Everyone loves a good storytime.

Home alone all day with Bee, I’m so often dogged by simultaneous boredom and exhaustion that a mother-daughter trot over to the library starts to seem like as good a way to occupy ourselves as anything else, including “relaxing” at home. (I can’t explain it to non-parents, but, at a certain point, it’s just as easy to pack a diaper bag and hit the bricks as it is to stay home. Or, more accurately, it’s entirely as exhausting to stay home as it is to just go somewhere.) And library storytime occurs during what would normally be Bee’s mid-morning nap, but for the sake of talking to other grown-ups exposing Bee to educational activity, I gladly take on the problems presented by a) a cranky baby and b) having to get a six-month-old to a particular destination at a particular time.

A line of strollers parked outside the library* is the first sign that it’s time for Kathy, the children’s librarian, to do her thing. Babies and mommies (and a couple of daddies) show up for storytime, almost invariably late and flustered. Haggard parents greet one another like weary travelers who have finally reached a safehouse. Somehow, it is reassuring to be around other unimaginably tired people.

So: we all sit in a circle on the carpet, kids in our laps, and sing a bunch of cute, dippy songs, some of which involve our kids’ names (thrillingly, to the kids old enough to realize they have names). Librarian Kathy does her best to lead us in some children’s songs she downloaded off the internet, and then reads us some stories, usually those crappy Sandra Boynton board books with all the animals? And it is good, and the babies and kids love it.

When Kathy runs out of stories and songs, the morning degenerates into the across-the-board bedlam and lawlessness that is “toy time.” That’s when the library's toy collection is produced and it becomes crystal clear that Librarian Kathy's lack of showmanship during the singalong portion of the morning is more than compensated for by her no-nonsense stoicism during toy time. The library’s impressive assortment of playthings includes a treasury of wooden puzzles, several xylophones, a tea set, some propaganda from the Princess Industrial Complex, a range of plush toys I wouldn’t let my baby touch with a pair of 16-inch barbeque tongs, a million toy telephones, and a truly respectable selection of things designed to be banged on other things. The kids love these fabulously unfamiliar toys, and to tell you the truth, it’s pretty sweet.

Bee generally gravitates toward a certain wooden abacus. As she slides wooden beads about with laser-like precision, I watch toddlers cheerfully rip toys out of one another’s arms, trip gamely over boxes of blocks, and blithely discuss the important issues of the day, such as the color of one another’s socks (“pink!”). Bee is currently among the youngest attendants each week, and every now and then I’ll notice that she’s searching my face for clues about where the hell we are, who these high-spirited bigger babies might be, and why on earth it is so very noisy. Overall, she seems to enjoy it. My girl wears this thunderstruck, wide-eyed expression during toy time, and I remember that she and I come from what several of our houseguests have described as a “very quiet” household, and that Bee is probably wondering why she hears the sound of mayhem rather than the gentle murmur of NPR.

It’s a weekly event filled with irrepressible excitement. There’s an air of general gladness: even the tired moms and dads are usually in great moods. I know I always am, because I’m out of the house and no one is judging my badly combed hair, or policing my “outfit” (and by “outfit” I mean yoga pants and hoodie). It’s nice to be among my people, that’s all, and fun to see my Bee having fun.

And, you know, despite the exhilarated maelstrom, I fairly marvel at how infrequently all hell actually breaks loose. A kid or two will cry or whatever, but it’s not a huge deal, and, incredibly, I’ve never witnessed a Walk of Shame there so far. The boisterous kids and the tired parents all just kind of go with the flow, and everyone survives the meltdowns amicably enough. And the library staff has had the good sense to place us in a sort of annexed area of the building, slightly removed from the library proper and its patrons’ perfectly reasonable expectations of quietness, uncrazy behavior, and deference to property.

By the end of our hour, Bee has gotten her fill of random stimuli and the abacus, and I’ve had the chance, if I’m lucky, to chat with a couple of other parents. Bee is usually tired and sorely missing that skipped nap, so we head out. And as I retrieve our stroller from its spot out front, I say a quiet prayer that neither rain nor sudden influenza nor miscellaneous appointment will deter us from returning next week. Because, I admit it: I love storytime.

* We live in a quaint small town, so parents just park their strollers outside the library and no one steals them. Not even the sweet-ass jogging strollers. Magical!

Steady, unsteady

I continue to study and memorize a succession of fickle formulae for successfully consoling Bee when she cries. Variables include:

type of motion (e. g., today, bouncing = good, swaying = bad)
location (indoors? outdoors? living room closet?*)
personnel (sometimes, only daddy will do -- sometimes, only mama)
attire (onesie + pants - socks? onesie + PJs? just diaper? snowsuit +/- hat? which hat?)
sound (singing? silence? NPR? piteously begging the baby to stop screeching?)

Fundamentally, our day-to-day answers to the problem of poor Bee's near-constant meltdowns are ever-changing, because what worked two hours ago no longer brings about the hoped-for result, and the same neighborhood stroll that lulled my girl to sleep yesterday afternoon, for example, finds her, today, howling for its duration, inducing neighbors to stop shoveling snow and look us over to make sure the child is not being murdered, because that is totally what it sounds like. The neighbors are always sympathetic, of course, once they visually confirm that murder is not taking place, but for a moment, you know, they're just not sure. (Bee's wails are truly shattering in the quiet of our sleepy and peaceful neighborhood. She frightened off a family of crows a few days ago.)

Music sometimes soothes our Savage Bee, although not usually for more than a few minutes, and that "music" must generally be one of many repetitive, homespun lullabies** performed by her mama or dad. (You'd be surprised how often one relies on Christmas carols.) And Ben and I must never omit the endless bouncing and/or rocking and/or pacing: these grueling measures*** must be taken each night and prior to every scarce nap, or else Bee will not be convinced to close her eyes.

So, ours is in some ways a fickle baby, but in some ways she is quite a steady one. She is unwavering, for example, in her ability and inclination to let us know that she's uncomfortable or unhappy (isn't that a nice way to put it?). And she keeps a fairly predictable schedule... we might hate the schedule, but we can't deny that it's a schedule. And she is inexplicably soothed -- mysteriously and instantly, every single time -- by being placed on her changing table. Seriously, it brings a grin to her face in the midst of even the most dreadful of meltdowns.**** And Bee's personality, when we get to see it, is -- praise be! -- essentially a mirthful and cheery and radiant and sweet one, and I like being able to count on that.

Next time, if you're very, very good, perhaps I'll tell you all about how my baby has a FOOD ALLERGY and we can't figure out what it is. You're welcome in advance.


* No, we don't lock our kid in the closet! Is that what you thought?! See, we have a very large walk-in storage room off of the living room, with shelves full of apparently fascinating things that will sometimes visually overwhelm lull Bee to sleep if one of us walks in there while holding (bouncing/rocking/whatever) the wailing baby. Sometimes it worketh, and sometimes it worketh not.
** Often unrhymed and tuneless, which Bee apparently doesn't mind: one of the many ways in which she is reassuringly unjudgemental.
*** Ben actually pulled a muscle! (I'm positive he wants me to tell you that.) And for reals, I am often physically incapable of providing the degree of arduous physical reassurance Bee needs, because I have average, normal woman-arms instead of, you know, these.
**** We suppose it's just that she likes to have a clean rear end (who doesn't?) and therefore has happy associations with the changing table. But the transformation, lovely readers, is often miraculous. Bee can be crying herself hoarse, and then, presto! Instantly consoled by placement on changing table! (Thanks, random lady from Craigslist! Are you selling any other furniture with magical properties?)

Another opportunity to use my "time travel" tag

I'm no theoretical physicist, but, being a little obsessed with phenomena of time*, I love this news story from NPR. LOVE!

* This study isn't about time travel, but it does throw me a bone.