sure everyone else in the store heard them singing "Call Me Maybe" and me in a half whisper/half scream trying to tell them to tone it down.

When I was finally able to corral those long-legged antelope-children and move towards the register with a copy of Where the Sidewalk Ends, a Pinkalicious compilation book, Cherry Jam, and the novelization of Barbie and the Mermaid,  a movie we have seen 8 jamillion times, I was ready to go.

The Ladies, however, were running the length of the checkout line, trying on reading glasses and informing me that even though we all went to the bathroom before we left that once again, I would have to brave the not-so-clean Barnes and Noble bathroom.

Before we could even make it to the bathroom though, we would have to get on the escalator. The Lady is afraid of escalators. I can't even begin to describe the escalator incidents/screaming/crying I have experienced in my life. I am thinking of penning a children's book about our adventures. Barbie and the Escalator Incident has a nice ring to it.

And finally, after drinking from the water fountain, touching entirely too many things in a public bathroom, singing top-40 hits, running like the wind and picking out dumbed-down versions of already dumb movies and TV shows that make me cringe and fear my daughters' tween/teen years will be filled with me having to attend pop concerts at sold-out venues while trying to suppress the urge to stab myself in the ear with a pair of scissors, we ventured out of the Barnes and Noble to find the last horse on our "Horsin' Around" adventure.

Oh Night Mare, in your pink nightgown and curlers in your hair, why didn't they make it clear that you were inside the mall and not outside of it like it looks on the map? We have been looking for you for weeks.

After we hugged you and the Little Lady said "I love you. You are so pink." We took the elevator down to the street, piled in the car, passed out our terrible books and went home.

When we got home the Ladies crawled into bed with me and snuggled as we read a little Shel Silverstein, a little Barbie and a little Cherry Jam.