Rumpusing, butt-sniffing, just another library trip

I took the kids to story time at the local library last night. Both in their PJ’s. Both looking so cute you want to just gobble them up. Lucky for the Count, the night’s featured reading was “Where the Wild Things Are”–a favorite in this house. We actually had to stop reading it at bedtime here for awhile because everytime the “wild rumpus” would begin, the Count would rumpus himself into a little tizzy and not calm down for bedtime.

So the storylady, complete with her apron (why do they always have aprons?) and puppets and felt board began the rumpus and both my kids were intent listeners. (well, as intent as the royal family can be at this age)

…and that night a forest grew…and grew…and grew
Sniff. Sniff. Hmmm….I smell poop. Its a room full of kids…can’t be mine, can it??

…and he sailed in and out of weeks, and almost over a year
Sniff Sniff the Princess’s butt…nothing there. Sniff Sniff the Count’s butt…nothing there.

…Let the Wild Rumpus Begin!
I kid you not…nearly every mother in the place starts butt sniffing. Babies are being lifted and sniffed. Toddlers sniffed. Kindergarteners sniffed. As if on cue, it was wild kingdom during the wild rumpus. Butt sniffing galore.

Now I don’t have to tell you that in every crowd such as this, there are those kids. You know what I’m talking about. The ones acting up. The ones in the middle of the group waving their little matts in the air and smacking their neighbor with them. They are talking during the story. They are shoving during the story. They get up and look around during the story. And despite every eye in the group on them…no Mom or Dad or authority figure seemingly insight to say “Timmy, sit down honey” or “come sit by Mommy if you can’t sit on the matt.”

Admittedly, I live in an upscale town. Soccer Moms. SUV’s. Boutiques. Trophy wives, etc. There are days I love this fact. There are days I loath this fact. Today, I’m loathing.

You see, the poop smell was coming directly from the crowd going parentally unchecked. Every Mom/Dad in the place has sniffed their kids butt…except for that middle of the matt crowd causing all the storytime trouble. So now Moms/Dads are catching eachother’s eyes. We all KNOW where the poop smell is coming from, and not one of us is surprised. So we all start looking for their parents. Now, I had ALREADY looked for their parents when little Timmy started smacking the girl next to him with his matt. I saw nothing. But that was because, silly me, I didn’t check the hallway. Where…if you looked OUT the door to the storytime room, you could see two women chatting it up. Both donned in designer sweat suits. Yes…they have those…and they are $220 just for the pants. Both with makeup done. Both tanned. Both with hair done (note to self, extensions on 30+ year old women look ridiculous) Both with bling out their asses. (the tacky kind) Both with their stainless steel travel coffee mugs that are permanently attached to their hands. And both not paying one tiny bit of attention to the storytime in which they dumped their children.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that every so often I like to indulge in the farce that I am, in fact, one of these women. I want my hair to always be done. In reality it rarely gets brushed. I want my nails and makeup and clothes perfect. In reality my sweats have holes in them or are covered in toddler boogers, I sometimes put on concealer, and I haven’t had a pedicure since June. And while I have my share of bling, courtesy of the Kaiser, its nothing compared to the boulders upon boulders these women sport. So why I even think about keeping up with the Jones’ is beyond me. They are rude. They don’t give two shits about their kids, and they seem to care more about their image than any 15 year old girl.

Storytime continues with the smell of poop in the air. Max finally returns to his hot supper and the kids get up to color little monsters. I’ve got my eye on the middle of the matt group…and wouldn’t you know it…little Trevor-as we find out his name is– makes his way to his Britney wannabe of a Mom standing now in the back of the room. He’s picking his butt.

“TREVOR! NOW WE HAVE TO LEAVE….UH, I SWEAR!”

Poor little Trevor looks mortified.

“Sorry Amy, Trevor pooped his pants and now we have to leave…I’ll just talk to you Sunday at church! Now go get your sister and tell her we have to leave because you pooped your pants!”

I feel so bad for Trevor. I feel so bad for ALL the Trevors in this town. Hrumph. Such is life in surburbia.