As I crouch down on hands and knees to clean out the debris underneath Tessa's bed a question pops into my head:
Are library books for kids worth it?
When I finally find the book (not even in her room as it turns out), I discover one of the pages is torn. It dangles out by the smallest fiber of paper. Hurricane Jack has far reaching effects--we are still picking through the rubble, discovering new and unforeseen losses every day.
And it's not just the long searches for books, or the embarrassing confessions to librarians that (yet again) my son tore up one of your books. It's not even the fines. Because, if anyone knows me AT ALL, they know I NEVER have fines. (If I were Queen of somewhere, it would be a country called sarcasmville.)
The worst part about the library is the actual "going there" part. I can't seem to keep Hurricane Jack under control. He's like a little toy soldier until he sees the elevator. Then he becomes more like an IED with a homing device. And Tessa will sometimes get offended because Jack pushed the button when she wanted to do it. But let me assure you right here, faithful readers: She. Could. Care. Less. I call it "Brother-wants-it-so-I-want-it-itis".
Once inside the elevator, it transforms from a metal container used to lift and lower people into a game console. Maybe you've heard of it? It's called: Nuclear Fission In A Box. Eat your heart out Superconductor.
After a short(?) ride up, and about three presses of the alarm button later, the doors open into a hall and the Daytona 500 highlights play as we head towards the library.
There is this one librarian who wears glasses and a pencil in her hair. (Is that a cliche or a stereotype?) I can see her face actually pinch in on itself when I show up. She probably looks that way because Jack's favorite thing to do in the library is pull books off of the shelves and place them, one by one, into the return slot. He's very single-minded about this and will sometimes act like he's going to behave so that I will look away for a split second. All he needs, people. All he needs.
Tessa just came downstairs in a princess dress and WAY too much sparkly lip gloss (now a prized possession that she found in her Easter basket). She says to me, "Ah, when are we going to go to the lirary?" The typos were on purpose. She actually said, "Mom, when are we going to go to the library?", but, for some reason, she doesn't let her lips touch together when they have gloss on them.
I tell her, "As soon as I inish I cah-hee." ;)