Book Babies

It's no secret we are relatively introverted. Given the choice, we usually prefer to stay in where there are private jokes, paninis, and Netflix. "Outside" there might be people. Who want to converse.
This is why the Universe thought it would be funny to send us the most social baby on the planet. Anders lights up when he sees other kids. He looks at adults expectantly: "Surely they'd like to shower me with praise. Have they seen my dimple? Maybe if I coo..." Well aware that it's not all about me anymore, coupled with visions of Anders becoming John Candy in "Only The Lonely", I know what I have to do.

Our local library hosts Book Babies once a week. It's an hour of stories, songs, and playtime for infants. After a welcome song and a few short stories we are "encouraged" to stand and dance with our babies "to help them learn rhythm." Half of the adults can't find the beat and our awkward facilitator, who tends to stomp around in circles while holding a private conversation with the rooster puppet on her hand, seems to hear a different song completely. The music stops and buckets of toys are dumped out on the rug, signaling playtime has begun. This is where it gets tricky.

1. The adults are expected to socialize.
It's okay. I might sweat a little but I have enough social grace to ask the other adults about their babies and pretend to listen.

2. The toys are shared.
Anyone who knows babies exist also knows what happens to their toys. It's usually something like, "That's a cool dump truck! I am going to stuff the whole thing in my mouth! Whatever doesn't fit, I will lick!" or "She's sucking on a red block! It looks delicious! I want a taste RIGHT NOW!" This would be a good time to point out that at the exact moment Anders was born, I was given the ability (a super-power, really) to see microscopic germs. And let me tell you: They. Are. Everywhere.

So this is what happens: The music stops. The toys are dumped. The babies descend. The licking begins and the mom next to me turns to make small talk. As she introduces herself, I hear, "Hi. I'm So-and-so and this is my daughter, Swine Flu." Did you say Swine Flu? Wow, what a coincidence! That little boy over there is also named Swine Flu and he's here with his brother, Rotavirus.

Knowing that I don't want Anders to inherit my complexes (as lovable as they may be) nor remember his childhood as, "No, no honey. We don't play with those toys, we just look at them." I suck it up, close my eyes, and let him lick the wheels of the dump truck.

I guess I should also see if So-and-so and little Swine Flu want to get together for a play date. Maybe next time.

1997. 2002. 2009.

A whole lot to celebrate. Happy Anniversary.

Last night I opened a can of worms. The label on the can? eBay. As I stood at the counter grazing from a container of ice cream, I browsed the dizzying array of toys from my childhood. With opening bids starting at $4.99, I hated to think Anders would suffer a joyless childhood, naively playing with inferior "modern" (ie: non-chokeable) Fisher Price.

Love at first sight:

I had visions of a toddler, giggling, as he pulls this little plane behind. Its captain bobbing and propeller spinning as he runs by.

And this one made my heart skip a beat:

Picture an afternoon spent driving the luggage cart, loaded with its tiny suitcases, to and from the plane. Anders might enjoy it too.

Perhaps the nostalgia and plane appeal is inspired from our recent trip to the Midwest. Anders was the perfect passenger, calmly enjoying the flight from his window seat. His mama on the other hand?

I spent my pre-infant flights callously flipping through magazines, failing to notice the part of Delta's safety video that specifies, "In the event of a water landing, special life vests will be distributed for infants and small children."

Water landing. Infant.

The panic that cursed through my veins as my heart rate increased only served as more proof that, yes, this would surely be the one that goes down. And just to review... as we are barreling nose-first into a large body of water, I should calmly remove my bottom seat cushion and wait for a stewardess to distribute a life vest for the baby in the window seat next to me?

Thankfully no special life vest had to be distributed and my heart rate returned to normal upon seeing Dave at the gate. Hopefully future palpitations will be reserved for eBay.